Page 76 of Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1)

ANGELO

“ A ngelo?”

Mariella’s soft knock on my office door pulls me from my thoughts.

It’s been two weeks, and after she refused to say anything else, I haven’t spoken to her. I sent her friends home, and I’ve avoided her and Valentina since.

I’m still so fucking angry I don’t even want to look at her. I’ve been absorbed in trying to track Abella’s movements, and I have half the Cosa Nostra searching for her.

It’s not a matter of if I’ll find her, because I will. But that doesn’t change the fact that she’s gone right now.

“Are you going to stay mad at me forever?” Mariella asks.

“If that’s what it takes to get my point across.”

“You would have done the same for one of your men,” she says. “It’s a promise we made to each other.”

“Yes, and now all the effort you’ve put into Aegis will be dismantled,” I tell her. “Because here’s my promise, Mariella. I will unearth every member if that’s what it takes to find my wife.”

“Why?” she asks.

I stare at her like she’s forgotten who I am.

“Why do you need to find her?” she presses.

“She’s my wife.”

“This isn’t a matter of principle,” she argues. “You could have married anybody. Why did it have to be Abella?”

Irritation seeps under my skin. She shouldn’t be asking me this. Especially not now.

“Can you admit that you love her?”

The answer splinters inside my chest, squeezing my ribs in a vise grip. Mariella knows it, and I glare at her as she smiles. But her amusement fades quickly.

“What do you plan to do if you can’t have a baby together?”

Again, I don’t answer.

“Would you subject her to an affair just so you can meet the requirements of the treaty?”

“No,” I growl.

The finality of that statement settles over the room like a dark cloud. Mariella knows as well as I do what that means. My inability to let go of Abella will impact all of us.

As much as my sister has tried to hide her interactions with Ares Stavros over the years, I know something happened between them. I don’t know what or when, and if I ever uncover the truth, I might murder him for the hell of it and start a war anyway. Because fuck him.

The problem is, she would never forgive me if I killed him.

Mariella leans against the door frame, lost in her own thoughts as she seems to piece something together.

“Did you know Abella’s fertility would be tested before you married?”

“No.” I never would have asked that of her. But it doesn’t surprise me Maurizio ordered the tests. He wanted a fat paycheck for all his daughters.

Mariella frowns as if I just confirmed her thoughts, then nods.

“By the way, you should probably know Genevieve Wilkes has been yapping her mouth and telling everyone you have a list of other prospects to knock up when Abella fails.”

My last thread of patience snaps. “Since when?”

“Since the night of the ball, at least. Probably before that. But that’s when Abella overheard her.”

“Christ.” I scrub a hand over my face.

“I take it that’s not true then?”

I level her with every ounce of my annoyance. “No, Mariella. I don’t have a list of suitable broodmares, for the record.”

She shrugs. “Guess your plan to make Abella jealous kind of backfired, didn’t it?”

“You have two seconds to get out of my office before I call Ares Stavros and sign a marriage contract with your name on it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. But if you find her?—”

“You mean when I find her.”

“When you find her,” she corrects herself. “I hope you tell her what she means to you.”

“Anything new to report?” I hold the phone to my ear as I take a walk around the property, nearing the edge of the forest.

“Nothing today,” Nicky answers. “We’ve got eyes on a few vehicles, and we’re tracking their movements. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

I release a sigh. It’s the same report as every other day.

Needing an outlet for my restless ire, I redirect my energy.

“And Genevieve?”

“The word is out,” he assures me. “She’s been blacklisted from every Society event and social function.

Her friends have dropped her. And per your orders, the Tribunal has declared her unfit for marriage.

I have it on good authority her father’s looking to send her abroad to spare himself the shame. ”

“Good,” I remark. “I hope he sends her to Antarctica. I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

Nicky snorts.

I glance up and freeze.

The black stag stands less than twenty feet away, his eyes locked on me as if he’s been waiting.

“You still there, boss?” Nicky asks.

“I have to go.” I disconnect the call as I stare at the beast in front of me.

For a suspended moment, neither of us moves, then he turns and walks back into the trees.

I don’t know why I follow him. It’s an unusual circumstance to see something I never thought existed on this island in the first place, but to see it three times feels like more than a coincidence.

He doesn’t appear to be in any hurry as he walks the path we used to take as kids.

This shortcut through the forest leads to one of the bluffs overlooking the beach.

That’s where I first decided Abella would be mine.

But it isn’t the only memory I have of her on this part of the island.

And when the stag stops near the tree we called Goliath, another one comes flooding back.

The initials I carved into a rock are still there, planted at the base of the tree.

A small garden of wildflowers borders the trunk, and it appears that someone has maintained it over the years.

When I look inside the tree hollow, I find the old tin canister Abella and I used to use as a mailbox.

During a time when we were surrounded by no less than ten people at any given moment, this was a way for us to have private conversations.

Curious, I pull the tin out of the hollow and brush the dirt off. When I open it, there’s a stack of letters inside. They’re all addressed to me at the Tribunal prison, and all of them are stamped with a return to sender emblem.

I never got them.

An odd stillness washes over me as I glance up at the stag. I’ve never given much credence to legends, but as I gaze into his eyes, I start to think maybe my nonno wasn’t so crazy after all.

As if his work here is done, the black stag turns and leaves.

I sit down at the edge of the tree and rip open one of Abella’s letters, postmarked the first week of my incarceration.

Her raw anguish drips onto every line as she expresses her regret and sorrow. Page after page, I read the same sentiments in each letter, ink smudged by the tears that fell as she wrote.

She begs me to accept her visits. She tells me how much she wishes things could be different. Then, in a twist of fate, she tells me she accepts my decision not to see her—ending the final letter with one last line.

In my dreams, I’ll find you beneath the stars—where the lemons grow.