Page 33 of Rosetti Family New York

“What?” he asks, not bothering with pleasantries.

“We need to double security. We need to be fucking ready.” I’m surprised the words make it out whole. They feel jagged in my mouth.

Dom stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“And since when is that a reason?”

I run a hand through my hair. “Just do it. The Albanians know we're planning to take their case of rubies, and they’re talking about using Eleanor as leverage.”

“They don’t know the location of the mansion. Nobody does.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I hear how weak I sound, grasping at straws. “They’ll find us.” Dom’s silence is more accusing than anything he could say. But if I can’t protect Eleanor, nothing to do with the Albanians or the fucking rubies will matter. Not to me. “Please, Dom.” It almost fucking kills me to say it. “Please.”

He doesn’t nod or smile or say a word, but I know he’ll do it. And I know what he’s thinking, too: that she’s really done a number on me. He doesn’t need to say that either. I’m thinking it myself.

We walk out together, but I don’t stay long. Just long enough to see Rafe, Matt, and Milo duck into the room. We have a war to plan, and Dom can lead it without me. He’ll have to. My feet drag me back through the house, past the cameras and men that guard every corner of this fucking fortress, to the only thing I can think about right now: Eleanor.

I find her with Carmela, like I knew I would. The little princess is keeping my sister company while her four brothers run around like headless chickens. The women's voices are a hum in the long hallway, one soft and low, the other bright and nervous. I stop in my tracks to listen, but I can’t make out their words.

I can see them through the glass doors of the library, leaning in together. Heads bent close. An odd pair if I ever saw one. Eleanor is always in skirts and heels, dressed like she owns the damn world. Carmela looks like she raided the men’s wardrobe, sleeves of her plaid shirt rolled up to her elbows, jeans ripped at the knee. A mess of dark curls and eagerness.

I know Eleanor misses Juliet. Is my little sister just a substitute for her? Eleanor twists the ring on her finger, her small hands brushing against Carmela’s. The thought makes me jealous as hell. I almost prefer when Eleanor’s distant and defiant, when she looks at me with enough ice to bury New York in December. At least I know where I stand with that Eleanor.

With this one? The one who seems to be softening? The one who Carmela is warming up to?

I don’t know her at all.

Their voices start again, too quiet for me to catch. Carmela laughs, and it twists something in me. I back away before they notice me lurking.

My jealousy takes me outside, to the fenced-in garden where Eleanor goes when the rest of us get to be too much. I can tell she’s tired of us, even if she never says it. She’s been here for almost a month, but it still feels like she doesn’t live here. Like she’s passing through, always waiting for the right moment to run. She tried it once. The taste of that memory—the chase, the punishment—stirs me more than it should.

I’m lurking in the trees when Eleanor approaches, and I duck out of sight. I don’t want to ruin her sanctuary, the place she comes to get away from me. She sits by the fountain. Water trickles down the sculpted edge and fills the silence with something alive. I hide behind a line of trees, watching her move.

The wind plays with her hair. She has it pinned it back like she always does, but strands fall loose and brush her cheeks. She’s usually so contained, right down to her individual strands of hair: neat, deliberate, in control. But when it’s down? When she lets herself be something other than perfect? That’s when she gets under my skin.

And she’s under it good. I watch her hands, how they play with her jewelry, how the rings catch light. Her mother’s ring. My ring. And now the Albanians think they can rip it off her.

They’re wrong.

I can’t tell if she looks lonely, or if it’s just how she always is. Like there’s too much space around her, too much between her and everything else. Everything but the things she lets close. Her sister. My sister.

My fingers itch to close that space. I crack my knuckles instead, the sound sharp and hollow as it rings through the trees. Her head whips toward me. Her eyes find mine without missing a beat.

“Did you forget that I grew up in a house with security cameras?” She has that clipped, knowing tone I’ve heard a hundred times before. “I’ve always been watched. I know when it’s happening.”

I step out of my hiding spot and she watches me like she’s inspecting a diamond, assessing how much I’m worth.

I close the distance between us, each step harder than it should be. “Do you like it here?”

I’m a breath away when I stop. Close enough to touch her. Close enough to smell her perfume, the faintest hint of lavender. The kind she knows I like, but she would never admit to wearing it on purpose.

I hate that she’s always one step ahead.

“The fountain or the mansion?” She sounds bored, but there’s a spark in her eyes. A challenge.

“Both.”