Page 97 of Wrathful King
“She colored her hair,” I remarked, unable to think of anything else to say. Yes, Dante had messaged they were eloping, but somehow it didn’t sink in. Or maybe I thought it was an empty threat. Phoenix wouldn’t have forgiven him that easily.
“She looks happy,” Amon noted, staring at the same photo.
I turned my head to meet his eyes. “She does,” I acknowledged. There was a spark in her eyes that I hadn’t seen in… well, in a long time. “Maybe everything will work out after all.”
“It will.” There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in Amon’s voice, and I believed him.
Because my husband would make it so.
* * *
We’d been in Venice for three days when we both agreed we couldn't avoid it anymore.
We had explored every corner, church, and street. We should have gone to Papà’s place first thing, but instead we opted to enjoy our honeymoon for just a bit longer.
Now, as Amon punched in the code on the sleek device that looked odd against the centuries-old door, I was on edge.
This place was home, yet it wasn’t. There was too much death surrounding it.
The sensation that danger was imminent had been with me ever since Amon read that note, and if the armed men lingering in the shadows everywhere we went were any indication, my husband felt the same way.
We entered the villa with a loud creak of the door. It was the middle of the day, but darkness bled out of the foyer.
“That’s odd,” I whispered, not even sure why I was keeping my voice low. The blackness swallowed us whole as the door shut behind us, and I reached in front of me, gripping the hem of Amon’s shirt.
Amon glanced over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“Every curtain is drawn. Maria hated closing them. She said it made the place feel like a crypt, and I think I agree.”
“Where is she?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. She has family around, so maybe she’s visiting them.” He turned the knob to the first enclosed room that led to a dark office. Papà’s office. “Should I open them?”
“It’s your house.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ours. Probably more yours than mine, considering you’re his biological son.”
“Cinnamon girl?”
“Yes?”
“It’s probably best we don’t talk about your papà being my papà to anyone.”
I choked out a laugh, tension seeping out of my shoulders. “You don’t think people would understand?” I teased.
“They’ll assume. And then the morality police will come after us,” he mused.
He kept alert, and at each new window, he reached above me and helped me open the curtains.
The kitchen was drenched in darkness as well, but something felt off about it. I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. We opened the large French door that had built-in shutters, letting the fresh air and sunlight in.
My eyes roamed over the kitchen. It almost looked like it had been used recently. A cutting board with a knife resting on it. A dish rag thrown carelessly on the counter.
Someone’s here, my mind warned. Yet, it was as quiet as a midweek church service. I let my gaze trail over the rest of the kitchen.
There were two empty pots on the burner. A teapot.
Papà didn’t drink tea. He could force it down, but he hated it. Maria, like a true Italian, only drank espresso or cappuccino.
