Page 20 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet

Which was why I was on trial for murder when I had nothing to do with the murder of di Carlo and his thug.

“Yara won’t let you down,” Tore mused.

It was unusual for Italians to fraternize with outsiders, even taking their bigotry as far as sticking to one region of the country, but Tore was different. I was different. Thus, ourborgatawas different. The Salvatore’s dealt with all manner of nationalities and genders. So while the other arseholes in the Commission might ridicule me for having a non-Italian female lawyer, I didn’t give a fuck. In my experience, diversity was modern and just good business sense. Criminality and brotherhood didn’t just run through Latin blood. It was color blind and sexless.

“She’s not got the blood, but Persians understand family perhaps just as well,” Tore continued before finishing off his wine with a pleased hum.

“They do,” I agreed, sudden agitation coursing through me like lactic acid after a hard workout.

I stood abruptly and went to the stone balustrade, leaning against the cold barrier with my wineglass clasped loosely between my hands over the ledge. The light from the street shone up through the Chianti, illuminating it to a rich, carmine glow that brought the image of Elena Lombardi unbidden into my mind’s eye.

She was…unexpected.

Nothing likemia sorella di scelta, Cosima. She had none of her boldness or unstudied sensuality. She was not a natural flirt or a warm, radiant energy in a room.

She was, in essence, an ice queen.

Not only because she was coldly analytical, almost brittle with latent hostility, with a cutting wit that slashed her opponent like the dangerous edge of an icicle.

It was because she seemed encased in ice, fossilized like some ancient creature at the time of their death. Only Elena’s death was an emotional one.

I knew all about Daniel Sinclair’s affair with Giselle because Cosima spoke openly with me about everything. I knew about Elena’s shame and despair, and I could even understand it to a point.

Once, I’d fancied myself in love with Cosima. Truthfully, any red-blooded man would fancy themselves in love with her at some point, maybe even from just looking at her exquisite face across a room.

It wasn’t her looks that did it for me.

Beauty was easy. I was a handsome man, a powerful one with money to boot. I could have fourteen gorgeous women in my apartment within the hour if I so desired.

Beauty was boring.

What interested me about women, about Cosima back in the day, was the intricacy of the structure beneath the façade. She was made of steel rods and titanium beams with a mind like a three-dimensional chess set.

A lifetime of deceit, duplicity, and tragedy coupled with a degree from Cambridge in psychology had given me finely honed X-ray vision. It was easy enough to see beneath the skin of a person to the bones of what made them unique.

Elena was not such an easy study.

She was elegant from the column of her swan-like neck to the tips of her high-heeled shoes, but there was also an odd nervousness in her manner, an alertness to those around her that spoke of her desire to adapt and conform, to please everyone at any cost.

In my experience, insecurity like that was corrosive, and given what I knew from Cosima about Elena’s past actions and mistakes, it didn’t surprise me she was known as a bitch.

I didn’t mind working with a bitch.

In my humble opinion, they were underrated.

Cutthroat, whip smart, and ruthless were all characteristics anyone in the underworld needed not only to thrive but also to survive.

And I had no doubt after all the stories from Cosima, but more, after seeing that haunted look in her eye when I’d asked her about sacrifice only hours earlier that Elena Lombardi was a survivor.

“You have that look on your face,” Tore noted as he joined me at the ledge.

“Mmm?”

“The look of a man figuring out a puzzle,” he surmised. “More specifically, the look of a man trying to figure out a Lombardi woman.”

My lips twisted wryly. “You’d know all about that.”

“I am an expert,” he agreed easily with that quintessential Italian gesture, a shrug so small it was almost a tic. “I hope this time it is not my daughter who has caught your eye.”