Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
“Where’s Alexis,” I ask.
“Sleeping.”
“You want coffee.”
“Sure.”
He turns his attention back to his screen as I manhandle the coffee machine.
A knock on the penthouse door breaks the silence, and I turn sharply, my body instantly on edge. Luca looks up, questioning, as I move toward the door.
Vito is standing there when I pull it open, his large frame filling the doorway. But it’s not him that makes my pulse spike. It’s what he’s holding.
A bouquet of flowers.
Blood red roses, delicate and fresh, wrapped in crisp white paper with a silky ribbon tied in a perfect bow. An expensive arrangement, no doubt, but the sight of it makes my stomach twist.
I don’t move to take it. “Where did it come from?”
“Delivery,” Vito says, his tone wary. He holds the flowers out, but his eyes flick between me and Luca, reading the tension radiating from both of us. “A guy downstairs handed them off. Said they were for Aemelia.”
Luca stands slowly. “What guy?”
“Delivery guy.” Vito shrugs and Luca’s posture tightens.
“Did you get a look at a badge or uniform?”
Vito frowns, glancing down at the bouquet like he’s just realized how fucked up the situation is. “I thought you ordered them for the girl.” He tips his head in the direction of Aemelia’s room.
“The van?”
“It was white with tinted windows. Unmarked.”
I curse under my breath. “You didn’t think to check before bringing them up here?”
Vito tenses, his face darkening. “We checked the flowers.”
I grab the bouquet from him, my fingers closing around the delicate stems as I rip through the soft petals and glossy wrapping. Something small and metallic clinks against the marble floor.
Luca bends down, picking it up between two fingers and turning it toward the light.
A single bullet.
I lean closer, studying it. “Look at the side.”
Luca flips it in his palm, and my blood turns to ice.
Aemelia.
Her name is carved into the brass casing, neat and precise, like it was made just for her.
“Fuck.” I exhale, barely resisting the urge to crush the bouquet in my hands. My fingers dig into the ribbon still attached, something small and stiff tucked inside the folds of the bow. A card.
I pull it free and flip it open.
One letter.
C.
We stare at the initial in heavy silence.
Luca is the first to move, turning back to Vito with a look that could burn through steel. “Find out who delivered them. Check every florist in the city, Vito. Don’t make me wait for an answer.”
Vito straightens under Luca’s glare, his jaw tight. He nods, but Luca isn’t finished. His voice is low, lethal. “And find the guy who delivered them.”
Vito turns on his heel and strides out, already pulling out his phone. I toss the shredded bouquet onto the kitchen counter, the soft petals spilling across the surface like blood.
“Her own father wants to kill her?” Luca mutters, his voice high with disbelief.
I grit my teeth, looking down at the bullet in Luca’s palm. The message is clear. Someone wants her to be afraid. Or maybe for us to believe there’s a threat.
“We don’t know it’s him,” I say.
“It’s him,” he says. “I don’t like any of this.”
“We’ll find out where they came from.”
“Maybe.” He returns to sit in front of his laptop. “Or maybe we need to move her now.”
17
ALEXIS
NOT THE PLAZA
This isn’t the first time we’ve been confined to a safehouse, but it’s the first time we’ve had a woman with us. As a rule, families—the women and children—are kept out of business. To break that rule would be the end of this world. Everything would burn. We have rules for a reason. Even chaos requires order to contain it. But with one bullet concealed inside a beautiful bouquet, Aemelia has become the focus of this vendetta, not the pawn. We left the penthouse via secret passages with only our most trusted men, Aemelia sheltered between us.
She doesn’t fit into this basic environment. Not anymore. Not now that we’ve dressed her in designer clothes, adorned her like the mafia princess she is, even if she doesn’t realize it yet.
Fuck.
She’s exquisite, like a swan gliding through the filth of the world with her head held high.
She tastes sweet.
My brother's words ring through my head like a damn gong, over and over. And every time I remember, my mouth floods with saliva. How did he get her to open for him so easily, spreading those pretty legs like butter over warm toast? When I tried, she looked at me like she wanted to carve me up with a rusty blade. If looks could kill, she’d have liquified me in a fucking second.
I drag a hand through my hair, pushing the messy curls back as I follow her into the house, my eyes locked to her perfect ass. The place reeks of dust and stale air, motes spinning in the bright shafts of light that slip through the ratty curtains. This house is a relic, barely livable, a place we retreat to only when we need to disappear. It’s in desperate need of a woman’s touch—anyone’s touch—to make it habitable.