Page 33 of Tide of Treason
I shot him what some might’ve called an appreciative smile, but my jaw was tight, teeth grinding, and I was two seconds away from slitting his throat for the crime of touching what didn’t belong to him.
“Appreciate it. You’ve got a nice . . . turtleneck.”
“Ah, yes.” He ran a hand down the collar. “Very European.”
Very try-hard.
Patience thinning, I took a swig of my drink. “Not very practical in this climate, though, is it?
“Oh,” he laughed, pulling Kayla closer. “I can hardly feel the heat.”
Yeah, well, I could. It burned under my skin, crawled up my throat.
“Where are you from, Dante?” Viviana said, a hint of panic in her voice. She’d put a hand on my arm to stop me from crushing the glass in my hand. I barely registered the “Sicily,” and then she proceeded to drag Dante Turtleneck off with all the resistance of a man who thought he’d been invited to an orgy. Poor bastard. If only he knew my wife wanted his autograph more than his cock.
“Lucius.”
At the sound of my name, uttered like a warning, I raised a brow at Kayla, the ice kissing my fingers as I knocked back the rest of the vodka-cran she’d so graciously sent my way.
“Your doing, I assume.”
Her expression was as impervious as a marble slab. “If this is the extent of your ability to read a room, I’ll take your share of the shipment for the first quarter and call it a business loss.”
Alright. There was my cue. Nobody likes an audience when they’re losing, least of all me.
I pivoted, making for the exit. One last look: Tadeo at the craps table, flirting with a bleached blonde. One of the waitresses offered Rafael a free drink, leaning over so far her cleavage nearly touched the dice. As she straightened up, her gaze flicked to me, cold as winter in the favelas. Clearly, I’d been blacklisted.
I pushed open the back doors. Outside, a hot wind ghosted over my neck. Rolling my shoulders beneath the oppressive night, my hands jammed into my pockets as I followed the glow of the unopened carousel, its gilded horses frozen mid-gallop. A monument to people who believed nostalgia meant hope, not a slow spin to nowhere. A breath left me, raking a palm down my face. Sentimentality had no place in my world, nor the slow, creeping awareness of the woman behind me.
I didn’t look back, because I did, I’d forget why I was leaving.
Instead, I ducked into the ticket booth. Leaned against the mahogany counter, rolling my jaw as I listened to the muffled thump of bass from the casino behind me, the distant clang of a slot machine spitting out someone’s luck. I took the dispenser out of its holster and tugged off one of the gold tickets. It was the color of half-dried piss, thin and fragile, fluttering between my fingers. I was going to let it drop, leave her empty-handed, but at the last second, I flicked it through the partition.
Kayla took it with a flat look, her jaw tight. Then she dragged it down the valley of her breasts and slipped it beneath the neckline of her dress. The motion cut a line of heat throughmy gut. My throat scratched raw. I swallowed around it, shoved off the counter with a lazy roll of my shoulders, and stepped out into the heat, the flick of the flame a brief burst against the night.
With smoke in my lungs, I took her arm and tugged her after me, down the line of carriages. Stopping at a golden chariot, I pulled back the tarp. “After you.”
“I’m not getting on that thing.”
“Sure you are.” I blew a mouthful of smoke through my teeth, gave her a look that said I had all fucking night. “Go on.”
She eyed me like I was an infection she was building antibodies for. “I’d rather die.”
I chuckled. “That makes two of us. But here’s the thing. I’m in a shitty mood, and you just won the honor of being the one who gets to put a smile on my face tonight.” Her feet stayed planted, so I narrowed my gaze. “What was that you said before? If I needed to read the room better? The room is telling me you better get your pretty ass on the carousel before I carry you on myself.”
Chin up, she kicked off stilettos, daggers turned to kittens, and pressed them into my palm. Without the heels she looked bite-sized but nowhere near breakable. I dropped the cigarette, crushed it beneath my shoe and offered my hand. That’s what family did, right?
She eyed it, suspicion knitting her flawless features, and promptly tucked her fingers behind her back, climbing into the carriage on her own.
Fine,principessa.Play it your way.
Following, I dropped her heels on the bench, and, because she wanted to be a stubborn little shit, let them tumble onto the floor. A flash of annoyance, and she crouched down to pick them up, ass in the air. My gaze went molten. When she straightened, glaring, I eased back against the curved wall of the chariot. Watched her tuck the heels neatly beside her.
Cute.
But not convincing.
“Tell me about him.”
