Page 89 of Savage Prince

With one last glance in the mirror, I run my hand through my hair and turn for the door. It’s time to head to the airport.

When I step into the guest bedroom, Antonio is already dressed, in what I imagine are Valerio’s clothes. They’re a little tight on him, clinging to the broad expanse of his chest and highlighting his muscled abs.Dio, he’s beautiful in a tortured, savage way.

He watches me as I approach, shadows etching his features. His smoky eyes lock onto mine, then hold in an endless, tension-fraught gaze. A thousand unspoken words linger between us, yet neither of us dares to break the silence.

Antonio finally clears his throat, blinking so I’m free of that hypnotic stare. “We should go.” He reaches for a jacket slung across the bed.

My head dips, and I grab my purse from the chair. I feel the weight of Antonio’s gun still inside, so I slip my hand in to return it to him. “I guess I should give this back now.”

He shakes his head, lips pressed in a hard line. “No, keep it. I owe you for the one Otto lost in Manhattan.”

I eye the big, clunky gun in my palm and scowl. “Dolce was my favorite, you know. She was the perfect size for my hand.”

“I owe you a Glock then, but for now, she’s yours.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” I turn the Beretta around in my palm, comforted by the familiar feel of a weapon in my hand. “I’ll callhimToni.”

A chuckle parts his lips, but the mirth doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Whatever it takes for you to remember me.”

I don’t dare speak the traitorous words. That I’ll never forget him. And it’s not just because he gave me the best orgasms of my life. No, the real reason is much scarier. So I keep the truth tucked away behind my teeth and force a smile.

The sound of approaching footfalls along the marble echoes through the corridor a moment before Valerio pokes his head in. “Pronti?”

Antonio nods. “Yes, we’re ready. Thank you again for everything.”

“Don’t mention it. Or rather, you can wait for the return favor to be called in.” That wicked grin has the hair on the back of my neck rising. “My driver is already waiting downstairs in the garage.”

“Then let’s not keep him,” I blurt.

With a quick goodbye to Antonio’s intimidating friend, we find his driver in the garage, in the spot we’d parked the Alfa in last night. It’s gone. What a waste of a perfectly good car. It’s probably up in flames or swimming at the bottom of a lake by now.

The driver gets out of the car, tips his hat at us and opens the back doors of the oversized Mercedes sedan. “We will be arriving in Linate in a quarter of an hour.”

“Grazie.” Antonio dips his head at the man, then ushers me into the backseat.

I glide across the smooth black leather and lean up against the opposite door. A rush of cold air blows from the air vent, sending a chill up my spine. I must shudder because the next thing I know, Antonio is peeling off his jacket and draping it over my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I murmur as the engine turns over, and we speed out of the underground garage.

The early morning light is blinding, even beneath the tinted windows, so I scoot closer to the center of the seat to avoid the harsh sunlight blasting in through the glass. My leg brushes against Antonio’s and our eyes meet. Tension thickens the air, all those unspoken words dangling on the tip of my tongue. A flurry of memories rushes back, igniting a storm of emotionsthat threatens to shatter the calm facade I’m barely holding onto. In the silent standoff, it's the words we don't say that speak the loudest, echoing the last painful week and a completely uncertain future.

When the silence grows oppressive, I blurt the first thing that comes to mind. “Were you able to identify the arsonists from the security camera footage?” I’d completely forgotten to ask last night.

Antonio rakes his hands across his face and huffs out a breath. “Yes, but it was nothing useful, unfortunately. As expected, they’re mercenaries. Anyone could have hired them for the job.”

“So, we’re back to square one.”

He grunts in response.

“Well, it wasn’t the Kings.Papàswore to me when we spoke the other day from the boathouse, and I trust him.”

“Of course you do.”

“For your sake, you better hope my trust is well-placed.” The damned words spill out before I can stop them.

He cocks his head at me, dark eyes scrutinizing. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” I mutter. I have a feeling Antonio wouldn’t be pleased if I admitted to forcing my father into sparing his life. It wouldn’t sit well with his pride.

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