Page 58 of Dishonored

Two single days for Caesar to know he fucked up.

Or rather, Aria had fucked him over.

Yeah, that was better.

Across the room, his father raged on. Angelo in all his anger never stuttered or stumbled over a single word he threw at his oldest son like daggers. Thing was—Caesar was Kevlar to this, now. It didn’t hurt him a bit.

“I thought you had learned,” his father snarled. “I thought you were finally getting it.”

That was another one of those Angelo problems, but Caesar didn’t think his father would like him pointing it out.

Thankfully, the office door was closed, but he was sure whoever was waiting outside was getting a damn good earful.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

“I told you to fix the issue,” Angelo roared, “not fuck it!”

“For what it’s worth,” Caesar murmured, “she was a good fuck.”

Twice.

Well, more than twice. But two separate occasions, so he counted it like that.

Angelo’s molars crunched when he clenched his jaw. “I have overlooked a lot of shit, but I can’t pretend like you didn’t do this. We are in the midst of a war with this woman and her clan, and you slept with her. You’re fraternizing with her. You’re betraying us. Was that always the next step for you, figlio? To betray me?”

Caesar didn’t answer. He didn’t figure his father wanted one, really.

Spread out on the desk were a good fifteen or so pictures. Images Caesar hadn’t expected to be thrown in his face when he arrived at his father’s office after being called in with little to no explanation.

Photos that showed Aria.

Walking into his building.

And leaving looking like he’d fucked her for half the night—which he had.

Those were the innocent ones.

There were others, too. Photos looking in his windows—Aria on her back, and her knees. Naked, and so was he—mostly. Someone would have needed to be on the roof, or even in an apartment, of the building next to his to get those photos.

His anger simmered hot and dangerous.

She’d set him up.

She’d done it purposely.

He was the one who used sex as a weapon, and she had turned the tables on him. It was disconcerting, and it pissed him the fuck off like nothing else. He didn’t know what to deal with first. His father. The woman that did this to him. Or the fact that a part of him was just as turned on as he was angry because Christ, that woman had balls on her. She had some kind of nerve, and he respected her as much as he hated her.

It was as amusing as it was infuriating.

“This is it, Caesar,” Angelo said, his anger dissipating as he stared blankly from behind the desk. His father waved at the photographs. “I can’t keep protecting you like I have, and excusing you. This is it. We won’t be allowing this information to get out, but especially not to our men or the Camorra clan. I can’t have people thinking someone on my side, and inside my organization is playing both sides. No more, though. I won’t be doing anymore for you. This is it, son.”

“Okay,” he replied dully.

Angelo had been saying this for years.

This shouldn’t have been a surprise.

“Vecoli—Tony Vecoli.”