Page 30 of Steal Me

Je suis désolé. I'm sorry.

His vision began to dim at the edges, the persistent hiss of gas barely audible over the pounding of blood in his ears.

Three more steps. Just three more, and he could reach her.

But his legs were no longer his to command, his knee folding...before hitting the concrete with bruising force.

No, no, no.

Through the haze, Sylvain saw a figure emerge from the shadows.

Giancarlo Marchetti.

The PrinceofThieves. And the princeamongthieves. A man whom people from both sides of the law respected. And under normal circumstances, Sylvain would not have thought it bad to see him.

But not now.

Not when Marchetti had once been Viktor Biancardi's best friend...until Liana's half-brother tried to murder him.

This...this was not right.

Had Calixte betrayed him? Or had Marchetti betrayed Calixte? Could Marchetti have intercepted either or both of them without him and the Prince of Killers knowing? It was unlikely...but possible. The Marchettis were not only New England's most powerful famiglia. They had connections built on decades of blood sacrifices. Connections that no amount of money could buy or betray.

Sylvain fought off unconsciousness as Marchetti knelt gracefully beside his wife's unconscious form. The man was dressed like he had simply stepped out of a ball to take care of business, his perfectly tailored suit without a crease, and the faint gleam of silver at his temples lending him a distinguished air.

One hand brushed Liana's hair from her face with impersonal care, but it still triggered something primal and violent in Sylvain's chest.

No. No. NO.

The Marchettis were supposed to be honorable, not vengeful. They had even supposedly sworn off violence, having found redemption in God. Truthfully, Sylvain had no bloody idea what that meant. And he had never cared to find out.

Until now.

Until he realized...it was possible that he had misjudged the Marchettis, the way he had misjudged the girl he once loved, an entire lifetime ago.

Sylvain tried to speak, to demand, to threaten. But his tongue felt like lead in his mouth, and he could not remember feeling this terrified, thisimpotent,as he watched the other man lift Liana in his arms as if she weighed nothing.

Ma faute. Mea culpa. All of this...my fault.

Marchetti started to walk away, and the pain that tore through his chest had nothing to do with the gas burning down his lungs and destroying his consciousness.

I'm sorry, Liana. I'm so bloody sorry.

Marchetti suddenly turned to face him, his gaze meeting Sylvain's across the warehouse floor. There was no cruelty there, no triumph. Only a quiet, professional assessment. The look of a man completing a task with the utmost efficiency—exactly the way Sylvain himself would have looked, once upon a time.

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