Page 19 of Their Princess

They all dressed the same—jeans, leather vests or jackets. Many of them still wore sunglasses. All the burly men were clapping each other on the shoulders and laughing. Some lit cigarettes. Gross.

Most of the ones old enough to have facial hair seemed like they were trying to grow their beards to their knees... except one, who had his beard trimmed close. He wore ear buds, and tattoos climbed up his neck like vines consuming a brick wall.

Graff. The one with the considerate touch on the roadside. Yeah, I knew him, but how much of a rise could I get from Sas?

“Oh, yeah. Graff.” I gave an exaggerated nod, doing my best to mimic my fiancé’s nonchalance. “Which one is Graff again?”

He stared up the artwork, like he was admiring it. “Tell ya what, let’s go make intros all around.”

I still kept my eyes away from the wall. Even without looking, I recognized the design of the graffiti, the elegant petals in black with just a touch of purple at the centers. It was so pretty it might haunt my dreams tonight. The flowers reminded me ofmy Nonna Petra’s favorite dress with a matching shawl and earrings.

I remembered crawling onto her lap, and she would wrap me up in her arms and sing to me. But she was dead and buried and long gone. She had been kinder and more complacent in her place as a Mafia wife before Nonno Ivo fucked another woman, Rafe’s mother.

“You don’t like the flowers?” asked Sas like he read my mind.

I considered the passing question, but this conversation had nothing to do with whether I liked them or not. “Aren’t flowers pretty by nature? Aren’t they designed to pull in the unsuspecting victim? The Venus flytrap has just perfected how to be a predator.”

“That’s not a flytrap,” he grumbled.

“No, but might as well be.”

“But these...” He traced the line of a petal as we passed.

“Are you trying to get me to back pedal and admit Graff is a good artist?”

“No. I don’t need you to admit shit. Heisa good artist. But the flowers.”

“What about them?” I demanded.

“Do you like them?” he asked.

“Yes,” I admitted finally, in hopes it would get him away from me.

“Do you know what they are?”

“No, but my nonna used to wear them on her dress.”

Whatever smile that was starting to bloom on his face dropped. “Your what?”

I jutted my hip and rolled my eyes. “Nonna. It’s Italian for grandmother.”

“Your grandmother wore these?”

“Yeah. What’s the problem with that?”

“Were you close?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I’ll need to keep my eyes peeled around you if that’s the kind of flowers your family likes.”

I blinked at him and then faced the flowers. The anger slipped from my face, and I was sure he saw it. Confusion meant weakness, and if I didn’t control my reactions, I would be a book he could easily read.

“Ask Graff what it is,” said Sas and then threw open the warehouse door and ducked inside.

He exposed his back to me. Too bad I didn’t have a weapon, but I probably wouldn’t use it, anyway. Doing something that drastic would put my younger sister in this situation. I had to suck it up and deal.

Without his attention on me, I could run. The thought wouldn’t let me be. But Rafe was behind me. A silent, but imposing presence. My bodyguard. And likely a spy for my father. I had almost forgotten he was there. He said nothing, just watched me with the same blank eyes as he had always used. He had always been around, just on the outskirts of everything. Even now, Papà had handed him off. If I died, he would die too. If he died, my father wouldn’t care.

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