Page 48 of Shadows of Steel

He moves with the arrogance of a man who believes the world bends to his will, his sons mirroring his every step like well-trained disciples.

My grip on Harlow tightens for the briefest second before I force myself to release her, my smirk sharpening as my gaze locks onto Ricci’s.

He might have given her his blood.

But I’m the one who claims her now.

Harlow stiffens beside me. I doubt she’s accustomed to thinking of them as family yet.

Giovanni’s gaze drifts over her. There’s a restraint in the way he looks, the careful hesitance of a man unsure of his place, uncertain of how much space he’s permitted to take. Then, with the quiet weight of a father still learning how to stand in that role, he speaks. “Auguri a entrambi.” Tension hums beneath the words.

My wife inclines her head slightly. “Grazie.”

His lips press into something that isn’t quite a smile, yet there’s a flicker beneath it. Pride, perhaps. A reluctant acknowledgment. But whatever it is, it’s fleeting, gone as quickly as it surfaced as his attention shifts to me. “I trust my daughter will be taken care of.”

I hold his gaze, letting the words settle before tilting my head, my smirk taunting. “Are you implying I can’t take care of my possessions, Ricci?”

His jaw tightens, his composure slipping just enough to reveal the simmering fury beneath. “She is not a possession, Salvatore.” The words are sharp.

I let out a low, derisive chuckle. “Look at you, preaching about possession, when you so elegantly signed away your own flesh and blood. Ink on paper, and just like that, your daughter, sold off like livestock.”

At my words, Enzo surges forward, his movements fuelled by instinct, by rage. His fist clenches, ready to swing, but Darion is faster. With a firm hand on his chest, he halts him, a quiet warning passing between brothers.

I don’t move.

Instead, I turn my attention to Enzo, my smirk slow, daring him to be stupid enough to try.

He doesn't. But the fury burning in his dark eyes is almost enough to amuse me.

As I look back at Giovanni, his jaw tight, and for the first time, I see a flicker of hurt in his eyes as he looks at Harlow. It’s brief, barely there, but it’s real. And it’s not what gets under my skin.

No.

It’s my wife’s expression that does.

Harlow isn’t looking at her father with the usual fire, with the defiance I’ve come to expect. No, her face mirrors his, the same goddamn hurt.

I don’t know why it irritates me.

I don’t know why I care.

But I do. And that realization alone pisses me off more than anything else in this room.

I shut the feeling down, bury it beneath the indifference I’ve mastered. My smirk remains intact as I drag my gaze back to Ricci. “Let’s not waste our time anymore. Whether you like it or not, she belongs to me now.”

His fists clench at his sides, but he doesn’t argue. Maybe he knows there’s no point. Maybe he understands that despite the blood tying them together, she is not his to protect. However, the look in his eyes tells me one thing, he fucking hates it.

And for reasons I refuse to acknowledge, so does she.

Enzo steps forward, the fury in his eyes still burning, barely leashed. If looks could kill, I’d already be six feet under. His dark gaze flicks to Harlow, tension rippling through his frame. He’s the one she knows best, the one who, out of all of them, doesn’t feel like a stranger.

But I can tell, this moment isn’t easy for him.

A lifetime apart can’t be bridged in a single night, and judging by the sharpness in his features, he has no intention of pretending otherwise. Still, he doesn’t hesitate. He pulls her in, his grip solid, protective, but stiff.

“Should’ve never come to this,” he mutters. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “And yet, here we are, nevertheless.”

Harlow hesitates, but after a beat, she lets herself be wrapped in the hug. Enzo holds on longer than necessary, as if memorizing the weight of her, before pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. “If anyone gives you trouble, you come to me.” His voice is low, edged with promise, but there’s no mistaking where his anger is directed. It isn’t at her. It’s at me.