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She’s a fucking casualty in her own right, too.
Giana Amato is mine. Right or wrong, she is mine. And I have no doubt I can make her see it, too. But I need to get away from all of those fucking idiots before I can do anything about it.
“Uhhh, we got a problem, Dante.” Leo meets me in the back hallway of the club as I come around the corner, ready to get home and start plotting out how to get to Giana.
His words give me pause, and I narrow my eyes as he continues.
“Niccolò Amato is on the line. Went up to help one of the ladies with an unruly customer and happened to answer the phone, and he announced himself, saying he needs to speak to you immediately.”
We move toward the entrance, and I put my hand on the gun at my side on instinct, knowing he isn’t here but needing to feel my weapon at the ready.
“Did you ask what he wanted?” I question Leo.
I look at Leo out of the corner of my eye, waiting for his answer as we round the last corner of the narrow hallway before the entryway comes into view.
There’s a slim chance that Giana’s brother wouldactuallybe a halfway decent man, although I haven’t had any interactions with him. Gabriel Jr.? Yeah. I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with that fuck—and all of them added up to me being fucking happy he’s no longer in the picture.
But Niccolò? He’s one of the Amatos I’ve never even met face-to-face.
I pick up the phone, and his voice greets me.
“Listen, Dante. I know you won’t be happy to see me, and I don’t blame you. Not for a fucking second. But there’s a lot you don’t know. And I promised my sister I’d get a message to you.”
“Is she okay?” I ask. The question slips out without even really fully thinking of it. But I need to know. “What does she want to tell me?”
I need to hear her words, even if they are coming from her fucking brother. I want something of her, even if it’s just a broken piece. Something is better than nothing.
There’s a short pause, and for a second, I think he hung up.
“My sister wants answers. She said she deserves answers. And she does. Whatever you did to her, however you pulled her under, got her here…”
I want to interrupt him and let him know I didn’t pull her under shit. But I don’t. I try to portray my best Romeo DeSantis vibe and remain calm.
“You owe that to her. She’s special, you know? If you played her…” Another pause. “If you played her, and she’s suffering for nothing right now, I’ll fucking end you myself. I don’t give a fuck if she doesn’t want you dead or not.”
Before he can get ahead of himself, I stop him.
“Give her a message from me, too,” I say, wishing I could just go to her myself. Knowing there’s no way in hell I’d make it out alive, and then I really would never see her again. “Tell your sister I’m coming for her.”
The pitin my stomach swells in size as the dress is carefully lowered over my head.
Today is the day.
The first day of the rest of my life.
And I hope it ends as soon as possible because I cannot go from what I had—what was ripped away from me—to the likes of Santiago fucking Martínez. I refuse.
“Such a beautiful bride,” my mother says, a fake smile plastered on her face as the rest of the people skitter out of the room, leaving only the two of us together. “Giana, I never wanted this life for you, but it’s your destiny. I never wanted it for me, either, if it’s any consolation. But this life has been good to us in more ways than one. Look around you.”
Now is not the time to try to become a decent mother.
Where was this faux-caring motherly figure when I needed her growing up?
I look around the expensive suite, but all I feel is disgust as my eyes skim over the beautiful room. The four-poster bed, the gold vanity, the French paintings on the wall and the thousands of dollars in champagne chilling on a side table.
“Then my destiny is bullshit,” I tell her, forcing my tears to stay put. “If I ever had a daughter, I’d run. I would never allow a child to be brought up around such death and decay and destruction. Father? Father cares only about blood. He has no respect for women, especially not either of us. Do you know how many layers of makeup are caked on my face to cover the bruises he left?”
My mother looks at the floor, and it’s the first time I think I’ve ever seen shame cross her face.
