Page 43 of Brutal Crown

But I know he was there. Watching. Judging. Maybe even listening.

I blow out a frustrated breath as I head back into the house.

I need to leave this place before they drive me crazy. Before they both do.

12

FRANCESCO

Imade the wrong decision to work from home today.

I’ve been in my home office since the early hours of this morning, trying—and failing—to get some important work done.

The room is quiet, the door is locked, and my laptop is open to various tabs, all running simultaneously. I stare at the pile of numbers on my screen. The Romano imports ledger from last quarter, a report for La Mano Nera’s compliance division, and a few other financial statements.

I should be done with all this by now, but I’m not.

Because all I see is her.

Her mouth pressed against Marco’s. Her fingers twisting in his shirt. The way he touched her, and how she let him. I dig my fingers into the edge of the desk, clenching my jaw so hard it aches.

So, what? Does she like him now? Are they a thing?

A bitter scoff leaves my lips.

Ever since I started ignoring her, I noticed she’s been spending more time with Marco. I ignore the feeling in my chest, the feeling that this is all my fault. If I hadn’t created an opening, he wouldn’t have slipped in.

But deep down, I know this is not about Marco. My brother has always been a slimy bastard. He pursued her even when he suspected I was interested. I am bitter and angry, but I don’t have the right to be. I’m engaged to someone else.

Yet, that is not enough to tame my anger, both toward myself and her. If I hadn’t treated her like she didn’t exist just after kissing her, maybe she wouldn’t have gotten distracted by my brother. She wouldn’t have fallen for his charm if I had been giving her all my attention.

Right?

A bitter, twisted part of me wants to believe she’s just using him. She doesn’t even like him. She only entertains him because he’s nice to her. I’ve seen the way she looks at him. It’s not the same as how she looks at me.

Now you’re just being delusional.

Shit. This is driving me crazy.

I close the laptop with a snap and lean back in the chair, rubbing a hand down my face. There’s a dull pain behind my eyes, one I’ve been carrying for days. Weeks, maybe.

Someone knocks on the door.

“Come in.”

When the door opens and I recognize the maid’s uniform, my heart leaps in my chest. But when the person steps inside and I see it’s not her, my mood deflates.

This is what she’s turned me into. A pathetic excuse of a man.

“A message for you, sir,” she announces in a timid voice, holding out a black velvet box tied with a silver string.

La Mano Nera.

She places it on my desk, bows slightly before turning to leave. I grab the box and untie the ribbon slowly, my pulse tightening in my throat. Opening it, I lift a thin, velvet lining material to reveal a sealed envelope. It is marked with the Elders’ crest in crimson wax.

I stare at it for a moment, wondering what it is, even though I already have my guesses. Even the paper looks weird. All stiff, yellowed, and creased by fingers that have likely signed more executions than weddings

Breaking the seal, I unfold the parchment and grit my teeth as my eyes skim over the short message.