Page 300 of Hate Mates

I could see the doubt fade from Carlos’s eyes. He didn’t like it, but respected it, at least for now. But I knew that wouldn’t last. He was a shark, always circling, always looking for an opening.

“Good,” my father said, his voice low and cold, the final word on the matter. “Let’s keep it that way.”

I nodded, but my mind wasn’t there. It wasn’t with Carlos, the shipment, or the politics of this family business. No, my thoughts were elsewhere, pulled by a force I couldn’t ignore.

Her face. Her eyes. The heat between us.

Every word she’d whispered to me, every moment where we’d almost crossed that line. I could still feel the burn of her touch, and it was fucking with my focus, with everything I had ever built. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what was at stake. And I knew the risk.

But something about her… something about her made me forget all the rules. Forget the cold calculations.

“Dominic?” My father’s voice cut through the fog in my mind. I blinked, snapping back to the room. His eyes were on me, sharp as knives. “Are you listening?”

Rico glared at me across the table.

I forced my thoughts back, locking them down tight. “Yes, father.”

Carlos gave a little chuckle. He was watching. Always watching. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t give a damn. I had to tread carefully. Isabella Deluca was the one thing I knew could destroy me if I didn’t keep it under control.

FOUR

Isabella

“Ciao, Bella,” my father greeted me. It would almost pass for warmth to anyone listening, but there was always something darker, something calculated in his tone that let me know he meant business. His eyes flicked over me—sharp, unwavering, reading every detail, every flicker in my expression, every subtle shift of my body. Nothing escaped him.

The den was quiet, the air thick with the familiar scent of expensive cigars and the faint crackle of the fireplace in the corner. The room felt colder than it should; the shadows growing longer as the flames danced. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, hands clasped in front of him, the perfect picture of control. It was a space where power and intimidation blended effortlessly. I don’t remember when Carlos Deluca was anything other than this cold, calculated man. I wonder if losing my mother did this to him or whether he was always like this.

“Father.”

“Sit,” he commanded, his voice smooth, though his tone held that edge that reminded me exactly who was in charge.

I stepped forward, my shoes silent on the plush carpet, and lowered myself into the chair across from him. My back was straight, my hands folded in my lap. I knew the drill. Being called into his office meant business, nothing more, nothing less.

He didn’t waste time. “Saviano is up to something,” he said, his voice low, almost contemplative. But there was an edge to it. “He’s tired of sharing. Tired of playing nice. He wants it all. And that boy of his…” My father slammed the desk.

I swallowed but kept my face impassive. My father was always playing the long game and always waiting for the right moment to strike. But I could tell by his tone. That this time? He was done waiting. If my father made a move, it would mean disaster for Saviano.

“But why would he double-cross you?” I asked, keeping my voice steady, though I couldn’t keep the hint of doubt from creeping in.

My father’s gaze never left me as he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping once, twice, against the wood. “I have been in this business long enough to see the signs.”

“Does Rico know?” I asked. A part of me hated I was even asking. But I had to know why my brother was not in this meeting.

“No,” my father replied with a hard smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rico doesn’t know. He’s a liability.”

Rico is the next Don,and now my father was telling me that he wanted to cut him out entirely.Rico, a liability?

And then it hit me. My father believes Rico has been compromised. That his friendship with Dominic Saviano will impede his control over this city. He’s ready to cut him off.

I knew my brother, and he was loyal to a fault. Father turning on him? That didn’t sit right with me. There was something—something in my father’s cold, calculated decision—that didn’t feel... natural.

“Rico’s not a liability,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to him. “He’s... loyal. He’s been working for this family his whole life.”

I immediately regretted the words, but my father didn’t flinch. He had heard worse from me.

“He’s weak. Weak because of thatfriendshipwith Saviano. His loyalty clouds his judgment. It’s a liability we can’t afford.”

“I would hardly call him weak,Padre.”

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