Page 3 of Dishonored

Cold.

And far too wide.

Everyone got caught in it.

Eventually …

“Papa sent you?” Caesar asked.

“Why else would I come? Others were busy.”

Or they made excuses.

“And you couldn’t be busy, too?” Caesar asked.

“I was told to get over what happened, and that starts with this.”

Right.

His half-brother was never going to get over what happened. Daniele was never going for forgive Caesar for what he did, or forget it. That was kind of the point, though. That was exactly why Caesar did it. He needed his brother to remember what he had done, and that he could do it again in a second.

Hell.

Maybe he would do it again.

Daniele’s gaze blazed with his blinding rage. “And unlike you, I make an effort to follow the rules our father sets out for us.”

Sure he did.

That’s why he was the favored one.

The golden Accardo son.

The honored.

The loved.

The perfect made man.

And Caesar?

He was the dishonored.

The despised.

The shamed made man.

And he fucked his half-brother’s wife just because he could—because like his father, Caesar enjoyed taking people down a peg or two, also.

He humbled people in a different way.

Caesar liked this way better.

The Accardo estate was set in a private, gated community just outside the Philly city limits. It was almost disconcerting how one could go from the hustle and bustle of cement and steel—something he preferred—to the quiet stillness of a rich suburb.

Most people tended to feel comfort, warmth, and nostalgia when they came back to their childhood home, but Caesar was not one of those people. He felt everything but those things, and all of it was negative.

Most notable was the anxiety that was ever present from the second he drove into the large circular driveway. He hid the slight trembling of his hands by shoving them into the pockets of his slacks. His clenched jaw couldn’t be contained, but his father was so accustomed to seeing Caesar in some form of scowling or displeasure that he probably wouldn’t even notice.