Twisted Fate (Dark Heart 2)

“I love you,” she says as I go.

“Love you more, you beta. Get some sleep and smoke some pot tomorrow night instead.”

She sighs and says something that I can’t hear. “Mmhm?” I quirk an eyebrow her way.

“Nothing. Goodnight, fishy.”

Dani’s driver, Cian, takes me home. I take it as a point of pride that I’m sober enough to make appropriate conversation with him. I even indulge in a little espionage, trying to find out what Dani’s been up to lately. Cian, although only twenty-two, is the consummate professional, revealing nothing.

I step out onto the curb in front of my building, my long coat whipping all around me as I walk toward the doors. I tell myself those eyes I feel burning into my back are only imagined. No one is concerned with what I’m doing. No one’s out to get me. Most especially not Singor Galante.8LucaThree Days LaterSomeone scratching my back…feels good. I groan and try to lift my heavy eyelids. The hand moves up, tracing between my shoulder blades.

“Occhi blu. Non hai sonno, vero? Sei triste…”

She runs her nails over my skin and gives a laugh at the resulting chills.

“You’ve been up all night and sleeping in the day,” she whispers, rubbing the chills away. “Aless told me that the shit had hit the fan with some police precincts that went to the D.A., and you were going to ask her father to tell her.”

Isa’s fingers squeeze my nape—the motion practiced and familiar.

I roll out of her reach, force myself to sit up in bed. Fuck. I blink around my bedroom, squinting at the floor-to-ceiling curtains. There’s no light spilling around them. What time is it?

I rub my eyes and frown at Isa, who’s wearing a dress. It might be a normal dress—I can’t tell—but I think she’s got on lipstick, too.

“Where’re you going?”

She gives me her happy smile. “I have a date.”

“Mm.” I glower at her, just for effect. “Chick or dude?”

“Cheep-cheep.” She flaps her arms, and I rumple my brows, giving her a skeptical look. “But I’m not leaving ello until I know La Nave Arnoldi isn’t sinking.”

“No ships are sinking. I’m not sleeping all day.”

“Are you having her followed?”

My heart skips a beat. But Isa doesn’t notice as I step out of bed, stretching in just boxer-briefs. She’s such a dragon—her description—that her eyes go right where I know they will.

She makes that purring sound she does with the tip of her tongue. “Mmm-mm. Instagram is waiting for you, fratellino.”

Baby brother. She’s a few months older, and she used to like to play that up. I reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, buying myself a few more seconds. Then I look at her over the crystal rim—a bored look, I hope—and say, “Why the fuck would I be having Elise followed?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. You’ve got that…intensity about you.”

“Let’s not talk about intensity.” It’s a lame shut-down, but I’m still half asleep and it’s all I’ve got. I glance at the clock—4:49 p.m.—and head toward the bathroom.

There’s a fucking thing I’ve gotta dress for. Old guys throwing parties for each other like a bunch of women—friends of Roberto that got handed down to me.

I don’t waste any time stepping into my room-sized, walk-in shower. One button starts all the jets, and they start hot—no waiting for the water to warm. By the time Isa’s shoes clack on the marble floor, I’m out of my briefs and under the spray, grateful for the hazy glass door as I rub shampoo into my hair.

“So what do they have on us? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

“Didn’t Leo?”

“Don’t be grumpy just because I like to fuck one of your bro pals. He likes to fuck me too. I know you wouldn’t understand, but it makes us both happy.”

I’m not saying a word in reply to that, and Isa knows I won’t. She changes the subject. “How’s your back?”

I’m turned away from the shower door, but I can tell by the volume of her voice that she’s standing right beside it. “Healed fine.” I run a bar of soap over the still-fresh scar that wraps around my hip.

“You should wear that vest I got you when you do high-risk things.”

I snort, but shower water gets up my nose, and I end up sneezing. Naturally, Isa notices and laughs her ass off. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Says the person who, just last month, spent three days attempting to get an Instagram picture with a bunch of llamas.”

“They were beautiful llamas. So picturesque and fluffy. You know that picture was amazing.”

I snort again. “Sure. The llamas…” Isa, who is a fulltime travel “influencer” with more than a million followers, was leaning on a fence, showing what I guess she figured was the right amount of cleavage, wearing a white suede dress that clung to her ass.