Page 81 of Knot Made to Break: Part One

A set of thick, carved wooden doors sat at the end of the hallway, and we headed for them. With my nerves making me jittery and anxious, I took meticulous care straightening myoutfit, wanting to make a good impression. The black dress hugged my torso before flaring out at my hips, ending just above the knee. While it had a low back, the sleeves covered the worst of my scars. Thankfully, the faded remains of my bruises were barely visible, easily hidden beneath my concealer. With straight hair, light makeup, and a pair of heels that added nearly three inches to my height, I hoped I looked presentable. I’d dressed for a funeral, after all, not meeting my future family.

But worrying about my appearance helped distract me from the rawness of finding that note and the pure, unadulterated dread that had filled me since.

“Who will be here?” I whispered, letting the guys lead me deeper into the house.

“Our dads’ car was out front. I’m sure they’re already waiting for us,” Tommas told me. “Emilio is Dimitri and Julia’s dad. Giacomo is Gio’s dad. Leonardo is Marco’s dad, and Matteo is mine.”

I filed those names away, hoping I wouldn’t forget and could match the right father to the correct son. The guys had explained that their mother had taken turns having children with each of her mates. Many packs approached having kids that way, but there was something about it that seemed too methodical for me.

If I ever had babies, I wanted it to be spontaneous and surprising.

But that was a thought for another day.

The guys pushed open the doors, and we entered an ornate study with a massive desk, couches, a fireplace, and floor to ceiling bookshelves filled to the brim. Men in finely tailored suits stood around the room arguing, but their discussion drew to a halt the moment they spotted us—or, more specifically, me.

“You must be the infamous Kitania,” an older gentleman, with distinguished black hair that had gone grey at the temples, stated. He introduced himself as Leonardo and offered me hishand. I forced myself to take it the way I’d been taught at the OMA, dipping my head politely.

The other dads made their introductions as well, and then abruptly turned their attention to their sons. I breathed a little easier once I was out of the spotlight.

“Have you heard from Emilio or Dimitri?” Leonardo questioned.

“Nothing yet.” Tommas stared down at his phone, his thumbs flying as he typed out a message.

Marco hung close, his hand gliding over my back in soothing strokes. I needed that contact, because knowing Dimitri hadn’t been in touch sent another jolt of adrenaline rushing through me.

The atmosphere grew tense as they dove into serious business talk centered on the Valentino threat. I moved to a bookshelf, gripping the wood as I tried to get the room to stop spinning, but it was no use. There were so many Alphas in here. The scents alone were overwhelming, as was listening to them discuss strategies and contingencies to deal with Rocco and Vincent.

I only caught snippets, their conversation becoming a jumble of noise to me.

“What if we…”

“Nah, that won’t work.”

“…fuckin’ with the wrong…”

“It won’t make a difference.”

It won’t make a difference.

An unbearable weight pressed down on my chest, and I rubbed at my sternum as those words sparked in my mind.

The bookshelf blurred as my vision hazed. I tried to focus on the spines of the books, counting them silently to ground myself.

One.

Two.

Three.

But Vincent’s voice cut through the fragile fabric of my mind, a phantom memory dragging me back to another time and place.

“You can cry if you want.” Vincent’s voice was as smooth and dry as the whiskey he’d sipped. “It won’t make a difference.”

I was chained to a chair in the cold, damp room they called the “playroom.” My wrists ached, rubbed raw from the unyielding cuffs, and the metallic tang of blood mixed with the scent of mildew in the air. Vincent stood over me, a predator in every sense of the word, his looming frame casting long shadows that danced on the grimy walls.

“I’d say you’re tougher than you look,” he mused, swirling his glass, “but we both know that isn’t true. You break so beautifully.”

Crouching to my level, he sneered, his dull, dead eyes boring into mine. I flinched when he reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face like a lover might. The tenderness of the gesture only made the cruelty in his words sharper.

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