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“I like Alessia,” Amadeo says. “I think she’s integral to our outfit and its strength. I know I don’t need to tell you that her own mother undermining her is causing more problems for her authority than she already battles. Your mother is making her look dispensable when she’s not.”
I swallow the acid climbing up my throat. “You can go.”
He leaves without another word.
I know you’re supposed to love your mother, but fuck, that woman inches closer and closer to death every day. The way she despises her only daughter causes Alessia more hurt than she lets on. But putting her in harm’s way has put her directly in my sights, and after everything my sister and I have put up with over the years, her punishment will have to be inventive.
* * *
I wanderthrough the house lazily, knowing exactly where to find her.
The library door is closed, and I open it quietly. If she hears me, she doesn’t let on. She lies on the three-seater sofa in the center of the room, both legs thrown over the backrest, the thumbnail of one hand caught between her teeth, the other hand holding an e-reader of sorts, a small smile playing at her lips.
“What are you reading?”
Her body locks solid, and she slowly places the e-reader face down on her chest, twisting her head to locate me in the room.
I tap my ear, gesturing to her headphones. “Not noise canceling, then?”
She sits up, sliding the headphones from her ears to around her neck.
Everything about her is delicate. The way she moves, the features on her face, and the petite curves of her body.
“I called for you.”
“You summoned me. I’m not one of your soldiers.”
I let my eyes slide over her body purposely. “No. You’re not.”
She scowls, and I move farther into the room.
“You didn’t answer my question.” I point at the small device resting in her lap.
“A book.”
I smile.
“What’s it about?”
“If you need this room…” She stands. “I’ll find another spot to read.”
“I need to talk to you.”
She eyes me warily. “About what?”
“Diego Greco.”
She sits back down. “What about him?”
I move toward the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, running my hand over the spines of the books as I walk. “All these books and you read on an e-reader. Isn’t part of the experience to feel the heaviness in your hand and the smell of the pages?”
“Physical books aren’t for reading. Their spines get cracked and their pages worn.”
I tip my bottom lip out in consideration. “That means they’re loved. You can’t be loved without feeling its broken effects a time or two.”
“Plus, those books aren’t what I like to read.”
I turn toward her. “What do you like to read?”
