Page 99 of Brutal Heir

I’d meant it when I swore I would never go to Italy.

And yet, here I was, stepping onto the soil she had run from.

She would be furious.

But with Sebastian’s steady hand at my back, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.

Not yet.

CHAPTER 27

SEBASTIAN

Once the paparazzi had served their purpose, I quietly signaled to the guards.

They shoved the photographers aside to clear a path to the motorcade of black, bulletproof Range Rovers waiting for us.

The first car would run point.

The second would carry Sabrina and me.

The third, our luggage.

The fourth would carry the money and diamonds I’d brought on the plane, with a fifth guarding the rear.

With my body, I shielded her from possible harm as I escorted her to the waiting vehicles. “Come, Sabrina.”

It was difficult not to notice the floral hints of her perfume when I tucked her beneath my arm. That scent had already been burned into my memory. It was the scent of her warm skin.

“Why are the paparazzi here, Sebastian?”

I made a mental note to have Oliver fired.

Anything less than complete discretion and loyalty was not tolerated.

I pressed my mouth to her ear. To the casual observer, it would look like a lover’s kiss. “Keep your mouth shut until we are in the car.”

I tightened my grasp around her waist to emphasize my subtle threat.

My public relations team would guarantee these photographs graced the front pages of Italy's primary publications, causing a sensation.

Not only because I never allowed my photograph to be taken on the tarmac arriving in my private plane, but because of Sabrina—the mysterious woman who had been with me at the Parisian fashion show.

After our departure, my loyal security guards would allow themselves to be bribed by the photographers to give up Sabrina’s name.

I'd orchestrated the entire thing.

Judge Delluci had declared all-out war against the House of Diamanti, initiating the investigation into our business.

By being photographed with me, Sabrina would become a person of interest to him.

It wouldn’t take the judge long to learn that she was born in New York to an Italian mother.

By this time tomorrow, the judge would know that his underage mistress and her unborn child had survived his assassination order twenty-five years ago.

And that his bastard daughter was in my possession.

Her surname, Badalamenti, would also cause problems for the judge.