Page 6 of The Don's Proposal

Rocco has a sister, I’m sure of it. However, Eliza Parada is not this woman. Maybe they share a similar shape of nose, and the same dark hair, but there are too many differences to make such a mistake.

Does he have another sister? One tucked away, hidden from my knowledge?

I can’t hear another word of this.

Camellia gasps when I leave her hands long enough to yank her from my desk. Without wasting my breath on another word, I toss her over my shoulder like a sack and move toward the door of my office.

“You can’t do this!” She pummels my back, but the thumps do nothing as my steps echo in the bare hallway. “I didn’t even see anything!”

Her words could be nothing but the truth for all I know. However, unfortunately for her, I don’t give a fuck.

I’m agitated, aroused, and annoyed. A troublesome combo.

My right-hand man, and younger brother, Urzo, glances over casually as if seeing a beautiful woman draped over my shoulder is just another part of his daily routine. He’s pressed against the wall, frowning at his hatred of how much life these gatherings bring.

I won’t give him a hard time for letting this woman slip underneath his nose. Not now. Another time, when the back of my head isn’t getting elbowed.

“Lights out. I want everyone gone within ten minutes.” Growling the order, I don’t miss his sigh of relief as he lifts away from the wall. “I expect some form of communication from Rocco Parada–” His name alone leaves a sour taste in my mouth, evoking my disgust. “–once he realizes his spy won’t be returning anytime soon. Tell him he can collect his own in person.”

Urzo grunts, nodding.

Her punches have stopped, her breath held. My hold on her thighs tightens as the pulse in my temple grows, and my headache throbs.

My muscles are tight, and my jaw is clenched, creating an overwhelming sense of tension throughout my body. I feel like a taut cord, stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any moment with no warning. This sensation of tightness is not just physical; it seeps into my mind, leaving me on edge, as if the slightest provocation could trigger a release of pent-up energy buried beneath the surface.

Usually, I find myself channeling my frustrations towards those who have upset me. Even something as seemingly trivial as the sight of blood can serve as a release, helping to ease the tension that feels so tightly wound within me.

That won’t do, not this time. I’ll need another method.

“When he comes, shoot his kneecaps. I don’t do trades with slippery bastards. I’ll do the final blow.” Letting out a much-needed sigh, I turn. “Until then, I don’t want any interruptions. Understand?”

Urzo nods, his hand instinctively drifting to the holster of his pistol, a gesture that feels all too natural in the tense atmosphere.

With that, I move with no intention of letting anyone get in my way.

3

Camellia

“When he comes, shoot his kneecaps. I don’t do trades with slippery bastards. I’ll do the final blow.”

Santino’s words run on repeat with every long-strided step.

I feel sick, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the promised violence, or that I’m still on his shoulder. He’s carried me up the grand stairs, not caring about the glances our way. By the time he’s going back down the same set, the room is empty.

He’s moving like he doesn’t have a destination in mind. That, or he can’t make up where he wants to take me. I assumed the Bertelli estate would have some sort of dungeon below the home. I’ve heard stories of the interrogations that take place here through the door of Rocco’s office.

Santino has yet to take me to his basement.

I’m already imagining where I will be left. I’ll be handcuffed to a rustic chair, stepping in puddles of blood from those who sat before me.

Santino stops without warning, and I wish I could see his face when he makes this noise of frustration. Hardly coming off as a patient man, I’m surprised this has gone on as long as it has.

He could have asked the man with the scar to take his gun and put a bullet between my eyes. But no, he’s chosen to inflict a sore shoulder on himself. The way his arm shifts, along with the fleeting brush of his thumb against the goosebumps that erupt on the tender skin of my thighs, tells me he must be very uncomfortable now.

He turns abruptly, and I have to cling to the belt loops of his slacks to stop myself from flailing. I’m getting motion-sick. This seems to be the beginning of the torment. He intends to make me weak before revealing what real suffering feels like.

While I’m clinging on for dear life, I discover the handle of what I’m sure is a gun. So close, I could easily grab it and use it against him. Shoot him in the leg or something.

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