Nonna’s eyes sparkle with mischief as she sips her wine. “Respect, Carolina, is a powerful thing. It can build bridges—or burn them, depending on how you handle it.”
Carolina leans forward, resting her elbows on the table as her smirk softens into something more thoughtful. “Trust me,Zia, if Grigory ever tries to build a bridge, I’ll be the first to set it on fire.”
But there’s something in her voice—just a hint of vulnerability buried beneath the bravado. Something that suggests she’s not as indifferent as she wants us to believe.
Nonna clears her throat, sitting straighter in her chair. “Carolina, finish your food. André will be calling you into his office any minute.”
She frowns. “Which is always so much fun.”
“You’re the one who wanted a real job, so don’t complain when it becomes uncomfortable.”
“Discussing traitors with theDonis more than uncomfortable. It’s like standing inside a Tsunami.” Carolina winks at me, twirling her fork through her pasta. “Speaking of storms, Ari, when are you going to tell Maxsim to pull the stick out of his—”
“Carolina!” Nonna interrupts, her voice sharp but amused.
“What?” Carolina throws up her hands. “I’m just saying, if anyone can handle him, it’s Ari. She’s got the fire for it.”
A sharp laugh escapes from my mouth, and I feel lighter for a moment. Nonna pours the last of the wine, and I stare out the stained-glass window, watching the late afternoon sun shift the colors on the table—blue, green, gold. They’re beautiful, but the shadows between them seem deeper somehow. Darker.
My fingers tighten around the edge of the table. The alliance. Maxsim. Our marriage. It’s all tangled together, and I don’t know if we have a prayer of surviving.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Even her rage is beautiful.
Maxsim
The headlights of the Maserati sweep across the towering iron gates as they slide open, spilling light over the long, curved driveway. The estate stands ahead, the dim glow of the sconces casting deep shadows against the pale stone walls.
I kill the engine and step out, the humid night air brushing against my face. My body is sore from the day’s events, every muscle tight with exhaustion, but my mind won’t stop racing. The adrenaline is still coursing through me, and the weight of my gun feels heavier than it has in a long time.
I cross the threshold of the house and notice the usual sterility of the place—is absent. It smells different. Warm. Like someone’s claimed it. There’s a faint scent of garlic and roasted tomatoes hanging in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of lemon polish from the floors.
I shrug off my jacket and toss it onto the back of a chair, my eyes sweeping over the space. Ari’s small touches are everywhere. Flowers from the garden fill the vases, soft blankets are draped over the couch, and pictures from our wedding stand proudly on the side table.
It is starting to feel like a home. Something I haven’t had since my mother was killed.
Wiping the picture from my mind, I stride over to the bar and hear my wife storm in, her presence like a blade cutting through the quiet.
Ari is dressed in a loose sweater and leggings, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her hair is loose, dark waves falling over her shoulders, and her green eyes are locked on me with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
“You’re late,” she snaps, her voice slicing through the stillness. “Long night at work? Or did your ‘business’ include someone with better legs than mine?”
Her gaze drops, slow and deliberate, taking in the suit I changed into after washing the blood off my hands and face. “That’s not what you had on this morning,” she observes, the accusation dripping from her tone.
I raise an eyebrow, shrugging off her words like I would a weak punch. “You’ve been waiting up for me? How thoughtful.”
Her glare deepens, and she steps closer, her posture tense, coiled. “Don’t flatter yourself. I made dinner, but apparently, one of your playthings was more important.”
I let the jab land, watching her, noting how her shoulders rise and fall with the force of her breathing. Even when she’s angry, she’s captivating. The way her green eyes burn, daring me to falter.
“I thought you would wait a month before returning to your life in the city.” Her chest deflates. “But then again, why would you deny yourself anything?”
I take a measured step toward the bar, my movements deliberate, controlled. The polished wood gleams under the low light as I pour myself a drink, the amber liquid catching the glow. “You’ve already decided the worst about me,” I reply, my voice sharp. “Why should I bother explaining?”
She lets out a bitter laugh, the sound ricocheting off the walls. “Oh, don’t worry, Maxsim. You don’t need to explain.I’m familiar with men like you—liars wrapped in suits, thinking rules don’t apply to them.”
I set the glass down harder than I mean to, the sound loud against the silence. “And you?” I turn to face her fully, my gaze locking onto hers. “You think this is about you? Your ego can’t be that fragile.”