Page 55 of Scarlet Angel

“My mother booked a return flight. When I’m not on the plane?—”

“Didn’t you tell her you weren’t coming home?”

“Yes. She doesn’t care. I could fight her. Message her back and tell her I won’t be on the plane. But Orlando said Massimo is threatening to send someone to retrieve me. If I fight her?—”

“Right. Well, here’s what we’re going to do.”

I take a seat and cross one leg over the other. My fingers twitch, wishing for a notepad.

“You’ll stay here.” His tone brooks no will for argument, but I open my mouth. “You’re safest here.”

He can be as firm as he wishes. “This isn’t your fight. It’s mine.”

“Massimo won’t send his thugs to my estate. If he does, retribution will be swift.”

“You mean, you’ll send men or?—”

“We’ll fuck his distribution chain.”

“You’re already?—”

“But he doesn’t know that. If he sends men, I’ll shift demand to one of the other families that are still in favor, and he’ll find his routes getting busted one after the other.” His lips spread into a slow, conniving grin. “Massimo fucked with me once. He won’t get a second chance. It’s probably why they’re using your mother.”

“If that’s true, then it’s best to tell her I won’t be on the plane, right? It will just be a quarrel between my mother and me.”

“Are you close to her?”

“No.”

When I was younger, we were close. I’ve lived lifetimes since those days.

“Who raised you?”

What’s he on about?“That’s an odd question.”

“You’re resilient. Confident. Those things don’t come about when someone grows in the wild.”

“Are you sure about that?”

With a grin, he sinks down into the chair across from me. “No. I’d imagine some kids would fare better in the wild than with their parents.”

“Were you close to your parents?”

“I was.” The grin disappears, and the room is noticeably draftier without it.

I’m sorry is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. “And they raised you?”

“Yes.” His gaze lifts from his lap. “They were exemplary parents. The best, truly.”

I sense there’s more, but he doesn’t want to talk about his past.

“It’s not fair of me to say my mother didn’t raise me. She did. She was very present in my life as a child. But, as I grew older, and after my father’s death, we grew apart. And I became an asset. Something to be bartered.”

“In marriage, you mean?”

I lift my brows and nod at the bizarre notion. It shouldn’t bother me so much, as it’s what I grew up with, but it infuriates me that I'm not seen as human and worthy. Less so now, given I’ve got a broken hymen and can’t bear children. What a screwed-up world.

“But now”—he lifts his shoulders—“how does that play out? You’re not on the marriage market—is that what they call it?”

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