Page 17 of Intrigue
How I could put a stop to all this with one word to my father. But I don’t.
Because deep down, I’ve been waiting for an excuse. A reason to stop pretending. To stop playing the role of the devoted fiancée when I’ve been slipping through the cracks for months.
And Sandro?
He’s always been the fall I never learned how to stop taking.
“This is weird, Selene.” His voice is careful, like he’s stepping around something sharp. “Almost like he has something else up his sleeve. He already made your father give him total control over our affairs for the time being, why would he want my gallery too?”
I force myself to meet his eyes. Hazel, warm, searching. He’s looking for something in me that isn’t there, something whole, something pure.
“He and I have history,” I say, the words heavy and finally out there. “It’s complicated. We don’t exactly see eye to eye.”
Cassian blinks. He leans back slightly, like I just knocked the breath from his lungs. “History?”
I nod, fingers curling around my cup. “Before I left Florence.”
His brows draw together. “I don’t get it. Isn’t he like your brother? You grew up together before your father turned him into a war machine.”
I swallow, my mouth dry. “Not exactly.”
Cassian studies me, waiting for more, but I have nothing else to give him. Because how do I tell the man I’m about to marry that my pseudo-estranged brother was the man who took myvirginity? That he made me feel things no man ever has? That even now, my body still betrays me at the thought of him?
Cassian rubs his jaw. “Does your father know about this?”
I let out a dry laugh. “Knowing him? He probably orchestrated it.”
Cassian’s expression tightens. “Selene, you have to talk to him. If Sandro is doing this because of your past—”
“No,” I cut in. “It won’t change anything.”
His jaw clenches. “So, what? We just let him take whatever he wants?”
I want to tell him it’s not about the gallery. That it was never about the gallery. That Sandro isn’t taking things, he’s reclaiming them. And I don’t know if I can stop him.
The ring on my finger feels heavier. I curl my hand into a fist, pressing it into my thigh. “I don’t know.”
Cassian’s frustration flares. “You’re not even trying to fight him, Selene. Why?”
Because I don’t know if I want to. Because some part of me still aches for the way Sandro touches me, the way he makes me feel alive even when I’m drowning. But I can’t say that.
I shake my head. “I just, I need time. But I’ll talk to him.”
He watches me for a long moment, then sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t understand you.”
Neither do I.
***
Apparently, I’m well known because when I storm one of Sandro’s warehouses, the one I know he’ll most probably be at, his guys do nothing to stop me. I figure that’s one way to go about it. If they see the anger flashing in my eyes and in my stiff shoulders, they don’t point it out.
They’re more subtle about it, giving me a clear path to cut through, their silence a tacit bow to the fury radiating off me likeheat from a furnace. A million thoughts go through my mind at this point, most of which are about how much I can’t stand his audacity and the way Sandro seems all too keen to rope both me and Cassian into his carefully crafted web, a spider savoring the tremble of trapped prey.
I know how dangerous Sandro is. I’m not so naive that I’d think he’s all words and no bite since his reputation almost certainly precedes him, a shadow that swallows men whole. But today, I’m pissed and rightly so, which means I don’t care about his reputation or the danger he commands. My blood’s boiling.
I want him to know he’s not going to be able to get away with this intentional sabotage no matter how much power he seems to hold.
The warehouse is grimy and smells of moss, and there are crates all around, a labyrinth of decay and greed. On the day that I storm here to confront Sandro, I walk in on a moving shipment of guns. The irony isn’t lost on me, a bitter taste on my tongue as I stride deeper into his den.