Page 62 of Unforgiving Queen

The man was handsome with jet-black hair sprinkled with silver, a light stubble, and a suave, confident aura. Even his age seemed to work for him.

Inhaling a deep breath into my lungs, I listened to the soft click of my heels against the black marble as I forced each step forward, closing the distance where he and my papà stood.

“Hello, Papà,” I greeted him. It was unusual to see him attend any of my events, but it made sense if one of the Italian kings of the Omertà was here. I pecked his cheek, then turned to Marchetti. “Mr. Marchetti, thank you again for letting me use your venue.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgement. “Of course, happy to help.”

I pushed a curl out of my face, then cleared my throat. “Well, you saved the day.” I smiled, my hand twisting my necklace nervously. Marchetti’s eyes darted to it, something dark flickering in their shadows. Papà’s face, however, portrayed outright displeasure.

He hated the necklace with a passion, but I refused to let it go.

“Are you having a good visit in Paris?” I asked politely, knowing enough that he usually resided in Italy. Mr. Marchetti nodded. “Do you usually fly from Italy or drive?”

“Fly.” His answer was curt.

He’d probably never taken a commercial flight in his life. That was where these men differed from Papà. He’d never been as loaded as the other men in the Omertà when we were growing up. From what little I knew, Papà’s business didn’t appear to be as successful.

“Have you talked to Grandma?” I asked. He grunted something in Italian that I didn’t understand. He never bothered teaching us and I never bothered learning. “She’s been trying to reach you. She said it’s urgent.”

“Okay.” The tone of his voice told me he knew and didn’t give a shit. “That woman sure has a knack for nagging.”

I was going to offer a retort, but I paused and took him in. He didn’t look too good. He looked tired, almost sickly. His condition seemed to have worsened from three years ago. Maybe he worked too much or wasn’t taking good care of himself. Although the latter would surprise me, knowing Maria, his housekeeper, always fussed over him.

I sighed. “Doesn’t that come with the territory?”

Grandma might be excellent at nagging, but she was family. Everything she did was for us—Phoenix and me. She might not have his best interest at heart, but she had ours.

I returned my attention to Mr. Marchetti. “Your fashion brand in Italy is amazing,” I commended. “I wrote a paper on it in college. Very impressive how you expanded your fashion house to include luxury goods, making it an internationally recognized name.”

“Did you? Well, now I’m the one impressed,” he said with a smile, and I suspected he was trying to lighten the mood. He didn’t seem like the sort of man who offered genuine smiles to just anyone.

The first sounds of Isla’s violin strings drifted through the air and it was my cue that the show was about to start. “Anyhow, thanks again. I have to get backstage.”

Heck, the man was intense. I turned to go when Papà’s voice stopped me. “Reina, after your show, can you find me? We need to talk.”

I studied him curiously, waiting for him to explain. When he didn’t, I just nodded and rushed away.

For the next hour, I watched with excitement as my designs came to life. Models strutted up and down the catwalk, Phoenix played the piano, the crowd was engaged. My friends even modeled a few pieces before getting back to their instruments. The evening was perfect.

With one small exception.

I sensed his eyes on me the entire time while the words he’d once spoken mocked me silently, testing my resolve.

You and me against the world.

22

AMON

Picking an empty corner, I leaned against the wall and slid my hands into my pockets while I imagined a world in which we could have a happy ending. One where we weren’t related and we could have it all. Together.

You and me against the world.That should have been our motto in life.

The room buzzed with guests, music, and fashion designs. My brother was across the room speaking to Romero and Marchetti. I had no interest in hearing what the fucker had to say.

Instead, my eyes were glued to the catwalk, more specifically the woman who was off-limits to me. She walked across the stage in her favorite color, holding the hand of a little boy who seemed to be upset that he was wearing a suit. The child looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t focus. All my attention was on her.

She offered him one of those soft, encouraging smiles and murmured something that seemed to soothe the little boy. After they twirled left and right, letting the audience applaud them, she descended the steps, bringing the show to a close.