Page 48 of Twins for the Mafia Heir

Wesley Hall looks more dilapidated than I remember it when I pull in through the gates, like it’s aged centuries in the ten hours I’ve been gone. I break my own tradition of slipping in likea ghost through the kitchen. I’ve put distance between myself and this place, and I will maintain it from now on. Entering through the front doors also adds some gravitas to my visit that I hope will get Fantasia’s attention.

I find her in the usual place, the drawing room. The curtains on the windows have been left closed today, giving the room a dingy, abandoned feeling. The fire in the hearth is far too low, barely more than embers. It provides no warmth, and hardly any light, but I can still make out Fantasia’s curled up shadow in her favorite armchair. She doesn’t shift when I enter the room. Did she sleep in here last night?

Was she waiting for me to come and find her?

I ignore the way that makes my heart squeeze and go to the windows, throwing them open to let in the watery morning light. I hear Fantasia shift behind me.

“Achilles?”

Her voice is thick with sleep, and when I turn, I see eyes framed by deep circles. She sleeps just as badly in this house as I do-did. I almost forget my resolve, almost hold out my hand and offer to take her back to the Ashwood House with me. If she left this place behind, if we let it sit here and rot, would she finally heal?

I don’t know. And unless I dragged Fantasia out of this place kicking and screaming, I doubt she’d ever leave it.

“Did you only come back for that package that was dropped off?” she croaks.

A package? I go back through the orders I’ve placed- and realize it could only be the wedding bands I had resized by the jeweler weeks ago.

I’d completely forgotten about them, with all the frustration and danger of the last few weeks.

It’s only then that I notice the bottle knocked over on the floor in front of her chair, no accompanying glass in sight. Whatever was in it, it’s empty now.

I sigh heavily and go to pick up the bottle. “I came back to speak with you, Fantasia. I never said I wouldn’t.” Leaning closer, I smell the alcohol on her breath. “Come, you shouldn’t be sleeping out here, it’s freezing. Take a shower, get some food, and we’ll talk.”

I’m taken back to when Fantasia was Sidony’s age, and I had to soothe her through tantrums and dump her into the bath myself. Fantasia can get herself in and out of a shower on her own now, but she’s just as reluctant to do what’s best for her when she’s feeling her lowest. I wait for her in the sitting room of her suite, nursing a blessed second espresso. The staff brought up a tray of breakfast things which I’ll force Fantasia to eat if I have to.

When she finally emerges from the washroom, my sister looks pale but fully awake. She’s dressed in an old gown of our mother’s that I haven’t seen in years, a black slip that would be far too cold for the weather if she weren’t wearing a thick bathrobe over it. She slumps into the chair across the coffee table from me, eyes the breakfast tray dispassionately, but does start nibbling on a little jam tart.

“I wanted to have a proper conversation about what happened yesterday,” I say- and Fantasia immediately stands and makes as if to walk off. “Fantasia, you are not avoiding this-”

She goes to her nightstand, where half folded and slightly crumpled papers lie. She collects them and comes back to the table, a glint in her eyes that I don’t like.

“If you hadn’t rushed off yesterday, you would have-”

“Do not test me, Fantasia,” I snap. “Yesterday wasn’t a tantrum. I killed three men because they threatened my family.”

Speaking of which, I’m a little concerned that Fantasia doesn’t seem particularly angry about that. Either with me or with the men whose stupidity cost them their lives and made her look bad.

She’s not upset aboutwhyI left. Just that I did.

Fantasia drops a half folded letter on the table between us. I take it, irritation flaring, and glance over the crisp stationary and neat, boxy handwriting. “Thomas… finally wrote back?”

Settling back into her armchair, Fantasia eyes me smugly. “He’s making vague promises to pay the tithe, but he’s stalling.”

I confirm this at the bottom of the page. Thomas wants his sister returned to him first, married or no, and only once that’s done will he pay what is owed. This is an obvious play, and I would’ve expected better. As soon as his sister is returned, naturally, he has no reason to follow through on his word. And as of yesterday, Raleigh will have a wealth of information she can share with her brother.

How did I forget that Raleigh might… have to go back someday?

My immediate distaste for the proposition is unhelpful, and I do my best to shove it aside.

I reread the letter once more, searching for any additional information I can parse- and doing my own stalling. Thomas is strangely emotionless when he gives his demands for Raleigh to be returned. Is he making a show of strength or just trying to remain professional? Is he less concerned with his sister’s safety than he is losing face?

Fantasia’s eyes are practically boring into my forehead, so finally I look up again. “What are you planning?” I ask suspiciously.

“He wants to stall, so I’ll let him,” she says. “But only for the next week. Raleigh isn’t being returned to him. Not alive, anyway.”

My stomach tightens at that insinuation. “What are you planning, Fantasia?” I bite out again.

“If Thomas doesn’t pay me what I’m owed by the end of the week, you’ll kill her and send her head back to him in a box.”

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