Giovanni brushes his thumb over my knuckles. In comfort? “I’m not your father.”
He knows what my father did to my mother. Everyone does. In fact it was widely believed that he killed her until Honor revealed that she escaped instead. She was still beaten and used by my father.
Maybe that should excuse the fact that she left his daughters, but it doesn’t. Bad enough that she left Honor to whatever fate the mafia had in store. But I wasn’t even my father’s blood daughter. He didn’t feel any restraint when it came to me, no loyalty.
Not even Giovanni knows the full extent of the price I paid.
Back then I was afraid to tell him, afraid that he might do something to protect me. Afraid that he might get himself killed. Now I won’t tell him because he doesn’t deserve to know. The boy I loved is dead. This man is the embodiment of everything I’ve grown to hate.
I lift my chin. “Are you sure about that? He didn’t care what I wanted. He only cared how he could use me. You’re no better than him.”
Something flickers in those dark depths. Respect? Pride? I don’t care because I’m not his pretty little princess to dress up, to parade around. I will never be that girl again.
The quirk of his lips offends me, that mocking expression on a face I used to love.
I raise my hand, my intentions clear. I’m going to slap him.
Except he catches my wrist, his expression unforgiving. My breath stutters. His fingers press marks into my skin, just like they did in my dream.
His other hand brushes down my cheek. “I didn’t get where I am by being weak.”
“No, you got here by killing. By hurting people.” My voice breaks because his hand is hurting me. And because maybe I did want to test him, to see if he really is the hard man he claims to be.
He twists my arm behind my back, bending me over the trunk of the car. My breath comes faster. This position. No. Black spots dance in front of my eyes. My muscles lock up. “Please. Stop.” I barely get the words out.
“Don’t push me, bella. You won’t like what happens.”
His fingers open, releasing me. I stumble away from the car over the smooth slate tiles on the drive. If that was a test, then he passed with flying colors. He really is a ruthless bastard.
He turns his face up, the hot Vegas sun drenching his features in startling light. Then he looks back at me, his eyes flat once again.
“Come inside, bella,” he says mildly. “We don’t want you to burn.”
* * *
He gives me a tour of the mansion where I grew up, as if to drive home the point.
The point is that he is in charge here, and I am at his mercy.
Maybe he thinks that will shock me. When I was the daughter of the capo and he was the son of a foot soldier, he had to show me deference. I lived in this mansion, while he lived in a small complex set behind the property.
What he doesn’t realize is that I never had any power between these walls. On this antique sofa or in the glass-domed greenhouse. I definitely never had any power in the office.
Most of the rooms look the same. The office too.
Leather armchairs gather around a heavy stone fireplace. It always seemed silly for a place as hot as Vegas. Then again, nights get cold in the desert. My father’s desk is ornately carved with naked men and women, arms raised to support the thick slab of wood on top.
The only difference is the leather armchair with wide wings. It’s empty.
Every other time I’ve come here, I was summoned. Escorted here by one of the armed men, usually while my sister was at ballet practice. My father would be waiting in that seat, framed by the tall window at his back. My heart beats faster, muscle memory feeding the same fight-or-flight response I had back then.
The touch of Giovanni’s hand snaps me back to reality.
With two fingers, he turns my face to look at him. “You’re upset.”
“I never expected to see this room again.”
“Are you sad that your father is dead?”