Page 70 of Tide of Treason
“Indeed.” Flavia’s smile was hollow gold. “Curious how it appears only when least convenient.” Her gaze slid back to me, then lower, like she was contemplating whether or not my dick was as impressive as my title.
I wasn’t biting. Flavia’s attention cost a man his pulse, and the second she clocked Kayla stiffen beside me, it had become less about me and more about whatever grudge she held against her eldest daughter.
Women.
Fucking nightmares, the lot of them.
“She’s always been this way,” Flavia mused lazily. “Ever since she was small. So terribly defensive.”
“Mamma.” Warning, razor-thin.
“What? I’m simply pointing out that you never did learn how to share.”
Share. The word ricocheted inside my skull, no velvet walls to muffle the clang. Kayla translated the echo into a glare that drilled through me.
“You look hot, Lucius. Maybe cool off?”
I had a no-thanks loading on my tongue, but the thought never made it past my teeth. Kayla’s palms hit my chest—soft skin, surprising force—and my center of gravity simply ceased to exist. Cold marble kissed my spine; icy fountain water swallowed therest of me.
20 | Lucius
23 years old
Present day
I yanked openthe closet, searching for something dry. My ribs barked a complaint, courtesy of Vito’s idea of a sendoff. He’d called it “balance,” like watching me haul my ass out of the fountain wasn’t entertainment enough. Supposedly, I’d “deserved it” for letting Kayla have the upper hand. As if anyone had a fucking choice when it came to her. She acted like she didn’t care, like she was above petty shit, but every once in a while, her temper would get the better of her.
Cold water snaked down my back, a glacier’s caress against skin still lit up with bruises, soaking into my slacks. Every drop that hit the marble was a metronome counting out my humiliation—drip, drip, drip—each one louder than the last. I didn’t know how many people had witnessed thespectacle, but the trailing laughter that followed me down Il Cigno’s endless halls told me all I needed to know.
Enough.
Too goddamn many.
A breach of the marriage contract, my mind supplied, dry as the crisp button-down I was forcing my damp arms into. Because, if we were going by the fine print, by the unspoken agreement that had kept my marriage with Viviana running smoothly in its artificial, cold, lesbian-beard glory, then technically, wasn’t this the beginning of the end? Wasn’t being manhandled by my wife’s older sister some kind of flashing neon sign that this was all falling apart faster than I could stitch it back together?
And if I was going to consider that, I might as well acknowledge the fact that being balls deep inside Kayla without a condom was a far bigger breach than getting shoved into some overpriced water feature. You didn’t need a lawyer to tell you which infraction would cost you more.
My stomach churned, that slow, corrosive burn you get right before the ground disappears beneath you. Birth control. The word pulsed through my head, bitter as bad gin. Was she on it? Did she take it religiously? Or had I just signed my own execution order, arrogant enough to think the universe would cut me a break?
Something warm tracked its way down my temple, and I wiped it away, almost curious. Red bloomed across my fingertips.
Huh.
Another drop followed.
I lifted my gaze to the gilded mirror above Flavia’s console table.
A neat gash split the hairline above my right brow, bleeding sluggishly down my temple. I tried to remember if I’d hit my head when I’d fallen into the fountain. I’d cracked a rib, for certain, but I’d fallen on my side. Then, my mind supplied that I’d felt a brief sting once I’d hit the water, and I’d been too concerned with dragging my ass out to consider it further.
“Mamma,” Viviana whispered. “Cosa è successo?”
“Niente, tesora.” Flavia’s manicured hand cupped her daughter’s face, but her predatory eyes pinned me. “It’s just a cut.”
If only. What had me holding my breath was the fact that the last time I’d looked in a mirror on manic day seven, I’d been fine, if not in need of a shave, a shower, and a week’s worth of sleep. Fifteen minutes with Kayla and I looked like I’d crawled out of a Brasília death match the loser.
Viv grabbed my arm. Dark eyes raked over my face, mouth opening to no doubt berate me for whatever disaster had rendered me dripping puddles on the carpet. But before she could speak, a cold, incisive voice slid in from behind her.
“I suggest he lie down before he falls.”
