Page 20 of Bitter Prince

“Let’s not forget you’re part Italian,” Dante pointed out wryly. He was right, of course. It was the reason I spoke multiple languages. Italian was the first language, although my mother claims I uttered a few Japanese words around the same time. English and French came naturally after that.

He shut the door of the Mercedes and circled around to the driver’s side. “Let me guess, this is where you decide to claim your Japanese heritage. How convenient.”

I didn’t answer him. It was hard to deny my heritage. All one had to do was catch a glimpse of my sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. I hadn’t been a welcomed addition to the Thorns of Omertà. It was only due to Enrico Marchetti’s progressive thinking—and his desire to take advantage of my ties to the Yakuza—that I was accepted. Those ties came from my mother’s side—the Yakuza princess who had left everything she knew for something unfamiliar.

With a final glance my way, Dante slid into the seat and started the car that would soon be history, right along with its dead owners.

Once he was out of view, I made my move.

She rose to her full height and squared her shoulders when she saw me approach. Her chin tilted up, and the movement caused her golden curls to shine even in the low light of the garage. Every time I saw her, she stole my breath.

I didn’t like this reaction, but I’d come to terms with it. It was inevitable, like the sun’s rotation. It was a part of me, like the bitterness in my heart and the air in my lungs. So I stopped fighting it, and instead, I embraced it.

I stopped two feet from her, towering over her five-foot-five frame, and the scent of cinnamon instantly enveloped me. Just as it had that very first day, eleven years ago.

“Hello, cinnamon girl.”

The depths of her blue gaze pulled me into their warmth, despite her shaking. Fear was visible on her pale neck, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. She was young—too young—and touching her would doom us both.

Yet, like the moon dying for a glimpse of the sun, I brought my hand to her neck and traced the smooth line of her jaw, following the path until my fingers reached the point where her pulse drummed.

She didn’t reel or cower. She kept still. “Amon, w-what are you doing?”

My lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Haven’t forgotten me, huh?”

She let out an exasperated breath, her bottom lip still quivering slightly. “As if anyone could forget you,” she breathed.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Besides, I was fourteen when I saw you last. Not six,” she said, her voice regaining its strength.

“How could I forget?”

“Why did you kill those men?” Her eyes darted behind me to where two bodies had lain mere moments ago and then returned to study me.

“They attacked us.” Did she really not know she had been being followed for the past week? The look in her eyes told me she didn’t. “They went after something that didn’t belong to them.”

Her delicate eyebrows scrunched, trying to decipher the meaning of it.Let her ponder on it.

“You can’t go around murdering people,” she rasped, leaning into my touch. “It’s wrong.”

Another sardonic breath escaped me. “That’s rich coming from a member of the Romero family.”

Unless she didn’t know what her father was involved in. Or what he was still doing.

“What do you mean?”

I pushed her wild curls from her face. “Never mind that. What are you doing here?”

“Yoga class.”

Disapproval bubbled inside me. “Alone?”

She rolled her eyes, pushing my hand away. “Yes, alone. I’ve been coming here for almost two years, and it’s quite safe, thank you very much. It seems to be you who danger follows.”

“Three years ago, trouble followed you,” I pointed out.

She tilted her head. “Or maybe it was you, since it wasyourcousin.”