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Nathaniel sat back in his wingback chair and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. The way his shoulders lifted and dropped, it seemed like he was sighing rather heavily.
“For the longest time, we didn’t know about Dorian or what he’d done,” he explained, his lips moving slowly like this was not a comfortable topic. “When he returned from the U.S. seventeen years ago, he told my father that William and your mother… andyouhad been murdered. My father was devastated.”
He shook his head slowly, his eyes caught up in memory.
“As the eldest son of the Sinclair family,” he continued, “your father had known he was a target, had escaped two attempts on his life in a very short period of time. And so, he left everything—everything he’d ever known—to try to keep you and your mother safe, and it had been for nothing.
“Over the years, Dorian did things to… alienate himself from the family. After our father died, leaving him nothing, I had my men keep a close eye on him, following him to New York, and eventually to a young woman who looked terribly familiar.”
He withdrew a photograph from his jacket pocket and placed it down on the coffee table between us. A photo of a woman in her mid- to late-thirties with dark hair and pale skin. And blue eyes that had the same pale flecks in them that mine did.
I couldn’t stop my breath from coming out all at once, like someone had hit me in the solar plexus, knocking the air right out of me. All this time, I’d been trying so desperately to remember what she’d looked like, and here I’d been staring at her every time I looked in the mirror.
“…I knew he’d lied all those years ago,” I caught most of what Nathaniel was saying, thanks to Amadeo’s hand squeezing my knee to draw my attention. “So, I followed him myself and saw him pair up with that tosser, Owen Thompson, then Elio Bianchi. But I didn’t know why, not for certain, until the Lucianos had gotten involved.”
“And the rest is history,” I finished.
He nodded.
“I appreciate you sharing this with me,” I said. But inside, my stomach was twisted in knots. There was still one more issue to address, and despite Amadeo’s assurances that all would be well, I had my doubts.
I glanced up at the bulky men in black suits. They stood behind Nathaniel, their hands at their sides, but there was no mistaking the bulge of the weapons beneath their jackets.
“Dorian Sinclair is dead,” Amadeo said out of the blue. He stood up as he spoke, drawing me up with him, but there was no expression on his face, no sign that he was preparing to defend himself or strike first.
Nathaniel stood up, his gaze fixed on Amadeo’s, but I could read it no better.
“Yes,” he said after far too many seconds had passed. “I imagined that was the case.”
“He hurt her,” Amadeo said, nodding to me, “and he would have done much worse. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
Nathaniel sighed, nodding. “My brother was…” He nodded some more. “It had to end. I’m in your debt, Mr. Luciano, for taking that burden on yourself.”
Amadeo shook his head. “There is no debt. you owe me nothing. All I want is your word that this is finished; there’s no ill will harbored here.”
“You have my word,” Nathaniel said, extending his hand, “and whether you consider it a debt or not, you have my gratitude for keeping my niece safe.”
Amadeo nodded and shook the man’s hand.
I wasn’t particularly fond of being talked about while I was in the same room, but I understood it.
These weren’t just two men engaged in idle conversation, they were two powerful leaders in the criminal world where misunderstandings could easily cost lives.
And it seemed our meeting had come to an end as Amadeo motioned toward the front door, but I couldn’t resist turning back to Nathaniel as a man dressed in a butler uniform opened the door.
“Nathaniel?”
“Yes, dear?” he asked.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of my father, would you?”
He smiled, then returned to the parlor and came back a moment later with a photograph of the man I hadn’t seen since I was a little girl. He was, perhaps, a few years younger in this photo, but he was smiling, and the mischievous light I remembered so clearly lit up his eyes.
“Thank you,” I said, forcing out the words past a lump in my throat.
“There are many, many more in London… if you ever feel the inclination to visit,” he offered with an expression that looked rather hopeful to me.
“I’d like that,” I said as a tiny fizzle of excitement bubbled in my stomach.
