Page 123 of Shadows of Steel

I look at him, my gaze sharp. “Would you care to explain why there is a child being held in our home?”

Dante’s eyes flick to the guards. A silent dismissal. The men disappear, leaving us alone.

“He’s Albanian,” Dante says flatly. “His father is dead. His uncle wants him back. That should tell you everything.”

I step forward, my anger boiling. “He’s only a kid. Not a fucking enemy.”

Dante’s gaze turns to steel. “You don’t know that. Your trust is a liability, and mark my words, it will be your downfall.”

I shake my head, frustration simmering beneath my skin. “For God’s sake, Dante. He’s barely older than Mattia. What exactly do you think he’s going to do? Produce a weapon out of thin air and assassinate us in our sleep?”

His lips press into a thin, uncompromising line. “You’re being naive.”

I let out a sharp breath, unimpressed. “And you’re being irrational.”

His expression shifts, cruel and unmistakable. A smirk tugs at his lips, his voice low and cutting. “You can play queen all you want, but at the end of the day, you're just another Ricci bastard trying to claim a throne that was never meant for you.”

It slashes through me like a knife.

For a second, I just stare at him.

I see the exact moment he realizes what he said. The way his lips part slightly, like he wants to take it back. Like he knows he went too far.

But I don’t give him the chance.

I step back, my voice cold and detached. “Go fuck yourself, Salvatore.”

Pivoting sharply, I turn on my heel and stalk toward the stairs. My heart pounds, anger burning through my veins like wildfire, each step fueled by the sting of his words. I take the stairs two at a time, needing distance, needing air, needing to put a wall between myself and the man who just reminded me exactly where I stand in his life.

And here it is, the consequence of my own miscalculation. I knew that getting emotionally entangled with him would, sooner rather than later, come back to haunt me. And now, the moment has arrived.

I reach my bedroom, shoving the door open. The tension still coils tight in my chest, and I force a slow inhale. Then another.

I need to calm down.

I’ll get changed. Go to the gym. Hit the boxing bag until my knuckles ache, imagining my husband’s face with every punch.

My eyes land on my phone, resting on the nightstand, vibrating with an incoming call. My brows pull together.

Unknown number.

A chill snakes up my spine. I already know this won’t be good. For a long moment, I just stare at it, instinct whispering a warning. My pulse kicks up a notch as I finally reach for it, pressing it to my ear.

All I hear is heavy breathing.

I grip the phone tighter. My voice comes out cold, sharp. “What do you want?”

No answer. But my phone pings with a message. I lower the device, my stomach knotting as I open it. The image loads painfully slow, pixels sharpening until recognition slams into me like a freight train.

Mattia.

He’s outside the gates, motionless, hands tucked into his pockets, oblivious. The angle of the photo is too precise, too intimate. Someone is watching him. Someone close. But why is he there? He never steps beyond the gates without a guard. A cold dread seeps into my veins, slow and merciless.

At last, the voice slithers through the speaker, distorted, mechanical, void of humanity. “You have exactly three minutes to retrieve him. After that, he vanishes.”

My grip tightens. “If you touch him, I’ll—”

The person releases a chuckle, low, taunting, laced with amusement. “And what exactly will you do? Time is slipping through your fingers. Tick-tock.”