Page 73 of Cage the Storm
As I round the corner, the garden comes into view, and I’m in my glory. Geometric hedges, colorful gravel paths, and every rose pruned to perfection. I’m adjusting my jacket when the crunch of gravel alerts me to the fact that I’m not alone.
Caterina glides into the courtyard. Her gaze—Nico’s onyx eyes aged with bitterness, drops to my stomach before rising.
“Five months. Six?” Her voice is as smooth as velvet. I knew this moment would come eventually. And I’m not feeling very sociable today. I don’t hide my bump. I let her count the weeks since Nico and I were married.
“Do the math yourself.” Her smile is accusatory.
“Such vulgarity. I’d hoped motherhood might soften you.” She steps closer, Chanel No. 5 clashing with the gardenias. “Then again, Bianca told me what happened at the gala, so I’m not surprised.”
I should have known that the two of them still kept in touch. Women like that run in packs.
“Bianca should concern herself more with her own delusions,” I say coolly, tracing a thorn on a nearby rose. “Does she still keep Nico’s engagement ring in her nightstand? Pathetic, even for her.”
Caterina’s smile tightens, and it brings me great joy knowing I hit a nerve. Bianca’s obsession with Nico is legendary. Apparently, she went so far as to have his initials monogrammedon her handbags. I guess she’ll need to buy some new ones now. Another excuse to spend her daddy’s money.
“Jealousy is such an ugly color on her,” I add, snapping the thorn clean off the stem. “Then again, it must sting, watching him married to another woman after she spent years polishing his mother’s silver to earn a spot at his side.”
The older woman’s breath hitches, her veneer slipping further. Good.Let her remember I didn’t grovel for acceptance. I fucking took it.
“A biting tongue and ruthless ambitions,” Caterina sneers, recovering swiftly. “Bianca may not wear his ring, but she’s one ofus. You?” Her gaze flicks to my stomach. “You’re a complication and should have been sent back to your father after Giovanni died.”
Caterina’s words hit like a slap, but I refuse to play into her empty threats. It’s on the tip of my tongue to come clean about the hit I placed on her son’s head, but I bite my tongue. Nico would be furious with me. So, it’s best if she’s left in the dark, where she belongs.
Instead, I step into her space, close enough to count the lines on her face. “A complication?” I laugh. “Let me remind you, Nico didn’t marry Bianca. He didn’t kneel for her, didn’t put his child in her.” My palm rests on the swell of my stomach, our child. “This isn’t a complication. It’s a new life, and I’m the mother of the next Boss. I’m the one who shares Nico’s bed, his secrets, and his empire. You think this family gets a vote? No, and his soldiers will kneel to the woman who holds their future in her womb.”
Her nostrils flare, but I’m not done with this bitch.
“Run back to Bianca. Tell her to keep her daggers sharp. I’ll return them buried in her heart.”
Caterina’s lips part, but no sound escapes. Good. Let her choke on the truth. I turn on my heel, gravel crunching beneathmy feet. I stride toward the house without glancing back. I’m angry since her bitterness tainted my morning walk through the gardens.
I don’t stop until I’ve slammed the library door behind me. I sink into the wingback chair by the window, fingers trembling as I unclench them. My palm bears crescent moons from my fingernails, and blood stains my palms. The baby stirs, as if sensing the trouble I’ve unleashed.
I trace the spine of Machiavelli’sThe Prince,Nico’s favorite. He’d read passages to me in bed, his voice a rumble against my skin.“Everyone sees what you appear to be; few experience what you really are.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
NICOLAI
I quietly openthe library door and lean against the doorframe. Watching her. She’s curled up in the wingback chair, reading.
“My mother,” I say, and she startles, slamming the book shut. Her eyes flash, but I keep my voice low. “She cornered you in the gardens.”
Luna doesn’t deny it. She never would. “And?”
I cross the room, and she stiffens as I stop just short of touching her. The cut on her hand is shallow but angry. She’s been playing with the rose bushes again. I take her hand and brush the wound with my thumb. “You let her get under your skin.”
She pulls her hand free. Ah, my defiantdiavolina.Little devil.“Should I have thrown her into the fountain instead?”
I breathe out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head. “Would’ve paid to see that.” Sitting on the arm of her chair, I tilt her chin up. Her pulse thrums under my touch. “But next time, let me deal with her. You’ve got enough to carry.” My palm grazes her stomach, and the baby kicks my hand.
She arches a brow. “Worried I’ll go into premature labor?”
“Worried you’d enjoy it too much.” I trace the curve of her lip. Mine. Always mine. “You’re ruthless when the hormones hit,amore mio.”
She snorts, but her shoulders relax. “Ruthless? I was polite. If I were ruthless, your mother would be fertilizing the roses.”
I grunt. Luna’s version of polite is less forgiving. “What’d she say?”
