“There’s still time to call it off,” Daniel says, and it makes my brow pinch and forehead crease. He can’t be that naïve.
It’s the first time I’ve really looked at him since he’s been back. He spent years away. And every fucking day I fought for what we have. He’s gone soft. Or maybe it’s Addison who’s turned him into the man standing here now.
“This war has to happen.” My words are final, and the tone is one not to be questioned. I may have grown this business on fear and anger, each step forward followed by the hollow sound of a body dropping behind me, but that’s not how it started. You can’t build an empire with bloodstained hands and not expect death to follow you.
His dark eyes narrow as he moves closer to the window, his gaze flickering between me and the meticulously maintained garden several stories below us.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” His voice is low, and I barely hear it. He doesn’t look back at me and a chill flows across the back of my neck and down my arms as I take in his solemn expression.
It takes me back to years ago. Back to when we had a choice and chose wrong.
When whether or not we wanted to go through with any of this still meant something.
“There are men to the left of us,” I tell him as I step forward and close the distance between us. “There are men to the right. There is no possible outcome where we don’t pick a side.”
He nods once and slides his thumb across the stubble on his chin before looking back at me. “And the girl?” he asks, his piercing eyes reminding me that both of us fought, both of us survived, and we each had a tragic path that led us to where we are today.
“Aria?” I dare to speak her name and the sound of my smooth voice seems to linger in the space between us. I don’t wait for him to acknowledge me—or her, rather.
“She has no choice.” My voice tightens as I say the words.
Clearing my throat, I brace my palms against the window, feeling the frigid fall beneath my hands and lean forward to see Addison beneath us. “What do you think they would have done to Addison if they’d succeeded in taking her?”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t answer my question. Instead he replies, “We don’t know who tried to take her from me.”
I shrug as if it’s semantics and not at all relevant. “Still. Women aren’t meant to be touched, but they went for Addison first.”
“That doesn’t make it right,” Daniel says with indignation in his tone.
“Isn’t it better she come to us?” My head tilts as I pose the question and this time he takes a moment to respond.
“She’s not one of us. Not like Addison, and you know what Romano expects you to do with her.”
“Yes, the daughter of the enemy…” My heart beats hard in my chest, and the steady rhythm reminds me of the ticking of the clock. “I know exactly what he wants me to do with her.”
Chapter 2
Aria
* * *
There are a few things you should know about me.
I like to wake up with a hot cup of coffee every morning. Preferably with enough creamer and sugar to drown out the taste of the bitter caffeine addiction.
I love red wine at night. I can’t have white; it gives me a headache and a hangover that will leave me miserable when I wake up.
Well, those aren’t things that really matter. They’re the superficial details you give people when you don’t want to tell them the truth.
What do you really need to know?
My name is Aria Talvery and I’m the daughter of the most violent crime family in Fallbrook.
The reason I like to have wine at night is because I desperately need it so I can get a few hours of sleep.
My mother was murdered in front of me when I was only eight years old and I’ve never been okay since then, although I’ve learned to be good at pretending I am.
My father’s a crook, but he kept me safe and tolerated me even though every day he reminded me how much it hurt him to look at my face and see nothing but my mother.
It’s because of my eyes. I know it is.
They’re a hazel-green concoction, just like hers were. Like the soft mix of colors you’d see in a deep neck of the woods when looking up at the canopy of leaves in late summer, early fall. That’s how my mother used to describe it. She was poetic that way. And maybe some of that rubbed off on me.
Fact number… whatever we’re on: I love to draw. I hate the life I live and hide away in the sketches and smeared ink. Away from the madness and danger my existence inherently brings.