Page 133 of Phantom Mine

“Matteo,” the redhead says with a hint of fondness. I smile at her then look swiftly away. Before her marriage, she was universally regarded as being the most beautiful woman in Europe. Since said happy union, her husband has had the bad habit of bombing anyone’s house who dares look upon her for long enough to try and form an opinion on the matter. “Your star has certainly risen since the last time we saw each other.”

“Adélaïde,” I bow over her hand, kissing the air above it. “Lovely to see you.”

“Word of advice, Matteo,” her blonde companion offers with an equally enchanting smile. “Or caution, rather. Refrain from mentioning any emotions being elicited by the sight of Adélaïde while her husband is in the same country. You know how he gets.”

I do in fact knowexactlyhow he gets.

“Oh, hush,” Adélaïde admonishes, blushing prettily. “You exaggerate.”

“Aren’t they still cleaning up the damage from my brother’s last jealous outburst?” Chiara questions innocently.

“Well…,” her sister-in-law begins. “Only because the government took areallylong time to organize a coordinated response team.”

“That’s because they’d never seen bombs like the ones he used before.” Chiara looks back at me. “Callum test dropped his entire new range of guided missiles on a small village in Surrey. Their crime, you ask? Having as their esteemed residentone Steven Armstead, twenty-eight, waiter atThe Darlingrestaurant, forgettable in every way except for his ill-advised decision to smile at Adélaïde for longer than two seconds.”

I cross my arms over my chest and grin. “Callum killed the population of an entire village?”

Callum Tellier is a kingmaker. He’s himself one of the most powerful men in the world, if not arguablythemost powerful. He owns Blackdown, a multi-billion dollar weapons company, as well as majority stakes in most of the companies that appear on theFortune 500. If he wants to destroy an entire village because one guy looked at his wife, that local government simply looks the other way and redirects part of its budget to a line item called “CT Clean Up”.

“No, we’ve agreed he’s no longer allowed to do that,” Adélaïde interjects. “He only bombed Steven’s studio. And maybe all the local farmland.”

Chiara laughs, adding with no small amount of sarcasm, “That’s going to be fun for the village economy.”

Adélaïde looks furtively around. She then leans forward, motioning for Chiara to do the same, and whispers just loud enough for me to hear, “I wired a million pounds to each of the residents to make up for it. Don’t tell your brother, he’ll be furious.”

“Including Steven?” I ask.

“Except for him.” Her nose scrunches in disgust. “He didn’t just smile, heleered.”

“Good riddance.” Chiara straightens and looks at me. “So you see, be careful what you say or do. Her husband doesn’t have a sense of humor where she’s concerned.”

Hands wrap around Chiara’s waist and she jolts, not having felt the man approach. Tall and wide, he pulls her backwards into him by her hips, until his chest is glued to her bare back. His face comes down, his lips brushing over her ear. “Why aren’t youtelling the Leone boy your husband feels similarly murderous about you, sweetheart?"

“Call me a boy again, see how I like it,” I say with a shitty smile. Only my years of friendship with her husband keep me from pulling my gun out and shooting him.

I’m about to add something else when I see him.

Thiago da Silva, at the bar, a whiskey lifting towards his mouth as he scrutinizes the crowd around him shrewdly.

He’s known to avoid cameras so photos of him are rare. So rare in fact that I’ve never seen his face before this moment. I know it’s him only because of the infamous descriptions of him.

Tattoos cover every exposed inch of his body, save parts of his face, although even it is partially inked. A teardrop lives beneath his eye, a rose on the other side of his face, and massive gothic letters are stamped across his skull.

“Diablo”

His nickname.

I’m not likely to ever meet another man who fits the description, so this has got to be him.

Chiara relaxes into her husband’s chest with a contented smile. “Hello, darling,” she says, ignoring me completely.

Her husband does too.

“Let the record show that I wouldn’t have had to bomb the village because I would have killed the waiter before he ever left the restaurant,” he continues. “Make sure any men who try to talk to you when I’m not around know that.”

My companions’ conversation filters to the background as I keep my gaze focused on da Silva. He’s every inch the threat they described. It exudes off him, packing as hard a punch as ninety-proof alcohol.

He makes for an interesting enemy, and from what I’ve been told, an even more capable adversary.

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