Page 57 of Unforgiving Queen

I blocked his attempted punch.

“Don’t worry.” He gave me that crazy grin of his. “I’m taking care of it.”

“And how is that?”

His nostrils flared and the glint of something diabolical rippled across his eyes. “It’s a secret.”

“I don’t have the patience for your shit, Dante,” I said.

“You need therapy, Amon.”

Who needed therapy when you could join a run-down, asbestos-filled club that allowed you to fight other unhinged assholes? Dante was one to talk, anyway. I couldn’t even tell him about what I did most nights; I knew he’d be a liability and take it too far, getting me kicked out in the process.

“You’re getting too crazy for my liking,” I countered.

“You have no idea,” he said, laughing. “The world is about to go up in flames.”

“Funny.”

My fist connected with his jaw and his laugh faded. He reciprocated with a punch that knocked the air from my lungs.

Our conversation tapered off, replaced by grunts and curses as we pummeled the hell out of each other.

From the time we were children, Father had us sparring and competing against each other. Our skill set was well-matched in fighting, except when using martial arts. I was good at the latter, Dante was not. When it came to boxing, however, he was better at it than I was. So as we grew older, boxing became our go-to for blowing off steam.

Cross. Slip. Uppercut. Slip. Repeat.

Once we’d both worked the edge off our anger, we took stock of our injuries: a slightly swollen lip for him and bruised ribs for me.

We’d suffered through worse.

“I’ve missed this,” he admitted, and the vulnerability in his tone just about made me spill my guts and tell him why I’d kept my distance from anyone who reminded me of Reina.

* * *

Ten minutes later, we were both dressed. He was in his dark blue three-piece suit. For me, it was a head-to-toe black three-piece suit. Although I regularly preferred a button-down, blazer, and jeans. All traces of the unhinged glimmer in his eyes had vanished, replaced by the epitome of the Italian gentleman.

I raised an eyebrow at his cufflinks. Gold lions with sapphire eyes—the Leone family crest.

“Upping your style, I see,” I remarked wryly. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that shit. It reminded me of our fucked-up childhood. It was what’d stuck in my mind as Father whipped our backs until they were raw.

We crossed the gleaming white-and-black marble foyer. “I have to keep up with you. Don’t want women eyeing your Japanese-Italian ass while you’re in my vicinity.”

I ignored his half-baked compliment. Or, knowing Dante, the insult.

“Why the fuck is Marchetti hosting a fashion show?” I questioned instead.

We were taking a private plane to Paris to attend a show. Coincidently, Reina was supposed to be hosting a fashion show of her own today, but some real estate dickwad canceled the venue at the last minute. Naturally, I had his fortune lightened by several hundred million.

I’d thrown a few opportunities her way in terms of venues, but it was almost as if she knew they’d come from me. She rejected every single one of them.

“It might have to do with his legitimate businesses,” he drawled. “Or maybe he wants to stare at the models. How the fuck should I know?”

“And here I thought you knew everything,” I deadpanned.

“You pack a mean punch, brother.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “And yes, I do know everything.”

I snorted. “Except what you don’t know, which is a shit ton.” He flipped me off. “Yours isn’t so bad either. My ribs are on fire like Father beat the fucking shit out of me.”