Page 58 of A Game of Ruck
But then a throat clears behind him.A deliberate interruption.
“I can answer that,” says a voice I’d know in my sleep.
Slick.Smooth.Cold as a razor.
“Luca Moretti—oh wait.He goes by Warden now.Don’t you, Luca?”
My blood runs ice cold.
I lift my gaze.
And there he is.
Anthony Moretti.
My father.
Tailored charcoal suit.
Wedding-inappropriate sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt.
One hand resting on the shoulder of a smug bastard with a Rolex and a vaguely mafia-adjacent vibe.
Peter Galetti.One of his top advisors.
A pit opens in my stomach.
Annabeth tenses beside me like a live wire.I squeeze her hand tighter.
Because right now, I’m standing in a war zone in formalwear.
“Well, son,” Anthony says, flashing that politician’s smile.“What a surprise.”
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I manage, keeping my voice tight.Controlled.
He shrugs.“I could say the same.”
His eyes slide to Annabeth, and something in them sharpens.
Not cruel.Just calculating.
“You look well, Luca,” he says.“Very cozy with your date.”
“This is Annabeth,” I snap.“My girlfriend.”
“Of course,” he says smoothly, extending his hand to her like we’re playing house.“Anthony Moretti.And this is a dear friend of mine, Peter Galetti.We’re here as guests of your father.”
Then, to Marco: “I had no idea your daughter was so lovely.”
“Um, thank you,” Annabeth says, her smile tight as piano wire.
Marco nods.“Yes, well, I must congratulate the bride.I’ll catch up with you in a moment, mija.”
And then he’s gone—swept up by a wedding planner or a guest or one of a dozen people all vying for his attention.
Which leaves me standing between the woman I want and the man I hate.
“What are you doing here?”I ask my father, the words like gravel in my throat.
