Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76545 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Jenoah is a dead man walking, Santo, you know that,” Ricky said, his glassy eyes watering as he looked at me. “Caught him overhearing our plans. And that girl—the Rossi girl.”
My body tensed but I kept myself aloof, detached. “Marialena?”
“Nah, man. The older one. Cold bitch.”
“Rosa?”
I’d cut his nuts off myself.
“Yeah. She was with him. Don’t know what she heard, don’t know what she didn’t, but we won’t take risks. He’s dead.” He took a swig of his flask. “Then her. You in?”
“I’m in.”
Oh fuck was I in. I was in so I could personally kill the bastard.
But Rosa went home to America, never knowing about the plot to assassinate her that went unfulfilled. That never happened.
I pretended I was one of them. Fabricated political ties in the Middle East from when Narciso and I did business there and used it as a trading card to gain the trust of the Regazzas.
And fuck, it worked. They were greedy. They bought it hook, line, and sinker.
They believed me, only my trail was seen by the other Rossis, and Tavi came after me.
They thought me a traitor, which is exactly what I wanted them to think.
I should’ve told them the truth. I should’ve told them everything. But I knew telling the truth would implicate Rosa, then they’d blame her for everything.
And I couldn’t do that to her. No, not my Rosa. I couldn’t.
“Thank you,” Tavi says. If he knows there’s more to the story, he doesn’t pry. “Thank you for telling us this.”
I nod, and pretend I’m abashed. Ashamed.
I’m not. I’m fucking pissed, and ready to kick ass and take names.
“Now who do you suspect’s behind the attacks here? Who do you think framed Romeo?”
I shake my head. “Whoever was siding with the Regazzas.”
Tavi blows out a breath and shakes his head. “We’ll need Elise.”
I nod. “Yeah, brother.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rosa
Santo once told me he could feel me. When I entered a room. When I drew in breath. When I laid myself down to sleep.
When I came.
He felt the pulse of my body and the energy of my soul, as if we were irrevocably entwined with one another.
I thought he was being dramatic, which didn’t make sense because Santo’s the least dramatic person I know. But he’s right. He was right.
I felt him before, and I feel him now. If I close my eyes, I could tell where he is right now, and it’s not because I heard the men head to the war room. No. It’s something deeper than that. Some things defy logic.
I purse my lips and fold my arms on my chest. I suppose Marialena’s taste for the supernatural runs in the family.
“Mama?” Natalia’s on her bed, fluffing up her blankets.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Is Uncle Santo staying here with us?”
Uncle Santo. That’s all he is to her. Her uncle, because he’s a brother to me.
No.
No!
He never was, never could be.
I swallow hard. “For a little while, Nat. Just need him here so we’re safe.”
She frowns, as she arranges her stuffed bears on the bed. “He loves you, Mama.”
My heart races. My hands go a little damp and sweaty. “Oh, honey, he loves all of us, doesn’t he?”
But my voice sounds strange even to my own ears.
“Yeah,” she says. “I mean, I guess. But he looks at you like you’re special to him.”
Oh, God. Out of the mouths of babes? If she sees that from him… who else sees? Would Mama or one of my brothers, or—
I sit beside her and pick up a fluffy pink dragon. I play with the iridescent tail and pretend it’s flying. “And do you know he loves you, too?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says with a nod. “He loves me and you. You and me. Uncle Santo will protect us.”
My throat tightens. To Natalia, love and protection are synonymous. When I was a child, I knew no such thing. When I was her age, “protection” felt stifling and painful.
“Always,” I tell her with a nod. And I believe that.
“Can’t we go out?” Natalia asks. “I want to go do something.”
Now that demand sounds familiar. When I was her age, I hated when we were forced to stay at home, and I’d beg my nannies or Mama to “take us out and do something.” I didn’t care if it was getting an ice cream cone or going shopping, I got restless and irritable when I was home too long, unlike Santo, who seemed to thrive in familiar places.
“I’m sorry, we can’t, baby,” I tell her. “Not until Uncle Tavi gives us permission.”
Her lips turn downward in a little scowl. “And why’s it up to him?”
Why indeed.
I exhale. She’ll understand someday.
“Because Uncle Tavi wants to protect us too, honey. Now let’s think about fun things we can do here without having to leave The Castle.”
Her eyes light up like little lanterns. “Oooh. Can I go swimming?”