Page 135 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince

But hearing it aloud is something else entirely.

"He’s gone dark, Gianna," Luca finishes. "And we both know what that means."

I nod once, though it feels like a crack running straight through my sternum.

"Then let me be the one to find out why."

Luca moves to the desk and presses both hands to the polished surface, his shoulders wide, the light catching against the gold of his signet ring.

"You still think there’s a chance he’s not behind this."

I meet his eyes. "I think I have to hear it from him."

There is a long pause.

He doesn’t argue, but I can feel the protest burning behind his eyes.

"There’s no one else it could be," I say quietly, before he can offer another theory I already know is hollow. "I know that. I’ve known it longer than I’ve wanted to."

My voice cracks there.

Just slightly.

"I’m not asking your permission," I continue. "I’m telling you what I’m going to do."

Luca doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t stop me either.

That’s all I need.

My mind is a whirl of questions soaked in rage as I leave them and stride out, dialing my brother’s cell phone on the way to my suite, not the one I know he won’t pick up, but another number that he kept reserved in case I ever ran into trouble and needed an out.

My fingers are shaking, I try to hide it by curling my palm into a fist, grounding myself in the ridges of my own skin.

My knuckles are scraped from when I shoved the desk in rage earlier, a shallow sting that barely registers now.

There’s something about the blood rising under the nail that steadies me.

Something about pain that feels earned.

The digits are memorized, though I’ve never dared use them.

I remember sitting by the small fountain in my father’s garden one morning ages ago, one sandal missing, Rafa beside me with his knees scraped and his lip split from a fight he refused to explain.

He had handed me a lemon drop, still in its crinkly gold wrapper, and said, "You’ll hate it at first, but keep it in your mouth. Let it sting." I had stared at him like he was mad, then laughed when I realized he meant it.

He had always been like that.

A riddle wrapped in loyalty.

Rough edges and silver promises.

I would have followed him into a war if he had asked.

Once, I almost did.

The lemon drop had tasted like childhood and rust.