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I hoped that distance would’ve shrunk over ten years’ time, but it hasn’t.
Olivia’s still on the far side, trying to escape. And I’m still chasing after her. Only I don’t know if I want to keep her or strangle her.
Strengthened by several drinks and some time to myself, I head to my office, formerly my father’s. The whole place has been redone with new furniture, new carpet, even the books are new. It’s not easy to get rid of the stain of death, but it’s doable. A dress bag hangs in front of the shelves behind my desk and I grab it, surprised by how heavy it feels. I lean it over my shoulder and stand there, surveying my domain, the still and quiet marble fireplace ash-strewn and blackened; the low couches and their overstuffed leather cushions; the drink tray with its cut crystal glasses and decanters. Trappings of power. It’s meant to be impressive. Anyone who comes in here should see the expensive art, the fancy books, the roaring flames, the designer carpet, and be cowed into compliance. Why fight a power like the Bruno Famiglia? We can waste money on things like antique embroidered throw pillows and alpaca wool blankets. We can waste money on killing those that cross us too.
I’m stalling. I curse to myself and head into the hall. Up the stairs and into the far wing. Olivia’s the first person to live in this part of the house in years. I pause outside her door, wondering if I should barge through. I settle for several firm knocks.
This time, she answers. I’m struck by how small she seems. Dark skin, dark hair, dark eyes. Big pink lips. She’s in jean shorts and a red peasant top with little flowers down the middle.
“What do you want?” she asks. She sounds less annoyed than I expected.
I move past her, into the sitting area. The TV’s on mute and a book’s left open in the reading nook. Some fantasy novel I don’t recognize. She looks annoyed as she closes the door and faces me, hands on her hips.
“I have something for you.” I drape the dress bag over the back of a chair. “Please don’t destroy this one.”
Her cheeks flush. “You know about that.”
“The staff cleaned it up. So yes.” The head maid was extremely apologetic—she was afraid I’d take it out on her, but I don’t shoot the messenger.
“I shouldn’t have destroyed it.”
“I figured you would. But this one is different.” I indicate the bag. “It was my mother’s.”
She seems surprised. I’m not sure why. A family like ours is all about tradition, and it’s a good tradition to pass things down through the generations. I want to honor my mother however I can, God rest her soul, and this feels like a nice thing to do, and besides, this sort of thing connects us to the past and strengthens the present. Olivia’s going to read into it too much. So is Karah. Maybe it’s a bad idea.
“You’re serious about all this, aren’t you?” Her face pales as she turns her head sideways, looking down the hall toward her bedroom. “It’s really happening.”
“It’s happening, princess.” I take a step toward her. “I told Nico to look into your brother’s murder. He’s smart, capable, and discreet. If there’s something to find, he’ll find it.”
She looks back and the hope in her eyes breaks my heart. I can’t bring myself to tell her that it’s entirely unlikely that he’ll find anything, and even if he does, I won’t allow her to attack one of my own men. It’ll be worse than not knowing: she’ll have a name, a face, and no way to do a damn thing about it.
“If I put on that dress, what will it make me?”
“My wife.”
“No, Casso, you know what I mean. How can I wear a dress from the family that killed my brother? That forced me from my home?”
“You can and you will.” I advance on her slowly. She backs away until she bumps against the door. I stop when I’m barely a foot away, within arm’s reach. I love the way she breathes fast, a hint of fear in her eyes mingled with excitement, like she can’t decide if she likes this or if it scares the hell out of her. Just like back in the day. “I’m tired of playing games. I’m tired of wondering. We’re getting married tomorrow.”
“No,” she says, a whisper. Some part of her was still holding onto hope. She thought maybe, just maybe, some knight in shining armor might ride in and save her. But there’s no knight, there’s only me, fucked-up me.
I drop to one knee and dig the ring from my pocket. Her breath comes ragged and tears roll down her cheeks. Exactly what a man wants to see while proposing.
