Page 29 of Intrigue

He steps beside me, close enough that I catch the scent of him—smoke, leather, something that shouldn’t make my stomach twist the way it does.

I shift slightly, finally glancing at him. “You do realize that if anyone sees us alone like this, my father won’t just be mad, right?”

He cocks his head, amused. “Oh? What would he do?”

I press my lips together. “He’d have you kneeling in that study of his before sunrise, with a gun to your head. And you know it.”

Sandro tilts his head toward the house behind us. “You think he’d really kill me?”

I don’t answer right away.

Because yes, I do.

My father is many things, but sentimental is not one of them. Sandro might have been taken in because his father used to be very close to mine, but my father doesn’t see him as a son. He sees him as a weapon. A valuable, trained, loyal soldier.

And if there’s one thing my father does not tolerate, it’s disloyalty.

“He’d kill you if he thought you were touching something that didn’t belong to you,” I say finally, keeping my voice even.

Sandro hums, his eyes gleaming with something wicked. “You?”

A slow, measured nod.

Me.

Because to my father, that’s all I am, something to be owned. To be used. My future isn’t mine. My body isn’t mine. I’m not even a person to him, I’m a pawn. A bargaining chip he’ll marry off to some powerful ally when it suits him.

And Sandro?

Sandro is not an ally.

He’s a stray dog my father has trained into a weapon. And weapons don’t get to touch the Don’s property.

Which means this—us, whatever this is, whatever this could be—is not just forbidden.

It’s a death sentence.

Sandro watches me, eyes obscure. And then, he steps closer.

“You sure about that?” he murmurs.

My pulse jumps. “About what?”

“That I’d be the one getting killed.”

Something dark laces his voice. Like he’s not afraid of my father. Like if Don Marconi ever came for him, he wouldn’t kneel.

He’d burn the whole fucking house down first.

I should be scared of that and run.

But instead, I lock onto his icy blue eyes, and for the first time in my life, I feel alive, like stepping off the edge, diving headfirst into the freezing depths, daring the fall.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” he asks.

I scoff, kicking at a loose stone near my foot. “Shouldn’t you?”

He hums, tilting his head slightly, studying me. I can feel it, the weight of his stare, the way his presence alone is too much.