I shrug. “Faster is better. She gets away from Renato sooner.”
“Will he be there to give her away?”
“He isn’t invited.”
Tomasso whistles low. “Didn’t think you’d go that far.”
I shoot him a flat look. “I don’t ever want to see that bastard’s face again.”
He lifts his drink in salute. “Spoken like a man in love.”
I ignore that.
“And how’s she taking all this? The preparations, the rushed timeline?”
I sigh and rub my stubble. “Stubborn as hell. She refuses to be involved. I try to keep her in the loop. She tells me to do whatever I want.
He chuckles. “Strong-headed?”
I sigh. “You have no idea.”
“But you like that.”
Again, I don’t answer. He grins knowingly.
I glance at my wristwatch. “She’ll be here soon. She finally agreed to visit.” I chuckle darkly. “She said she has a few things she wants to discuss.”
Tomasso lifts a brow. “That so?”
“Terms," I say.
He snorts. “Let me guess. No bloodshed in the first month. You surrender your guns. Maybe toss in your black soul while you're at it.”
I don’t answer. There’s a quiet satisfaction in letting him speculate.
Just as I'm about to ask why he's here, needling me and not off to attend to affairs, the door clicks open without a knock or hesitation.
Only two people enter my study like they own the place. Not even my mother does. One’s already in the room. The other is Camilla Moretti.
Camilla has never needed permission. She’s walked through these doors since we were children, back when our fathers still ran the world and we shadowed behind them, learning how to inherit it. Her father was one of mine’s most trusted allies. That loyalty bled down into us. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a constant in this life—she and Tomasso.
I look up just as she walks in, all sleek lines and clipped heels. Long blonde hair tucked behind one ear. Lipstick too red for the hour. She moves like she owns the room.
“Giovanni,” she says, a ready smile pulling at her mouth.
“You’re late,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “You sound like your father.”
“I take that as a threat.”
She walks over to pour herself a drink without asking.
Tomasso shifts in his seat. “Camilla,” he says, tone a touch lighter than usual.
She doesn't acknowledge him, just lifts a brow and looks away.
I nearly laugh. Tomasso's had a thing for her since we were sixteen. She’s never given him the time of day.
