Page 62 of Sinister Intentions

Vince Salvini was not a friend.

He was the enemy. A bully who acted as if he had some sort of moral high ground here. When in reality, he was the head of a goddamn Mafia family.

Black morals, black soul, black everything.

He’d tricked me for a second, and my current situation might not look so good.

But delulu wasn’t the solulu.

So whatever situation I was in—I, and only I, would decide on my destiny and trust myself to find a way.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

As soon as we stepped inside my father’s mansion, I regretted bringing Jemma here. I should’ve set up dinner somewhere in the city. Not here where painful memories far outweighed the few happy ones.

My mother had loved this house, and the moment she was gone, it had turned from a home into hell.

I stared around the gaudy interior of the house, disgust curling in my gut. The hideous decor, a grotesque clash of styles that assaulted the senses, was no surprise—it bore the unmistakable lack of class of my father’s latest trophy wife. Barely legal, she was probably around Jemma’s age, far too young for a man of his years.

But such trivial details had never deterred the dirty bastard before.

My jaw clenched as my gaze swept over the ostentatious space, repulsed by the crass display of wealth-assisted appalling taste.

Kitsch. That was what it was, plain and simple. Blood-red and gold, with more frilly things than anyone should ever be exposedto in one space. Whatever interior designer she’d worked with should be executed for the atrocities in here.

My nonno would roll around in his grave if he knew how this house my nonna loved so dearly looked now. My mom would, too.

My skin tightened, and the familiar crawling sensation was the result of everything that had happened here—everything this house stood for.

As the oldest, Father had always singled me out and demanded more from me than from anyone else. But, at least, if he was screaming at me, or raising his hand at me, everyone else was safe, at least for a while—my mom and, later, my siblings.

I’d shielded them as much as I could from his anger; from the string of women he brought into the house; from the dark reality of how our family’s business was run.

My gaze fell on Jemma who had stopped beside me and was looking around, every thought clearly visible in the features of her face.

She didn’t like the decor any more than I did.

“The dining room is over there,” I said, laid my hand on the small of her back, and pushed her forward.Let’s get this over with as fast as possible.

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, took a big step forward, away from my hand, and glared at me before she took a couple of steps to put space between us.

I raised both hands.

Matt tilted his head and stared at me with raised eyebrows. His eyes were filled with amusement but also tinged with concern.

“What?” I snapped at him.

He shook his head and looked down, and I could see by the way he tried to hide his smile, he was clearly amused. “I’m just here to enjoy the show.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. Enjoy the show? What did he even mean?

But before I could ask him, Picca growled—something she’d never done before—and my father entered the room.

He was in a red, silky robe and, in all honesty, looked like a very aged playboy. I half hoped he wouldn’t be here, especially after Donnelly excused himself. But I should’ve known he wouldn’t let the chance to get to know Jemma up close and personal slip by.

Next to me, Alex grabbed Fee and pulled her to his other side, putting himself between my father and her.

Smart man.

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