Page 74 of Tide of Treason
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Somewhere along the line my libido had grown uppity, signing an exclusive contract with Lucius Andrade and refusing all other bidders. Wall Street dandies with powdered nostrils? Pass. Slick Roman heirs? Bored already. Even the bartender with the sleeve tattoos who’d offered to eat me out under the counter last week got a polite yawn.
The timer on my phone buzzed.
Heart in my throat, I snatched the stick, angling it under the vanity lights as if glare alone could scrub away truth. The twin pink lines blazed their verdict, bold as graffiti and just as damning.
I choked out a sob. Clenched my teeth against the sound. Although, beneath the panic, slinking in like a shadow, was an echo of the girl who once slipped a blade across her own grandfather’s throat and savored the sight of his blood staining the linen. She stirred, purring with a sadistic thrill, because let’s face it—I liked Lucius more than was safe.
Pregnancy.
Headlines.
Scandal.
The holy trinity of Sforza humiliation rattled in my skull, yet none of it stung as sharply as realising how completely I’d let him colonise my veins. Nausea churned in my stomach, whether from pregnancy or the fact that my carefully constructed independence had just been blown apart was anyone’s guess. I pressed cold palms against closed eyelids, dragging in breaths through gritted teeth. I’d wanted a tether to himsobadly, and the universe, being the twisted bitch she was, had answered by creating a hostage inside my own womb.
Heat pulsed dark and possessive in my chest. Visions of branding my name into his flesh, locking him away and spoon feeding him. Rationality shriveled under the heat of that thought. Maybe kneecapping him so he couldn’t run. With indifference, I slid on my stilettos and contemplated the logistics of that.
Breaking kneecaps, I mean. Not motherhood. That, unfortunately, was already a done deal, no logistics required, unless I counted the eventual hospital bill and the mental gymnastics it’d take to explain to my family why, exactly, my uterus had decided to annex my sister’s husband. No, the kneecaps were the real issue here. A baseball bat was the obvious choice, until I pictured his long legs battered and broken out in some dim room, and my stomach did a stupid little drop.
Fine. Maybe kneecaps were overkill. I could settle for something less permanent.
His fingers, maybe. A couple of them. After all, he’d left his mark inside me. It was only fair I returned the favor.
But then . . .
Ridiculous. It seemed I’d rather carve out my own eyes than harm him again. Human decency had a flavor. Bitter and catastrophically fucking inconvenient.
A knock jolted me from the dark confines of my imagination.
“Kay?” Viviana’s voice bled through the door. Muffled. “Are you coming back out soon? Everyone’s looking for you.”
Cold dread unfurled in my chest. If Papà caught wind of this, Il Cigno would burn to ash by dawn with me inside as a sacrificial offering. The urge to laugh rose. I flattened it with a brittle breath and forced my voice to sound functional.
“Yeah. Just fixing my makeup.”
The pregnancy test burned cold against my palm. I wrapped it in plastic and jammed it into the tampon box. ThenI washed my hands until the soap stung.
“Kayla,” she barked again, louder this time. “If you don’t come out soon, people might start to wonder if you’re doing cocaine in there.” She paused. “Again. You’re not, right? Because those Gucci heels don’t make you immune to my wrath.”
Again? Jesus. One bump in a coat closet at a wedding and suddenly I was running product through Nassau County. You fuck up once, and nobody forgets. Never mind that I’d only done it to even out my temper after overhearing Papà’s latest musings about which one of his daughters would be most “useful” if he ever needed to secure another alliance. That was beside the point. Because now I had a real problem.
I yanked open the bathroom door.
Viviana’s sharp gaze flicked over me, but I gave her my slowest, iciest blink. Mind your business,sorellina. She knew the look; she looped her arm through mine, and the silent pact was sealed.
Telepatíaoozed through the speakers, a lazy beat that should’ve been illegal in the presence of certain men. The bass rolled over the room, through my bones. A glass of champagne materialised in my hand, courtesy of Sal Jr., who’d taken up a career of tending bar after failing to live up to his father’s name. Papà refused to acknowledge his existence, and I couldn’t blame the guy for that.
I stared at the bubbling gold and paused.
Could I even drink this shit?
Probably not, I decided, as I dumped the rest of the glassdown the bar.
Behind me, Viviana snorted. “Subtle.”
