Page 134 of The Enslaved Duet

Of course, Sinclair’s heart wasn’t really into adopting a baby. His heart hadn’t been stirred since we’d met so long ago in Milan.

“Do you think Elena believes the same?” I asked him.

He continued to chew on his bottom lip. “I think she’s thrown off by…everything. Sin’s been gone more than not with work, and you know how she feels about Giselle. Now that she’s back, I think she’s a little worried you’ll pick Giselle over her.”

I rolled my eyes. The rivalry between my sisters had started from such an early age that I honestly couldn’t remember a time when it didn’t exist.

Giselle was dreamy and sensually beautiful with exaggerated curves like our mother and the deep red hair of our father. She was naïve and pure, gentle and whimsical. Even though she was older than Sebastian and me, we had always taken it upon ourselves to protect her from the more horrific aspects of our impoverished life in Napoli.

Elena resented our protectiveness. She was a fierce soul who had been broken more than once and who had allowed her fractured heart to calcify in order to guard herself from further harm. She hated Giselle’s wistfulness, her impractical artistry, and her bohemian allure because Elena herself was none of those things, and somewhere deep in the secret recesses of her mind, she wished she was more like that.

Then, of course, there was Christopher.

The man who had obsessed over Giselle but settled for Elena and used her up like a snotty tissue before casting her aside.

As much as I might have wished their relationship was different, because I loved them both indelibly and it was a strain on the rest of the family, I knew nothing would ever change.

There was too much history there.

“She’s being ridiculous,” I said finally. “I won’t be insulted by her worry, but I won’t entertain it either. I’ve been there for her through everything”—through Christopher’s abuse, through law school, through Sinclair, and through her miscarriage—“and that will never change.”

“You’re letting her live with you,” he pointed out.

I took a deep breath as my irritation mounted and tried to remind myself that he was just looking out for Elena. She had so few friends, and she alienated herself so much from the rest of the family that I was happy that she at least had Beau as a champion.

“Giselle needed a place to stay while she settled in. She’s been alone in Paris without any family for four years, and I’m rarely at home as it is. It was an obvious solution, and I won’t feel guilty about making it. You know I love them both.”

Beau sighed and pulled on the perfectly stylized curl hanging over his forehead. “I know. I think she just wishes that for once, someone would choose her feelings over Giselle’s. You’ve always put her first.” At my glare, he amended, “All of you have.”

“That’s not true,” I said through gritted teeth, feeling the piercings I still couldn’t bring myself to take out flare with the memory of the pain, and the brand on my ass that no amount of expensive skin treatments could eradicate burn like a fresh wound. “I’ve sacrificed for everyone in my family, and I would do it again. Even if that were true, though, Beau, don’t you think she could see it as a compliment? Giselle was never as strong as my steel-souled Elena. If we let her feel the impact of our cruel lives a little more, it was only because we knew she could handle it.”

Beau nodded reluctantly. I wanted to spit at him, to rage against his guilt trip because who was he to judge? Had he ever asked himself why Sebastian and I were put on the front lines of our family when we were the youngest? Had he ever wondered what we had to do to get Elena out of Italy and into NYU law?

No. Of course not.

Because people see strength in a person, and it blinds them to their need to be compassionate with them.

Just because I was strong enough to handle the worst of things didn’t mean I didn’t want or need help.

“Miss Lombardi.” Someone interrupted my silent wrath to tap me on the shoulder.

I looked over at one of the interns forVogueand smiled instantly. “Yes?”

She stared up at me as if she wanted to be me. “Um, someone is here to deliver something for you.”

I frowned at her but followed as she led me to the edge of the cordoned-off area where a man in a suit stood with his hands behind his back. He had the bland look of a servant and the outfit to match.

A shiver shot through the base of my spine and reverberated in my teeth.

“Miss Lombardi?” he asked in a clipped, monotone British accent.

I nodded, unable to summon my voice.

He produced a silver tray from behind his back with thick card stock folded and sealed with red wax atop its shiny, unblemished surface.

I would have recognized the seal anywhere. Sometimes, I actually found it, tucked into architecture in the city, pressed into a pattern on a popular fabric, or hidden in works of art.

The Order of Dionysus was one of the oldest secret societies in the world, and though they were based in England, their reach extended across the globe.