Page 5 of Intrigue (Dark Syndicate #4)

He nods. “Very well. Then Sandro will oversee the wedding. Tradition demands the eldest son lead such events. Perhaps it will remind you of your place, Selene.”

“It would be an honor,” he drawls mockingly. “Tradition must be upheld.”

“This isn’t necessary,” I argue coldly. “Cassian and I can handle it. We don’t need your interference.”

“I’m an old man now, your brother got himself killed while burying his cock in an enemy's son, your mother is long dead, and my godson now holds this family together. I won’t let you disgrace our name any further by marrying some peasant and throwing a wedding no one wants to attend.

Sandro’s earned his place.” My father takes a puff of his cigar, indifferent.

“He’ll ensure things run smoothly, so what he says goes. ”

“But this doesn’t make any sense.”

My father deliberately ignores me as he signals a guard to summon Cassian. “Your pet isn’t equipped to handle the details involved with a Marconi ceremony.”

Moments later, Cassian enters, tension clear in the tight line of his shoulders. Sandro appraises him openly, derision sharp in his stare.

“So this is the fiancé,” he says, a subtle mockery coloring his tone.

Cassian offers his hand politely. “Cassian Varela. It’s good to meet you.”

Sandro ignores the gesture, studying him with dismissive eyes.

Cassian's brows furrow as he lowers his hand. "You look strangely familiar. Have we met before?"

A predatory grin spreads across Sandro's face. “I can’t say that I have. It’s not my habit to forget a face… except maybe those of the men I’ve killed. Have I had a reason to shoot you and you somehow survived?”

Cassian's throat bobs visibly as he forces a nervous laugh. "Of course not... must be my imagination playing tricks."

Their exchange seems a little odd.While Cassian's intimidation is clear as day, something doesn't quite add up.

Why would someone so clearly unsettled deliberately poke the bear by suggesting they'd met before?

Then again, this could simply be another case of male ego at work –that primal, unconscious pissing contest men sometimes fall into when sizing each other up.

If that's the game they're playing, Sandro's casual mention of killing makes it crystal clear who holds the power here.

One look at his wolfish smile says it all–this is his territory, and everyone else is just visiting.

My father continues casually, like he couldn’t be bothered. “We’re agreed then. You’ll marry this da Vinci enthusiast, and Sandro will ensure everything is up to our standards.”

Cassian stiffens beside me, clearly uncomfortable under their scrutiny but attempting composure. “I’m sure we can manage the details ourselves.”

He says it with confidence, but I hear what they do, that slight tremor in his voice, the uncertainty creeping in. I squeeze his hand, pretending I don’t feel how clammy it’s gotten.

“Yes, Father. Besides, we’re only here briefly, no need to disrupt my dear pseudo-brother’s precious schedule on my account.”

My father laughs again, eyes coldly amused. “Ah, the painter speaks. And yet, you understand nothing. My decision is final. Do not make me put a stop to this after everything you’ve done so far.”

“So you are just all of a sudden cool with our union?”

“Actually, Selene, we need to discuss your fiancé’s gallery. It interests me. Expanding into your circle could benefit our... ventures.”

Cassian’s brow furrows slightly, confused. “Meaning?”

I clench my fists, hating how easily I’d stepped into this trap. “Of course. Everything is a negotiation to you.”

“Your fiancé’s business holds promise for our endeavors.

His gallery could serve our interests. Art moves discreetly.

Contraband, even more so—especially under the name of a reputable art consignee.

No one would suspect it. Think of it as your family contribution, Cassian.

It’s the least you can do, given you’ve chosen to wed my daughter. ”

Sandro leans lazily against the desk, his mocking tone stoking my anger.

“It’s a practical arrangement, Selene. Cassian isn’t exactly built for taking down rival factions.

Auctions and galas, though, he might manage those.

He just has to paint, hold events for our secret meetings and clients and help move some goods.

He doesn’t even need to know what they look like.

Leave the dirty work to the ones who can handle it. ”

My fists clench at my sides, my anger flaring at his subtle insult and twisted enjoyment of my discomfort.

He’s baiting me. He’s my father’s underboss now, so he has more tact. So sad that his gorgeous face is attached to those perfect lips twitching into a half-smile that makes me want to slap him.

“Cassian will do his part,” I grind out.

Cassian hesitates only a moment before tightening his hold on my hand, offering silent support. “I’ll help however I can.”

I hate dragging him deeper into this life.

My father nods. “Good. See, Selene? Cooperation isn’t so difficult.”

Sandro pushes away from the desk, his body brushing lightly against mine, deliberate yet subtle enough to set my pulse racing.

He pauses, leaning slightly closer, his voice dropping to a quiet, provocative murmur meant only for me.

“It’s settled, then. Tradition dictates I manage things, and we both know how much you secretly adore tradition. ”

Heat floods my cheeks, my pulse racing with both fury and desire. I hate him. I hate how effortlessly he stirs chaos within me.

“I’ll see it done,” Sandro says louder, turning casually back to my father, satisfaction glittering in his dark eyes. “Consider the matter handled.”

My father merely smiles in cold triumph, watching the turmoil rage within me, knowing he’s already won. “Good. In the meantime we’re celebrating your return tonight. Join us in the villa hall. Both of you.”

***

The hall’s packed when we get there, mafia style all the way: long tables, wine flowing, men in suits laughing too loud.

Cassian sticks close, his hand brushing my back.

I try to focus on him, on the deal I brokered—Cassian as an aide for their contraband art smuggling.

No one suspects a clean-cut art dealer. Father agreed, and Sandro backed him, which stinks of a setup.

He never liked Father before. This is just him screwing with me, some sick way for him to prove he is still the guy who broke my heart years ago.

Except I knew him before he turned into whatever he is now, this cold, jagged thing.

Back then, I loved him, drank him in like he was air.

Now, I’ve grown to hate him, a hate so thick it chokes me.

Only sad part is the bastard’s hotter now—broad shoulders filling out that black shirt, stretched tight over muscle, hair falling just messy enough to make my fingers twitch against my will.

I want to rip it out, drag him to his knees and punish him for still looking like that.

Memories of times he’d had that hair between my legs as he sucked me to oblivion scramble my mind.

Him kneeling there, those hands bruising my thighs, spreading me wide as he buried his face in me, tongue relentless, lapping at me like he’d die without the taste.

How I’d arch up, helpless, cursing his name while he growled into my skin, lips and teeth working me until I shattered, screaming, soaked, hating how good he made it.

Or how he’d hold me down after, licking me clean, that hair tickling my shaking legs while I panted, torn between shoving him off and pulling him deeper. I loathe how my body still remembers it, how it flares up now, traitorously, when I should be spitting in his face instead.

I quickly snatch a glass of wine from a passing tray. I take one sip and look around the room as I feel my resolve begin to shift.

There’s an orchestra playing on a raised platform at the corner of the room, the music swallowing up most of the things I want to say.

I twirl the ring on my finger for a beat before searching for Sandro.

I don’t even know I’m doing it until I meet his eyes from across the room and he tips his drink at me in a silent dare. Fucking hell.

I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to forget the past or the simmering hate between us.

Even after years, my hatred for him flexes in my chest like an avalanche.

I loathe Sandro and all that he represents, every smug breath, every calculated glance.

In the semi crowded room with everyone deep in conversation, I stare him down, my pulse hammering, my skin itching to break him apart.

The icy blue of his eyes pierce me like he’s trying to unravel all of my secrets, strip me bare with a look. I swallow hard on instinct and straighten in my seat, defiance warring with the heat pooling low in me.

He ducks his head and gulps down the drink, throat working in a way that makes me want to sink my teeth into it. When my eyes find him again, he’s not looking, and that stings more than it should.

Beside me, a man my father had introduced as an associate tries to pull me into his conversation with a question I don’t register until after he nudges me with a hand.

“You’re lost in thought. Don’t tell me the question I asked is that complicated.”

He sounds naturally flat in his tone and I can’t tell if he meant to be indignant or funny. Either way, I figure I can get my mind off Sandro if I focus on him instead, drown out the sick pull of that bastard’s gaze.

“Sorry, what was the question?” I reply, taking another sip. I’m not much of a drinker and so my glass is still half full.

He clears his throat again, leans in too close, and asks a second time, “Are you going to be staying in Florence or is this just a road trip sort of thing?”

It’s an odd question, given that I don’t know him and, frankly, don’t give a fuck about him, but looking at him, I see that he’s genuinely interested. Too bad I’m not.

I’m just about to answer him when I feel watchful eyes peering me down, burning into me.

It’s a known phenomenon, really, to know when you’re being stared at so intently, and I do.

I feel it, his stare like a brand on my skin.

I glance up at Sandro’s table again and catch the brilliant blue of his eyes.

Without thinking, I give him the finger, a jagged little fuck you. He smiles back at me in response, slow and filthy, and I feel a sliver of desire run through me, hot and wrong. This is so not happening.

I have a fiancé. I have a man who is kind, who treats me gently, who doesn’t twist me into something I don’t recognize. I should be thinking about Cassian, about our future. I should not be drowning in the ghost of Alessandro fucking Vescovi.

And yet—

My body remembers. My mouth remembers. The way he used to whisper my name like a curse, the way he could tear me apart and put me back together in the same breath. I hate him. I hate myself more for still wanting him.

I should feel nothing for him except a burning desire to hurt him as he did to me years ago. I can’t feel…this—whatever this sick, twisted thing is rolling up my spine.

He stands up then. He’s probably six feet something and is dressed in all black, with nothing out of place, a dark god carved from sin.

His hair is gelled and styled back, but there are loose strands on his forehead, strands that cling dutifully where I ache to touch, to pull, to ruin him with my hands.

I watch him lean down to whisper words to a fierce-looking man. Then he straightens and, without sparing me a second glance, dashes out of the room, leaving me simmering in my own filth.

I’m fuming when I flip sideways to the man beside me. “Please, if you’ll excuse me, I need to take care of something.”

“Oh, right.” He smiles sadly, allowing me to keep my composure until I too am out of the room, glass in hand and chasing the ghost of Sandro’s shadow. I follow the sounds of receding footsteps, not knowing if I’ll see him but refusing to give up, my blood screaming for a reckoning.

I should have said something before. Lord knows there’d been quite a lot of things simmering in my mind—none of them good—when I saw him again, but he’d been by my father’s side, untouchable.

If I’m ever going to lay my mind out for him, bare my teeth and my rot, I’m not going to do it trapped in a room with my controlling father watching.

It’s why I’m more than desperate to find Sandro again and desperate to corner him, to break him open.