Page 55 of Dangerous King
Enrico waits at the bottom of the stairs. Dark suit matches his dark expression. He doesn't smile when he sees me, but he does offer his arm, and without hesitation, I take it. I try to leech off his strength as every breath seems to become harder to take. We walk together toward the drawing room, where the meeting will happen, wherehewill be.
The door opens, and the first face I see is Roberto's. I nearly stop breathing. He sits there, utterly at ease, as if he didn't spend the last fourteen years treating me like an object, something to command, to cage, and never even tried to understand.Enrico's grip tightens on my hand. Just enough. Just to remind me: I'm not alone this time. The next face I don't recognize, but it catches me off guard. This has to be Don Edoardo.
He's younger than I expected. Mid-twenties, maybe. Handsome in a polished, aristocratic way, wearing a light gray suit. He appears impeccably groomed, but there is a weakness about him that is hard to miss.
Rizio stands to the side. His posture looks deferential, like a soldier waiting for orders. He doesn't meet my gaze, but I catch the flicker of a smile for me on his face.
The air is tense and too quiet, as if we interrupted a heated discussion when we entered.
"Signorina Costa," Edoardo says, rising smoothly. His voice is pleasant. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with us."
"I didn't realize it was optional," I reply before I can stop myself. Looks like Izzy is rubbing off on me. I like it. Before, the Giordanos turned me into this shadow version of myself—sorry, Shadow. Now, I feel like I'm becoming myself. A beat of stunned silence follows. Enrico gives the faintest grunt of approval.
Edoardo composes himself with a smile. "I like your sense of humor."
I force myself to return it, but it feels fragile, like porcelain. "I'm not sure that's what I'd call it."
Ignoring my words this time, he gestures to a seat. "Please. Sit."
I settle into the chair Enrico pulls out for me. He stays standing behind me, close enough to let me know he's there, ready to interfere. Roberto sits across the table, watching me through narrowed eyes that try to hide… surprise? His gaze moves up and down, as if he can't believe what he's seeing.
Edoardo returns to his chair and folds his hands on the table. "I understand you were five when the Giordanos took you in?"
"Yes."
"And you lived in the house with them until a few days ago?"
"Yes."
His questions are smooth and non-threatening, carefully crafted to disarm me, to put me at ease. But there's something predatory behind the charm; he's not like Enrico. Enrico doesn't sneak. He doesn't soften his edge. He comes at you with full force, no warning, no mercy. If he's coming for you, you won't walk away. This man? He's slower. Sharper in a different way. He slithers beneath the surface, waits for the moment you're exposed, then sinks his fangs in. One strikes from the front. The other from the sidelines.
"What was your role there?" he asks.
I glance at Roberto—briefly, unwillingly—and look back at Edoardo. "A hostage to make my father do whatever they wanted."
Edoardo leans back. "Can you tell me what happened the night of the fire?"
My throat tightens. This is it. "They were going to kill Izzy. They were arguing?—"
"They?" Edoardo interrupts sharply.
"Giovanni and Roberto," I explain.
"Okay, good. What were they arguing about?"
I hate going back to that space, standing there by the door, listening, afraid of my own shadow. "They—" I interrupt myself, "Giovanni and Roberto were arguing about who brought Izzy there, and?—"
Edoardo raises his hand. "They didn't know how she got there?"
"No," I say, careful to keep my voice steady. "Giovanni thought Roberto brought her. Roberto thought it was Giovanni."
Edoardo's brows pull together, just slightly. "Interesting."
That one word carries too much weight. A ripple of unease moves through the room, even if no one else flinches. Behind me, Enrico is still. Too still. The kind of stillness I've come to recognize as dangerous. I feel it in the shift of his energy, the way his presence sharpens like a blade just before it strikes. He hasn't spoken, but I know he's already filed that detail away like a weapon he intends to use.
Because if Giovanni and Roberto didn't bring Izzy to that basement… then who did?
I glance briefly at Edoardo, but his expression is unreadable. Impossibly calm, like this is all just theory to him. Like he hasn't already started threading it into a larger scheme that I can't see. My heart starts to pound harder, not from fear this time, but from the realization that I've just said something important. Somethingunintended. And it changed something in the air between these men.
