His gaze returns to the road. “Before your brothers find out?”
My throat tightens.
“Are you planning to tell them the truth about your mother?”
“No.”
The word comes out colder than I feel.
Riot says nothing. He waits because he knows I hate being dragged toward confession.
I press my nails into my palm. “Let them live with the lies Papa told them.”
His jaw shifts once. “And you?”
I smile, but there’s nothing pretty in it. “I already live with enough.”
Riot pulls into the underground garage, the tires whispering against smooth concrete. He parks near the private elevator, but we’re not alone for long.
Another black SUV glides in behind us.
Then another.
The family cavalry has arrived.
Riot cuts the engine, but neither of us moves right away. Santo step out of the first vehicle like the garage itself should apologize for existing in his presence. Black suit. Cold face. One hand already reaching back for his wife, Vasilisa before she has even finished sliding out after him.
She takes it, graceful and bright beside him, all pale hair and soft beauty wrapped around a spine I think even Santo underestimates sometimes.
Luca gets out of the second SUV with Nico, Angelo’s consigliere and my pseudo-brother. They’re already talking like this is an ordinary family dinner instead of an annual pilgrimage to the worst day of my life.
My stomach twists.
“They’re here,” I mutter.
Riot glances toward them. “I see that.”
“Don’t sound too excited.”
“I’m containing myself.”
Despite everything, my lips lift.
He gets out first and comes around to open my door. A moment later, he’s beside me, one hand on the top of the doorframe, his body angled just enough to block me from the others’ immediate view.
A small mercy.
“Elena,” he says.
I stare at his hand instead of his face.
“I don’t want to feel ungrateful,” I whisper.
His expression shifts. Not much. Something moves behind his eyes. Something quieter than pity. Better than pity.
“You can love them and still hate today.”
My throat tightens so fast it hurts.