Page 26 of Dangerous King
"I don't want there to be any misunderstandings," I say, my voice colder now. "Giovanni is in my hands. But his son, Roberto…" Her mouth twitches. A barely-there tell.What did that fucker do to her?I stiffen. "...has already called Don Edoardo, crying for retribution."
She pales. Her throat bobs as she swallows. "But then… then my family. Me?"
I lean forward slightly, let the weight of my presence press against her like heat from a fire she's too close to. Not touching. But close enough to feel the danger.
"You're not safe," I say plainly. "Not yet. Not until this is over. And not until I decide what happens next."
Her fingers grip the edge of the chair so tightly that her knuckles turn white. She's scared, like she should be. But she doesn't cry. She doesn't beg. She holds herself together like a soldier bracing for the next strike. I should offer her reassurance. Tell her no one will touch her or her family now that they're under my watch. But I don't. Not yet.
She needs to understand the cost of stepping into this world. The weight of the protection I've just promised her. Because once you're under my shield, there's no walking away.
There's another part of me, too. One that finds something dangerously alluring in the way she shakes, but refuses to break.
Her pupils dilate, and her face pales. She's terrified, and still—still—she meets my gaze. I lean forward without thinking, gripping her perfectly folded hands in her lap. The moment I touch her, electricity arcs up my arm and punches low in my gut, straight through to my cock. Her head rises, bringing us eye to eye, and for a second, the air between us shifts. Close. Too close. Close enough to see the tiny freckles across her nose. The gentle part of her lips. I can practically feel her breath against my mouth, warm and sweet.
I want to kiss her. No, I want to devour her. I want her to be mine in ways I've never wanted anyone before. The vision terrifies me more than anything else in this fucking mess.
Her eyes, wide and uncertain, pull me back.
"You and your family are under my protection, no matter what," I say. "I will take care of you. I promise. Neither Roberto nor anyone else will lay a hand on them again. Ever."
She trembles beneath my touch. Not in fear—something else. Maybe it's the shock of hearing someone say the words she's waited so many years to hear. Maybe it's hope, or maybe she felt the electric pulse too.
The warmth of her skin lingers in my hands even after I pull away. I should stay cold and distant. But I already know I won't be able to, not with her.
"Grazie mille," she says softly, her voice catching at the edges.
"Figurati," I reply—don't mention it—and suddenly, I'm reminded how rarely I use my mother tongue for pleasantries. Italian is for orders, threats, and control. But with her, it sounds… softer.
The longer I sit across from her, the harder it becomes to keep this professional. I've always seen people as categories: assets, liabilities, threats. But she's none of those. She's something else. I just don't know what yet.
I let go of her hands and lean back, forcing distance again, forcing my voice to cool. I still need to interrogate her like the mafia prince I am, not like the man who is attracted to her in so many forbidden ways. "Were there any unusual visitors at the house in the days before Izzy was taken?"
She starts to shake her head, instinctive denial, but I see the flicker in her eyes as a memory rises. "There weren't visitors," she says slowly, "but… There was a fight."
Intrigued, I lean forward. "Go on."
"Three or four days before everything happened. I was walking to my room when I heard shouting between Donna Margarita and Giovanni."
A mother and son fight isn't unusual. Not in our world. But Margarita? That woman doesn't lose control. She controls everyone else. "About what?"
"I couldn't hear everything, but… she was furious. She said,You're going to ruin everything.Giovanni kept insisting he had it under control. Then he said,You're overstepping. This is my house.And she snapped,I made you, don't forget that."
Interesting. That didn't sound like a worried mother—not that I ever considered Donna Margarita to fit that category—that sounded more like a handler keeping her puppet on script.
"When it ended, he stormed out like a sulking child." Cat shudders. "She came out after, and she was… so eerily calm, almost triumphant. The look on her face… it wasn't maternal, it looked like she was going to kill him."
"Have you heard them fight before?"
She shakes her head. "Not like that. This was so much more… intense."
I probe further. "There are rumors Margarita's the one actually running the Giordano family."
She doesn't hesitate. "I know she is."
Well, well. Look at the little asset that just fell into my lap.
"What else do you know?" I ask.
