Page 32 of Isle of Beauty

His comment unsettles me. “What do you mean ‘you’re good with it’?”

If they’ve been together for three years and friends for decades, I’d think they’re more than “cool” with it.

“Lisandru…”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Pierce,” he sighs. “I thought you knew. I’m gay. Alana and I are marrying to protect the families and to protect each other. She just lost her husband and even though she’s the scariest person I know, she isn’t safe as a widow. All in all, it’s the best solution for everyone for now.”

When he told me about him and Alana and I conjured up his body in a ditch, I didn’t think it would be so close to the truth. Nor that it would make me murderous to think of someone trying to hurt him.

I’m a fucking hypocrite.

I may not have been raised in the mafia, but I know it’s a place of traditions and archaic beliefs. If my family’s enemies were to know, he’d end up dead. And I’d regret not having been there to protect him for the rest of my days.

“I’ll fly in on Friday, Jules.”

My head hurts, headache lancing behind my eyes. I need three days of sleep and another shower. Laying in bed, I reassess the conversation we just had. Everything I do is obsessive lately so I remember every single word.

And it hits me.

As heirs, we will marry and form an unbreakable bond.

I sit up straight in my bed, now fully awake with the realisation of what I need to do.

Julian can be safe if he isn’t the heir to the Bartoli name.

As Heir, I can protect him.

As Heir, I can have her.

FOURTEEN

PIERCE

WELCOME BACK

Three days later, I board the jet Julian sent for me.

I’ve appointed a stand-in CEO at our last management meeting. I don’t trust anyone, especially with Andrea poaching our clients at every turn but what awaits me in Kalliste is more important.

I haven’t been back in twenty-five years. The smell of pine trees, fresh cheese and dried herbs can still reach my nose if I focus hard enough. I can feel the heat of the sun and the salt of the sea on my skin as I jump from a cliff with my father encouraging me and recording it on camera.

That can’t be right.

A hand on my arm wakes me from my dream that felt too much like a memory. I shiver and shake myself out of it.

“We are about to land, Mr. Pierce,” the hostess says in a gentle voice.

I watch my heart rate go to 120 bpm on my watch. A light sheen of sweat lines my forehead despite the aircon on at full blast. My resolve is made of steel and unbendable but my nerves have a mind of their own.

I’ve directed a multi-billion dollar security company with an iron fist for ten years, day after day of hard work and dedication. It’s all so fucking easy compared to seeing my father for the first time in more than two decades and holding in my desire to see his blood paint the wall of his fucking mansion.

Compared to seeing her again.

I have to bite down a growl of frustration at the unbidden image my brain conjures of her on my brother’s arm, dressed in white.

If I want to survive in this pool of snakes and hardened criminals, I have to embrace the darkness within. Maybe I was never meant to escape it with a father like Alessio Bartoli.

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