Page 216 of Tangled up in You

Franco's expression shifts, his brow furrowing further. "Tiffany, you need to get dressed. What in the hell were you thinking opening the door like that?" he demands. His eyes scan my body, and he points out that there is more skin than clothing.

"What? You don't like it?" I twirl in a small circle, aware that I'm provoking him. "You're lucky I left on my t-shirt and underwear when I went to bed," I say with a smirk. I know I shouldn't push him, but it's just too easy, sometimes. And hell! They weren't invited to be here, this early. And they are the one who woke me up.

"Tiffany, I need you to get dressed now," Franco said through his clenched teeth. His tone, let me know I might have gone a little too far in pushing him. "Mr. Sansone wants to see you this morning. Now go get dressed and do it quickly,” he continued.

“Me?” I whispered as I chew on my lower lip. Both men nod.

All in out circle know, when the Don "requests" your presence, it is not just a simple ask but a command that requires immediate obedience. A sinking sensation in my stomach. Whatever is brewing today isn't casual chatter over coffee. This is serious business, and I can already sense the wheels of my fate are turning off the course I had set out for myself.

"Of course," I reply, trying to mask the unease in my voice, my heart races at the disturbing thoughts running through mymind. "Should I shower quickly or just wear something more suitable?"

"Please take a shower," Giovanni replies before Franco can speak. Mr. Sansone doesn't need to smell the bar on you from last night.

I can't help but mutter, "Thanks, Gio. I wouldn't want to offend anyone by smelling of an actual good time," as I head into my bathroom.

I've never showered so quicklyin my life, my nerves pushing me to move faster than I thought possible.

The limo ride to the Sansone residence was oppressive. Silence engulfed us as Gio and Franco positioned themselves on either side of me, their impassive expressions offering no reassurance.

"Come on, please tell me what is going on. I pleaded. Franco and Gio were tight-lipped, staring out the window, watching the city pass us by.

As we arrived at the mansion, a grand old structure looming on the west side of Manhattan, a wave of anxiety washed over me. This place meant more than just a home. I could sense the weight of history in its walls, the air heavy with unspoken tension—a reminder of whose territory we were in.

Lorenzo Sansone. The Don of the Bruno family. I've known him all my life. My father is one of his captains. Unlike my father, Mr. Sansone was always excellent to me, offering me a piece of candy when I was younger or a smile during our "family" gatherings.

I stepped inside the dimly lit office, overwhelmed by the intimidating atmosphere. The lavish decor contrasted withthe dull ache in my chest: mahogany furniture polished to a mirror finish, elegant artwork adorning the walls, and the sharp scent of expensive cigars mingling with something spicier and unsettling. Each piece gave impressive authority and dominance, and I couldn't shake the notion that I was intruding in a domain controlled by fear and respect.

My father sat at the far side of the room, making him seem so small and frail. His injuries drew my gaze. His black eye looked like a dark bruise against a backdrop of dried blood, remnants clinging to his mouth where most likely teeth had once been. He, once confident, was now a disheveled figure, a mere shadow.

I could feel his anger simmering beneath the surface and his resignation to his current state. Surprisingly, I felt no compassion for him. He deserved whatever, or shall I say, whoever happened to him.

As our eyes met, his expression unfolded—a conjuration of pleading and defiance. I could almost taste the manipulative undertones in his voice as he tried to engage me to evoke sympathy for him. However, I experienced only contempt. "Tiffany," he started, his voice strained and brittle like old paper. "Tiffany, please," he croaked, trying to summon some semblance of fatherly affection, but it came out as a weak plea. "You have to help me, figlia mia. You're my blood, my daughter."

I scoffed, the sound echoing around the room like a gunshot. "Your daughter?" I repeated, venom dripping from each syllable. "Since when did that matter to you, Father?"

The room was still, and tension was thickening. I stood straight, ready to confront the man who brought me into this world but never acted like a father. I sensed the gaze of these men on me as I observed this drama unfold, but I didn't mind. This was between me and him.

"You've never been a father to me," I said, my voice calm and steady. "You were always too busy with your 'business,' toobusy cheating on Mom, too busy treating women like they were disposable."

I thought back to the times I'd seen him with other women, the countless affairs he never hid. Each memory seemed like a dagger piercing through the façade he maintained. I could still picture the way he'd speak to Mom, as if she were a possession rather than a person, reducing her to something he owned rather than someone he loved.

Some of my childhood memories replay—the hollow birthday parties filled with his absence. At these recitals, I looked out to the crowd, hoping for his familiar face but finding only disappointment instead.

I stood there, heart thundering, refusing to let his pathetic attempt at the connection draw me in. The anger I experienced toward him hardened in my chest. I hated him for what he had done—not just to me but to my mother and for all the ways he had twisted our family's legacy into something unrecognizable.

My father reminded me of everything I despised in this world. I diverted my attention from him to the head of the family, Lorenzo Sansone, and expressed my respect with a discreet yet deliberate nod.

"Ah, Tiffany. The Don's voice dripped with sarcasm as he commented on your joining. "It seems your dear father has once again tested my patience. As you can see, your father is in somewhat of a difficult position," Mr. Sansone states with no anger. Based on my experience, something terrible happened. For Lorenzo, not to have any emotion while he speaks means only one thing.

He is furious that someone is about to die or wishes they were dead.

I glance at my father for the briefest of a second, then turn my attention back to Lorenzo. Before I can say anything, he continues.

"Please sit down; we must discuss a proposition that concerns you." I lower myself onto the edge of the chair, the plush cushion registering beneath me. The coffee I gulped on the way here is swirling in my stomach, threatening to rise.

I draw in a shaky breath. "How may I assist you, sir?" I inject as much confidence as possible into my voice, but it wavers slightly.

Lorenzo leans over and places his folded hands on the top of his desk, his expression grave, as he speaks about my father as if he isn't sitting on Nico's right.

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