Page 63

My situation was different.

My revenge was justified.

Even the Badalamenti family had flaunted their untouchable status, allowing Sabrina’s mother to keep their name in plain sight.

Another display of that infamous Italian pride that would soon cost the judge everything.

But what would it cost me? What would happen if she learned how thin my control around her really was?

I softly cursed as I rose and crossed to my desk. The wooden floorboards groaned under my deliberate steps. I picked up a cinquedea Renaissance dagger that rested there for decoration, its edge still sharp even after centuries. The metal, cold against my skin, promised violence.

I turned it slowly in my hand, watching the firelight lick along the blade. “Did Barone tell you?”

Barone Cavalieri had tried to warn me I was putting Sabrina’s life in jeopardy with my plans. He told me to send her back to the safety of New York, but I had refused, assuring him I could keep her safe.

Arcangelo’s eyes tracked the weapon in my hand, his posture tensing almost imperceptibly.

He shook his head, the corner of his mouth pulling tight, before smoothing behind his usual cavalier mask. “Matteo. He and his wife, Antonella, stopped in Rome on their way back from Sicily.”

Antonia had been Antonella’s difficult sister. She had been a pain in our asses with the trouble she'd caused, but she hadn’t deserved death.

It was just another reminder of the danger I was putting Sabrina in.

As if I needed one.

The memory would haunt me for the rest of my days. The sound of Vittorio’s skull cracking against stone wasn’t enough to erase it. Even three bullets hadn’t been enough.

My jaw tightened as I said through grinding teeth, “I can keep Sabrina safe.”

“Like you did a few weeks ago?”

He was on his feet before the last word left his mouth, crossing the space between us in three long strides. He didn’t stop at a polite distance. He got close—close enough that I could smell the espresso on his breath, the faint trace of that perfume again, clinging to him.

“She almost died, Sebastian.” His voice was low. Controlled. More dangerous than shouting. “She almost died because of your plan. Your revenge. Your goddamn legacy.”

I still held the dagger in my hand. I was aware of it the way you were aware of a low thrum of a heartbeat.

“Since when do you care so much about what happens to my chess pieces?” The question came out quieter than I intended. More honest.

His jaw flexed. “Don’t.”

“Answer me.”

“Because someone should, Sebastian. Because you’re so busy playing God, you can’t see she’s a person, not a position on your fucking board.”

I shot my hand out and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, wrenching him forward until our foreheads nearly touched. The dagger clattered onto the desk. Neither of us looked at it.

“She’s mine.” The word came out raw. Stripped of strategy. A confession disguised as a threat. “Whatever you think you feel, whatever protective little fantasy you’re nursing behind that collar, bury it. Now.”

His hand locked around my wrist—not to pull free, but to hold on, the grip white-knuckled and bruising. “You don’t own people just because you’re afraid of losing them.”

We stood there, locked together, breathing hard. The fire cracked and hissed. Rain hammered the glass. Somewhere in the house, a door closed.

I released him first. Shoved him back a step. He let me, not because he had to, but because we’d reached the invisible line we always reached. The one neither of us had ever crossed. Not yet.

He straightened his collar with deliberate care, smoothing the fabric where my fist had twisted it.

A muscle worked in his jaw as his fingers lingered on the white band at his throat. The leash our father had locked around his neck.