Page 63 of Tide of Treason
“He’s dead now,” I whispered, staring out at the wet city skyline. “Conveniently on my birthday, thirteen years ago. The planning took weeks. The first two, I tried to get creative. Poison? Too unpredictable. His heart was too fucked to keep up with an overdose, and I didn’t feel like risking a half-finished job. So, I went with something easier. A kitchen knife. A dull one, at that.”
Lucius still hadn’t moved. Smart man. He knew better than to speak when a woman was telling a story about murder with a smile on her lips.
“He didn’t wake up until the blade was halfway through his throat. A gurgle, a spasm in his hand, and then nothing. I held a pillow over his mouth, just in case he felt chatty at the end, but it turns out a slit throat is mercifully quiet if you press hard enough.”
The pillow soaked up more than the noise. It soaked up sixteen years of prayers said into the backs of locked closet doors. Soaked up the fingernail scratches left on soft thighs. Soaked up the voice that used to scream help when no one ever came. By the time I peeled it off, there wasn’t much left of meeither.
They buried him with a full Mass. Candle smoke and wine breath and men who wore grief like a cheap suit. I wore black and tapped my fingernails against the pew, counting each hollow sermon.
Tap.Pretty girls don’t raise their voices.
Tap.Pretty girls don’t sharpen knives.
Tap.Pretty girls sure as hell don’t drag their nonno’s soul straight to Hell and hold the door open.
Eyes dark, Lucius extended his palm. The faucet dripped into the silence, eachplink plink plinkscoring the slow tempo of my pulse. I stared at it for a beat, then pressed my hand against his in a resounding smack. His fingers curled over mine before he dropped his hand and exhaled, rubbing his jaw pensively.
“You got any vodka?” he finally asked.
“Top shelf, darling.”
He reached for the bottle, and I took the moment to watch him: the steady hands, the steady, steady hands; the way he filled my best glass with an unsteady pour and a heavy hand. Lucius was rarely off his game, but he was off it tonight. The realisation made me feel oddly satisfied. My favorite kind of man—unfixable.
“Take it off,” I said.
Lucius arched a brow.
“Your shirt. It’s wet.”
“So are you.”
“But I’m not the one I want to look at.”
Pensively, he ran his tongue across his teeth. Knocked back half of his glass in a single swallow, Adam’s apple cutting a sharp line down the front of his throat. Only then did he tug the wet cotton over his head, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.
My own, not his.
Lucius Andrade was art.
He had what most men only dreamed of. Broad, muscular shoulders. A sculpted, veined chest. A waist my hands could almost span.
My fingers found a crucifix etched in blood-red ink over his heart, so sharply rendered it could have been fresh. Heartbreak and torment flickered across his eyes, an old agony breaking through for just a moment before he shuttered it closed. I dug my thumb into the hollow beneath his collarbone, daring the memory to surface, but Lucius only breathed in, chest expanding under my palm, gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder.
I was tipsy, never wasted, not in this life, but it was enough to sand down my edges, make me bold and stupid in a way that didn’t suit me. Pushing up onto my toes, I pressed my mouth to the line of his jaw. He let me get close enough to taste his exhaustion, then scooped me into his arms and carried me through the penthouse.
“I can walk,” I muttered, the words slurring as much from indignation as from tequila.
A glance, side-eyed and unreadable. “Sure you can, Sforza. Right after you learn to apologise for lying.” Hedeposited me on the bed with a care I didn’t deserve, peeling the damp fabric from my shoulders. “You got another set of clothes?”
I pointed, lazy, wrist going limp as I reclined deeper into the mattress. “Top shelf. Second row.”
I watched Lucius open the wardrobe with one broad hand, paw through silk and lace, eyes skimming the contents. He held up a slip the color of red wine. I nodded, too proud to say it was my favorite. He turned away while I changed. If anything, he could be so damnconsideratewhen I least expected it.
“Modest, aren’t we?”
“Not every man you let close wants to take something from you,” he said, soft but unyielding. “Get that through your fucking head.”
What had Papà been thinking, threatening to lock this man away?
