Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93347 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Missing the warmth of Sebastian’s coat, I shivered and ran my hands over my upper arms. “Yeah, sure,” I answered noncommittally.
I refused to admit that Mark’s warning echoed my own suspicions.
I was too distracted staring at the man who looked like he wanted to rip Mark’s head off and use it for a soccer ball.
Just then, Mark stretched out his arm to bring me closer under his jacket.
Instinctively, I jerked backward out of his reach, while I resisted the urge to look again at Sebastian, somehow already knowing he wouldn’t be happy about Mark touching me.
Which is crazy, right?
He was just a stranger I’d bumped into on the street.
Nothing more.
Mark cut into my thoughts. “Are you going to see him again?”
I snatched the card back and frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. What would a man like that want with a girl like me?”
CHAPTER 5
SEBASTIAN
The weight of the gun strapped to my side reminded me how easy it would be to just kill the bastard and be done with it.
But this was Paris—not Rome.
Getting rid of the body would be a pain in the ass.
"No one touches what's mine," I said quietly, my voice barely louder than the rain pattering against the pavement.
“If you’re thinking of killing him, remember, it’s Paris—it’ll be a bitch dealing with the body.”
I didn’t glance at Rafaello, who had just joined me.
My lips curved into a faint smirk. “My thoughts exactly. Doesn’t mean I’m not still considering it. Find out who he is.”
None of my investigation reports had mentioned a boyfriend—not that it would’ve mattered.
So who the fuck was that guy?
Rafaello pulled out his sterling silver cigarette case, flipping it open with a snap while his eyes scanned the street with the thoroughness of a bored assassin, then offered me one.
I shook my head, distracted by a man lingering under a nearby awning.
There was something off about his stance and the way he stared at the door Sabrina had just walked through.
Shrugging, Rafaello selected a hand-rolled cigarette and snapped the case shut before reaching into his coat pocket for a lighter.
After he took a long drag, he gestured with his cigarette. “Not to be judgmental, brother. But she didn’t exactly fall at your feet.”
I turned and yanked the passenger door open. “Fuck off.”
He stomped out his barely lit cigarette and rounded the car.
As we settled inside, I peered through the back window.
The man under the awning was gone.
Coincidence? Maybe, but I doubted it.
I leaned back and stared at the scarred metal door she’d just disappeared through.
Sabrina Dolce Badalamenti had been a surprise—which was a problem. In my world, surprises meant you weren’t in control.
My father’s voice rasped in my head. A man controlled both his world and his woman with a fist, or he wasn’t worthy of being a man.
Violence was always his answer.
I hated how often it was mine too.
Like father, like son.
Rafaello leaned his head against the seat then rolled it to the side to study me. “Are you sure you don’t want to just kill the judge and be done with this whole fucking mess?”
I reached inside my suit jacket, pulled out my gun, and stashed it in the safe hidden in the back console. The rain hissed harder against the roof, as if to punctuate my restraint.
“We already discussed this. He’s too high profile.”
Rafaello shrugged and retrieved a crystal liquor decanter from a hidden side panel. “It was always Father’s answer…and Grandfather’s.”
I took the glass of scotch he poured. “Yeah. And that’s why we’re in this fucking mess.”
It would be so much easier if I could just have the prick killed.
But after the Sicilian mafia killings in the eighties and nineties, the scrutiny over high-profile hits made that nearly impossible—even for a man with my resources.
Worse still, the crimes the judge was accusing us of?
They were true.
My father and grandfather had been reckless in their running of the family business.
Until I buried whatever evidence the judge had uncovered, killing him posed too great a risk.
Rafaello raised his glass in a mock toast. “Can’t argue with the truth.”
The fucking irony of that.
We downed the scotch—not for the taste, but to drown out the Parisian damp.
I rubbed my eyes.
It was all bullshit.
I should be back in Rome, running the House of Diamanti, overseeing the holiday product launch.
Not scheming against a corrupt judge.
At least my revenge plan was elegant in its simple brutality.
Twenty-five years ago, Judge Marzio Delluci ordered the death of his pregnant mistress—Sabrina’s mother.
As far as he knew, she and the unborn child were six feet under.
Too bad for him, I’d gone digging.
The Badalamenti family hid their disgraced daughter in New York and severed all ties.
Their old money followed her—enough to buy silence, safety, and a polished future for the girl.
Sabrina grew up sheltered. Privileged. Invisible.
The perfect pawn.
Learning his daughter was alive—and mine to command—would be a nasty surprise for the judge.