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“Go after the business,” I interject. At Killian’s raised brow, I point at the screen. “They both run girls. If Roman’s business becomes risky—say because he’s losing stock? It would ruin his revenue. Which would make him undesirable to Scipione. It’ll be too much of a risk to merge the families.” Too risky for them to take Valentina.

“What do you suggest?”

I shrug. “Go after the girls. Cut off the supply chain. And learn about their arrangement.” There has to be a way to find more information and use it against both families.

“Any clue how?” Killian asks.

“I’ll make a call.” I know someone. And he wants to hurt Marco as much as I want to hurt Roman.

I should not care who she marries—but I fucking do. I told her those lips were mine, and I meant it.

The Reaper smiles, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

“I like the way you think, kid.” Handing the infant back to Sloane, he gives her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Sloaney. I’ll see you Saturday.”

“For dinner,” she agrees, clutching the baby to her chest. I’ve never noticed it before, but Sloaney thrives as a mom. She’s completely at ease surrounded by diapers and throw-up and still glows like a runway model.

Saluting the capo, my sister yanks my sleeve before I can depart. “And you?”

Guilt racks me, but I paste on a smile. “I can’t promise anything.”

Carefully, she slides off the desk. In her stilettos, she’s still so much smaller than me, but she takes up all the air in the room. She was always meant for the starlight, and it’s our father’s fault that she never got that chance.

Thankfully, Alessio makes her feel like the center of the universe.

“Try,” she whispers, kissing my cheek. “You’re a part of this family. Maeve’s trying. I’m trying. Collins, too. As fucked up as it is, you’re a part of it. Just try.”

Hugging her tightly, I say nothing else before we leave. I can’t.

Because she’s right.

9

VALENTINA

Sweat drips down my collarbone, slowly rolling down between my breasts. The band on my sports bra rubs me raw, but I ignore it. Squinting, I focus on the spot on the far wall. Lifting my arms, I inhale and steady my core.

Stepping up on my toes, the familiar ache blooms in my arches and calves. It’s a welcoming reminder—of what I can do. What my body can accomplish when pushed. Bending my leg, I exhale, then push, twirling into the air.

This is the part I love. The feeling of being weightless while I dance. My body responds, and I become the act. My heart syncs with each leap, my mind blanks, and it doesn’t matter if I can hear the music or not. I know it. Every step, every jump, it’s engraved into my being. I am this ballet—I am this beauty in physical form, and I won’t be stopped.

Landing on the floor, my knee shakes as my weight drops. Sweat falls to the floor, and I heave, exertion causing my body to collapse. My palms catch me, slapping the floor, and I huff.

The cold tile feels good against my hands.

How long have I been dancing?

I’ve been doing this to escape for weeks. Since getting Cherry out of here and Paolo’s shocking death, the home has been on lockdown. I haven’t been permitted to do more than walk the grounds—only during the early morning hours when Roman is here; otherwise, I’m trapped indoors.

Lately, he’s become unhinged, speaking to himself. The cracks in his composure and mentality are becoming pronounced. Soon, he’ll snap. I’m excited about it.

A pair of black boots stop in front of my face. They’re shiny, clean, and I sigh against the annoyance as sharp cigar smoke strikes me. Freddie.

It’s unnerving how he watches me.

His hand drops into my vision, but I push off the marble, ignoring his help. Frowning, he taps his ear. Defiantly, I ignore his demand to turn on my implants.

I read his lips. “You’re not supposed to be out here.”