Page 9 of Obsession & Oath

“I know.”

“Dante,” he gives me a pointed look.

A pointed look that I immediately take offense to. “I’m not a fucking animal.”

“I seem to recall that time at theInfernowhen you were distracted by not one but two blondes–”

“All right, stop,” I hiss in frustration. “Look, I promise you I won’t. Even if I wanted to…which, to be absolutely clear, I don’t…my mother wouldn’t allow it.”

Leon gives me a sympathetic look. “She’s not Catholic, is she?”

“Worse,” I swallow. “She wants me married.”

To my surprise, Leon barks out a laugh that is long and low and seemingly desperately needed. By the time he’s recovered, he’s wiping a tear from his eye. “There are worse things, my friend.”

“Easy for you to say. Mia almost shot Alex earlier. Hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

His jovial demeanor immediately evaporates into thin air. “Okay, and you’re out.”

I mentally chastise myself for forgetting the number one rule in this line of work as I make my hasty retreat.

* * *

I’ve almost finished packing by the time I gather my courage enough to call.

It would be a stretch to call this hotel room “home”, but I’ve become quite fond of it these last few weeks. It’s strange to see the space bare of my possessions—all of which fit into one neat suitcase now lying on the bed.

There’s no point taking my weapons with me. For one, it’ll be a headache getting through airport security, and I already had to call in three separate favors to secure a private plane. For another, there’s a literal armory in theCastello de Grasso.

I just need to let them know that I’ll be arriving soon to utilize it.

With a sigh, I hit the call button. My leg bounces as I perch on the end of my bed.

It’s been five years. She has every right to have disowned me by now. That is if she’d wanted to.

If I wasn’t her only son, I daresay she would have done it already.

“Amore mio?”

And suddenly, I’m nineteen again, and she’s begging me to stay.

“Hi, mom.”

I hear her gasp, and it takes everything I have not to break apart at the sound. I can picture it perfectly; she’s probably clutching at her chest. Fingers twitch as she struggles to find a purchase. Eyes dart around the room in excitement, looking for someone to share it with her.

“Dante?”

“Yeah.”

“My son, Dante Grasso.”

I already hate where this is going. “That’s me.”

“Impossible,” she tuts with such Italian exasperation it would warm my soul if it wasn’t at my expense. “My son is dead. This is the only reason he has not called me incinque anni.”

I wince at that. “Technically, it’s only been four years and nine months.”

I have to pull the phone away from my ear to save myself from the sheer volume of her curses.

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