“When I started rising through the ranks, I learned the truth. At one point I had dirt on every council member, and Cuck was covered in it.” Anteros had spent the better part of his youth gathering dirt on The Council and anyone who might help him rise above the ranks—it was how the Wolves had been formed.
“Cuck?” she asked, tongue brushing her lower lip as his thumb stroked the underside of her nipple.
“Dario De Luca.” He reached out, stroking the lip she’d just licked with his free thumb. Her eyes closed at the touch. “At the end of the First Blood War, Dario discovered the affair and, I can only guess Dario’s motives, but I assume he was worried about his place in the Family, worried Sofia would leave him and he would have nothing. He told Alessio about Emilio raping Sofia, and then Alessio and Emilio killed each other. So that much of the story was true, but it was all Dario’s doing.”
Her eyes popped open at the revelation, then drooped when he twisted her nipple.
“Sofia De Luca killed herself when she discovered Alessio’s body,” Anteros continued, but his story was on autopilot. He was more interested in Frankie’s reactions to his touch—the flutter of her eyes beneath her closed lids, the bottom lip she chewed raw. “All three were found on the kitchen floor a day later, though Sofia was said to be in Alessio’s arms.”
“Are you serious?” Frankie gasped, breaking away from him and sitting up. “But how does that explain Gabby?”
“Gabriella De Luca is not the daughter of Sofia De Luca. She was born years later to some random whore Cuck had been fucking.” Anteros reached for her wrist, pulling her back to his chest.
“How did this happen?” she asked, sliding into his embrace. “How does an entire mafia believe such a brazen lie with so many holes?”
“History is written by the strongest pen.” It was a lesson Anteros had been forced to learn the hard way, through trials with the Pavonis and studying world history himself. History was taught as fact, when in reality it was just men telling their experiences—or worse, what they wanted you to see. In the Pavoni world, history was taught so you didn’t see what really happened.
“I’d hoped the truth would make things clearer for me,” she whispered, tilting her head on his chest to see him. “I’ve been living with Lucia for over a month and I’m no closer to learning anything about my family.”
“If I knew something, I would tell you,” Anteros replied. “I can at least promise you that.” Frankie grew quiet and Anteros grabbed his discarded tank, draping it over her body, making sure to leave the A visible.
“Anteros…” Her voice caught in the air. “There’s something you need to know.” She pushed herself off him, the tank he’d placed sliding to the floor. She held her hands in her lap, an unreadable expression on her face.
“It’s…I…the leak…” She trailed off, fiddling with her hands in her lap, keeping her head down.
“Do you know something?” Anteros asked. She lived with Lucia, so it stood to reason that she knew things. She could even know something about the leak. Before, he wouldn’t have pressed her, but after everything they’d shared, it was time. “Frankie, do you know anything about who’s leaking my information?”
“I want to come with you,” she said in response. “There has to be some way.”
He placed a palm on her cheek. “There isn’t.” Frankie tore from his embrace, eyes falling to the floor. It must have been five minutes before she looked at him again and when she spoke, it was barely a whisper.
“Never mind. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Anteros narrowed his eyes. “Something was on your mind before, Frankie.”
“It’s nothing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He placed a thumb to her forehead, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. She swayed into his touch, closing her eyes. “Tell me, mio cuore.”
“I promise I don’t know anything,” she said. “I wish I could tell you something.” Anteros etched a line from her forehead, to her neck, down to her newly branded A. In his life Anteros had known nothing besides subterfuge and deceit. He never imagined he could trust anyone like he trusted Frankie—deeply, in his marrow.
Earlier she’d surrendered to him on her own. She’d taken his initials on her body willingly, happily. So instead of pressing, Anteros pulled her into his arms and back down onto the blanket. He snaked his arm around her body, cupping his palm between her legs possessively.
For the night, this was enough.
The light streamed into the church and Frankie’s A blazed at him while she lay back on her elbows, smiling up at him as he put on his shirt. Forces beyond their control were ripping them apart from all sides, but it was a pain that let him know they were fighting.
Before he’d been numb.
He would never go back to that life.
“I just realized I have no shirt to wear.” She sat up, folding her arms across her chest. Without hesitation, Anteros reached to the material at his neck and pulled the tank over his head. He bent to his knees and handed it her. She took it wordlessly, sliding it on before reaching for her discarded pajama bottoms.
They had shared a lot with each other the previous night. For the first time in his life, Anteros hadn’t layered his responses under multiple levels of motive—how would this benefit her? How would this benefit him? He’d simply answered her. It had been refreshing until Frankie had closed herself off. Like now. Her eyes were distant, muddled, scrunched and on the worn carpet, but focused on nothing at all.
“Mio cuore.” Anteros put a finger to her chin, tilting her gaze to his. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” she said, tearing herself from him. “It’s nothing.” Bullshit, Anteros thought, but he wasn’t going to push it. Whatever it was, she would tell him eventually, or it wasn’t important.