Page 46 of Made for Vengeance (Dark Dynasties #3)

GRACE

" W e're going to the main estate today."

I looked up from my book, surprised by Rafe's announcement. He stood in the doorway of the library, dressed more formally than usual in a tailored suit, his expression carefully neutral.

"The main estate?" I repeated, setting my book aside. In the two months I'd been with the Contis, I'd never left this property—a sprawling mansion in its own right, but apparently just one of several Conti holdings in the area.

"Yes. There's a meeting. Representatives from several families, including yours." His voice remained even, but I caught the slight tension in his jaw, the careful way he watched for my reaction.

My heart quickened. "My family will be there? My father?"

"Not your father personally. Representatives." Rafe moved further into the room, his movements measured and deliberate. "I thought you should be present."

I stood, suddenly alert, suspicious. This was unexpected—a deviation from the careful routine we'd established, from the boundaries of my gilded cage. "Why? After all this time, why would you want me at a meeting with my family's representatives?"

He was quiet for a moment, considering his response. "Things are... evolving between our families. Tensions are high. Your presence may serve as a reminder of certain realities."

"You mean I'm still a bargaining chip," I translated, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice despite our evolving relationship. "A visual aid for your negotiations."

"That's not how I see it," he countered, his expression softening slightly. "But your presence carries weight, significance. It reminds everyone of the connections between our families, of the potential for both conflict and resolution."

I studied him, trying to read beyond the careful mask he wore when discussing business. There was something he wasn't saying—something beyond the diplomatic explanation he'd offered.

"Will I be able to speak to them?" I asked, already suspecting the answer. "My family's representatives?"

"No," he confirmed. "You'll be present in the house, but not in the meeting room. This is a delicate negotiation, Grace. Your direct involvement would complicate matters."

Of course. I was to be seen but not heard. A symbol rather than a participant. A reminder of Rafe's power rather than a person with my own voice, my own interests.

"When do we leave?" I asked, resignation settling over me like a familiar weight.

"In an hour. Wear something appropriate for a business setting." He hesitated, then added, "This isn't punishment, Grace. It's protection. The conversations that will happen today... they're not ones you should be part of."

Protection. The word hung between us, loaded with implications. Was he protecting me from the harsh realities of his business? From the representatives of my own family? Or from truths he still wasn't ready for me to hear?

"I'll be ready," I said, moving past him toward the door. His hand caught mine as I passed, stopping me.

"Grace," he said, his voice lower now, more intimate. "Whatever happens today, remember what I told you. You exist outside of this, beyond it. You're the one choice I've made purely for myself."

The words echoed those he'd spoken during our dinner days ago, when he'd shared the story of his mother's death, of his violent initiation into the family business.

They should have comforted me. Instead, they sent a chill down my spine—a premonition, perhaps, that today would test that claim in ways neither of us was prepared for.

"I'll remember," I said, gently extracting my hand from his. "One hour."

The main Conti estate looked like something out of a billionaire’s fever dream. All clean stone and dark glass, perched on a private hillside that swallowed the skyline beneath it. It made the place I’d been held feel like a guesthouse.

Massive, but not gaudy. It was old money made sharp.

Everything about it was intentional: the smooth limestone exterior that caught the light just right, the black steel trim, the perfectly aligned windows that stretched floor to ceiling but somehow revealed nothing.

Even the ivy climbing one wing of the house felt curated. Not wild, but sculpted. Controlled.

The drive curved through manicured grounds that didn’t try too hard—nothing flashy, just trimmed hedges, a few old olive trees, and stone paths lined with subtle uplighting. It wasn’t about showing off. It was about signaling dominance without saying a word.

Three checkpoints. Armed guards who didn’t speak. Security cameras hidden so well I only noticed them because I was looking.

And then the mansion itself—broad and symmetrical, with tall black doors and no visible doorbell. Like it expected you to already know how to get inside.

It was stunning. Imposing. The kind of place you didn’t just live in…you ruled from.

And somehow, I knew: this was Rafe’s real world.

Not the beautiful prison I'd been kept in.

This. The throne.

Rafe remained silent during the drive, his attention focused on his phone, on messages and calls that seemed increasingly urgent as we approached our destination.

The tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes, told me more than his words had—whatever meeting we were attending, it was significant. Potentially dangerous.

We were greeted at the entrance by Dante Conti himself.

Rafe's older brother, the head of the family, a man I'd seen only once before, during that first meeting I'd overheard months ago.

He was taller than Rafe, broader through the shoulders, with the same dark eyes but none of his brother's carefully controlled warmth.

His gaze swept over me with clinical assessment before returning to Rafe.

"You're late," he said by way of greeting. "They're already here."

"Traffic," Rafe replied simply, his hand coming to rest at the small of my back—a gesture that could have been possessive or protective, perhaps both. "Has anything been discussed yet?"

"Preliminaries only. The real conversation starts when you join us." Dante's eyes flicked to me again, his expression unreadable. "Is this wise, brother? Bringing her here today?"

"It's necessary," Rafe countered, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Where should she wait?"

Dante's lips thinned slightly, but he didn't press the issue. "The blue room. Marco will escort her."

Marco materialized at my side as if summoned, his expression professionally blank. I recognized him from my trip to town, from occasional interactions at the estate. He nodded respectfully to Rafe, then to me.

"This way, Ms. O'Sullivan," he said, gesturing toward a corridor branching off from the main foyer.

I looked at Rafe, suddenly reluctant to be separated from him in this unfamiliar place, among people who viewed me as a commodity rather than a person.

"I'll find you when it's over," he promised, his voice softening slightly. "It shouldn't be more than a couple of hours."

I nodded, following Marco down the corridor, aware of Dante's eyes on my back, of the weight of unspoken expectations and calculations that seemed to fill the air of this house.

The blue room was aptly named—a sitting room decorated in various shades of blue and silver, with comfortable furniture, bookshelves, and large windows overlooking a formal garden.

It was beautiful, elegant, and clearly designed as a waiting area for guests who were not quite important enough to be included in whatever happened elsewhere in the house.

"Can I get you anything, Ms. O'Sullivan?" Marco asked, his tone polite but distant. "Coffee? Tea? Something stronger, perhaps?"

"No, thank you," I replied, moving to the window to look out at the garden. "How long do these meetings usually last?"

He shrugged slightly. "Depends on what's being discussed. Could be an hour. Could be all day."

"And what is being discussed today?" I asked, turning to face him, watching his expression carefully.

His face remained professionally blank. "Business matters between the families. That's all I'm at liberty to say."

Of course. I was meant to stay in the dark—moved piece by piece across a board I’d never been allowed to see.

"I understand," I said, turning back to the window. "Thank you, Marco."

He hesitated, then added, "I'll be just outside if you need anything." The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the growing sense that something significant was happening—something that involved me directly yet was being kept from me deliberately.

I waited perhaps fifteen minutes, giving Marco time to settle into his position outside the door, to perhaps grow complacent with my apparent compliance. Then I moved silently to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the hallway.

Marco stood a few feet away, his back to the door, speaking quietly into a phone. His posture was relaxed, his attention focused on his conversation rather than his charge.

Perfect.

I slipped out of the room, moving in the opposite direction from where Marco stood, my footsteps silent on the thick carpet.

The corridor branched in several directions, and I paused, trying to determine which way would lead to the meeting.

Voices would be my guide—I just needed to find where the conversation was happening.

I moved carefully through the house, avoiding the few staff members I glimpsed, staying close to walls and ducking into alcoves when necessary. It was easier than I'd expected—the house was large enough, with enough corridors and rooms, that one woman moving quietly attracted little notice.

After several minutes of cautious exploration, I heard it—the low murmur of male voices coming from behind a set of double doors at the end of a wide hallway. I approached slowly, checking for guards or staff, but the hallway was empty. Everyone who mattered was already inside that room.