Page 67 of Coerced Queen

“I know.”It was an exceptional day.

He takes a seat across from me, watching me eat in silence.When my plate and my glass are empty, he asks, “Dessert?There are strawberries.They’re from a hothouse upstate.”

“No, thank you.The food was delicious.I’ve had enough.”

He stands.Leaning heavily on his cane, he walks to the hallway.He doesn’t wait to see if I follow.The command is unspoken.

We need to talk.

The understanding is taken for granted.

I hover for a second, scavenging energy when I have none left, and slip off the stool.He enters his study just as I turn the corner into the hallway.

In the door frame of the study, I pause to take in the familiar room.Saverio rearranged some furniture, but it still smells like him, like his spicy cologne and man.After all that’s changed, his scent is the same, unlike the man I hope to one day find again inside that scarred and battered body.

He stands in the middle of the floor with his back turned to me, studying the painting of someone’s Russian ancestor above his desk.

When I cross the threshold, he says, “Close the door.”

He can’t see me.My flat shoes are quiet on the carpet.He must be developing those sharp senses again.

I close the door and lean against it.“You deserve an explanation.”

“Damn right,” he says, spinning around and unleashing all his bottled-up anger on me.“We’re going to start with the inventory and the video.”

Damn you, Dante.

Why couldn’t he stick to the plan?

I push off the door and take a few steps closer.“Are you working on the new plan?”

His eye creases in the corner.The patch obscures the artificial one but it fails to hide his livid expression.“How did you get it?”

“Simple.”I shrug.“I asked.”

“You asked Elena,” he says, his tone dangerously low.

“There’s no harm in trying.”

He crosses the floor, stopping so close to me I can smell the mint and coffee on his breath.“You put your life in danger.”

“We all do every day.”

He wraps his fingers around my throat, keeping me in place with a possessive hold.“This was different.”

I lift my chin.“How?”

His pupil contracts.The anger that gleams in the depth of his eye like a pinpoint of black against the bluest of skies warns me that I’m treading on thin ice.

“You went to Raphael Morelli’s pregnant wife, the man who tried to kill you and your baby, and you risked your life in ways you can’t begin to imagine.”

I smile.“I think you can give me a little more credit.”

He tightens his fingers marginally, the act dominant and controlling.“Do you have any idea what could’ve happened to you?”

“Yes.”

His nostrils quiver as he digests my answer.“Yet you still did it.”

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