Page 41 of Dangerous King
Edoardo moves faster than I expect. He comes around the desk, grabs Roberto by the collar, and slams him into the wood paneling. "I will investigate this," Edoardo hisses. "And you better pray I don't catch you in another lie."
Roberto struggles in his grip, but he doesn't fight back. I fold my arms and watch with satisfaction.
He turns to me, "This will need a thorough investigation. I want to speak to that girl."
I don't like it, but I don't have a choice, so I nod tightly. "At my house, under my supervision."
"That's not how this goes, and you know it." Edoardo retorts.
"You can speak to her alone, but in my house." I concede grudgingly.
Edoardo still glares at me, but he and I both know that's the only peaceful deal he'll get unless he sends an army to storm my mansion.
Roberto stares at me, full of hate. For a moment, I think he's going to lunge at me again, but he decides against it. Too bad. I was ready, too. "If that's it, I'm going to get… cleaned up now," I smirk at Edoardo, who waves his hand magnanimously.The moment I open the door, I stare into Donna Margarita's incensed face.
"You!" She snarls, claws out, and goes for my face. My shoulder screams, but I grab both of her wrists in a vise-like grip.
"Call your mother-in-law off," I say, turning my head to Edoardo.
"Why is he still alive?" Donna Margarita demands. "Let go of me." She shakes her hands.
She is a very beautiful woman, even in black to show her mourning for her presumed dead son, Giovanni. She's the kind of woman who makes priests sweat and killers bow their heads. Regal, manipulative, and dangerous as a snake in a diamond collar. She walks into a room like she owns it, and if she doesn't, she makes damn sure she does by the time she leaves.
Everything about her is precision—her posture, her voice, the tilt of her chin when she's lying to your face and daring you to call her on it. She wears her grief like a badge of honor and her sins like silk.
She's old-school Cosa Nostra in designer heels. Raised with the old rules, but clever enough to bend the new ones to her will. And behind all that poise and elegance? Thirty years of secrets. Ones that she's willing to kill for.
She's not just Roberto's grandmother; I can't fight the feeling that she's the architect of this mess—the poison in the water. She's got her hand in everything, and I believe that includes the match that lit this fire.
But it's not the power that unsettles me. It's the conviction in her eyes, the belief that she's right, no matter who has to die for herversion of the truth. You don't negotiate with a woman like that. You survive her.
"Roberto," she sniffs, and I let go of her. She rushes to her grandson and embraces him. Before I make my exit, I catch a glimpse of Edoardo, who looks at his mother-in-law like a deer caught in the headlights.
By the time the house finally settles, it's dark outside.
Silvano and Dante doubled the guard detail, and Manollo assured me—again—that Enrico is fine, just tied up in meetings for the rest of the day. I can't say why I am so worried about him, but whenever he is near, I feel safe. And when he's not around, I feel… unsettled.
Maybe because my entire life has been turned upside down. For the better, most certainly, but anxiety still haunts me now and then. I jump at shadows while servants unload the SUV. Turns out the other guard who was with Manollo isn't dead. He drove the SUV home, while Manollo took Enrico's tank to keep Izzy and me safe, and Enrico took Izzy's Lambo. With all this happening, I had forgotten about our earlier purchases. That's not the case for Izzy, who has them brought up to our closets,where she stands like a drill sergeant, directing the servants on which bag to take where.
It's a whole new experience watching herwork. Where Camilla would have yelled and screamed, Izzy smiles at the servants, correcting them with a simple nod or a sweet word. She doesn't even lose her composure when a maid accidentally drops a box containing a pair of her new shoes.
Whenever I have a quiet moment, I can still hear the banging of gunshots, the boom of an explosion. I see blood and dead bodies, but thankfully, Izzy is not giving me much pause. First, we unload my bags, then she helps me organize and put everything away, which makes me feel like a princess in a fairy tale. Seeing all these new clothes, knowing they're mine, is simply overwhelming.
Once we're done with my closet, we get to work on Izzy's. But before we can put anything away, things go flying out into the hallway that separates her closet from her bed and bathroom.
"Nope, don't need that anymore." The velvety brown dress she just tossed out still has a price tag on it. "So last season," she mumbles.
"I found another box," one of the maids holds out a shoebox that must have gotten lost in the SUV.
"Oh, Sandy. Thank you." Izzy takes it, then looks at the maid. "I think this dress would look great on you." She snatches up the one she just tossed and hands it to the beaming maid.
It doesn't take long before word spreads among the maids and kitchen helpers—as this seems to be a common occurrence—and they all find reason to be in Izzy's bedroom. Izzy tosses designer clothes at them with no other thought than to make room forher new clothes. Camilla would have rather cut all her dresses up than watch one of the Giordano's maids wearherclothes.
"Thank heavens they started filling the truck before the shooting," Izzy exclaims, half-laughing when she finally made enough room for the new stuff.
I don't respond. Part of me wants to argue with her—say it feels wrong to be glad about anything after what happened—but the truth is, it's a comfort. Having my own clothes and belongings grounds me, even if that makes me selfish. I guess I'm learning from Izzy and taking things in stride.
Dinner is served at six in the formal dining room. Izzy counseled me on what to wear and tried to prepare me for her family. But I'm still uneasy, all the more so when what sounds like a heated conversation stops the moment Izzy and I enter. All eyes fly to me, and I feel my face flush. My eyes move over the assembled group sitting around the table. Enrico is not among them. The only other person I know, Dante, winks at me, relieving some of my tension. A woman, the only one at the table, dressed smartly in a skirt and blouse, rises from the head of the table. She looks beautiful with her black hair and dark eyes.
