But I also know that Isabella wasn’t going to drop this. She needed to know that I had something at stake here beyond duty.
“I…a child, Issy. A fresh start for the Natali name. One that’s not tainted by…byher,”I admit finally.
Memories of my mother are always jarring to remember. The softness with which she nurtured Issy, the harshness of her disapproval of me. Until, one day, she’d turned that harshness on Issy.
The day she’d threatened her life.
I knew then the crone that I’d only tentatively called my mother had shown that she was a monster all along. Her love for Issy had been her only redeeming factor.
I sleep peacefully, knowing her blood is on my hands.
The same hands Isabella now reaches for, squeezing them gently in her own. “You already carry the Natali name so beautifully, brother.”
“Now there’s two of us,” I reply, though my voice lacks the emotion to make it sound lighthearted.
This makes her eyes narrow again. “Is it…do you think that maybe you two could, you know…”
“No,” I say firmly. “Like I said. It was a business transaction. She has no interest in me beyond holding up her side of the agreement.”
Isabella gives me a speculative look. One that sees far too much and makes me stand up from my desk. It’s getting late anyway, and I’m not sure how much I want to continue this conversation.
Thankfully, she seems to take the cue and stands as well.
“You’ll be careful with this, won’t you, Leon?” she asks quietly as she watches me pull on my coat.
“Always am.”
It’s strange not to be heading back to the hotel tonight. But Max had taken on overseeing the protection of the brownstone, and the family home had been prepared for me in record time.
Yet another reason to be thankful for the competency of my new second. Not that Max knew that my wife would soon be residing there, but it put me at ease knowing she could be there as soon as she got pregnant.
It was also a far nicer feeling walking up the steps of a family home than the impersonal elevator ride to a penthouse that lacked any personal artifacts.
The key twists in the door, and the warm light in the tall entranceway greets me. Already, a few pictures are hanging on the walls. The Caravaggio I purchased from a black market dealer in Italy hung pride of place.
I take in the familiar contrasts and brushstrokes as I loosen the tie from my neck and discard my jacket.
A drink, I think,is needed after that conversation with my sister. It’s already late, and I’ll likely need to be there early again tomorrow. But right now, I can deal with a little indulgence, so I walk into the kitchen with a purpose.
Working hard on the alliance has made for quite a wonderful distraction. But now, alone in this empty house, there’s nothing but the biting loneliness to prevent me from thinking about a certain redhead and the way she sounds when she moans my name.
As soon as that floodgate opens, it’s very, very hard to stop it.
It’s too easy to remember her little gasp as I entered her, to imagine how she might look bent over the kitchen counter, how her nails might rake over my skin, how she might taste in my mouth.
It’s almost too easy to picture her sitting there at the breakfast bar, regarding me with a slow blink, brutally emotionless, knowing exactly what it takes to crack that facade.
I reach up for a glass.
Then, turn back to the breakfast bar.
She’s still there.
Very real. And very, really there.
For the second time today, a woman has managed to take advantage of my preoccupation.
“Leon,” she greets me with such shortness that it immediately puts me on edge.
