Page 145 of He Should Be Mine
My hands are trembling, so I shove them in my trouser pockets.
One thing at a time. I have to live to see another sunrise first. Then I can see about being the first openly gay heir in mafia history.
My phone buzzes against my fingers. I pull it out.
A picture of my new will, naming Molly as the beneficiary of everything. And a groveling apology from my lawyer that it took ten minutes instead of the five I requested.
I grin. He is a good man. I knew I chose well. Once I’m heir, he will have a rise in status. A promotion. More work. More pay. I’m pretty sure he can handle it.
I turn the corner, and the residence comes into view. Time for one last deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
The Don’s London residence is certainly an imposing townhouse. All white stone, black shutters, and glossy double doors that gleam like lacquered piano keys. There’s no doorman here. No cameras visible. But I know they’re watching. The ivy always seems to whisper.
They’ve been watching since I turned the corner.
I slow my stride just enough to show I’m not afraid. I don’t want to give anyone behind the shutters reason to twitch.
When I reach the front door, I pause. My knuckles hover an inch from the brass knocker, that stylized lion swallowing a dagger. My hand doesn’t shake, but it’s a near thing.
Then I knock. Three times. Slow. Deliberate. The kind that saysI know exactly what I’m doing. I’m not here to beg.
The door swings open almost immediately. Letting me know they were waiting.
The butler stands there, stone-faced and silent. Old-school. Heavyset. Dressed in black like he’s going to a funeral.
He gives me a curt nod and steps aside. There are no guards today, and I have no idea what that means.
I enter without speaking.
The air is cool, scented faintly of cedarwood and something older. Gun oil, maybe. The kind of smell that clings to old power. The marble floor gleams beneath my feet, reflecting the amber light from stylish stand lamps. I walk the hall like a man condemned.
The hallway is dim. The air smells of leather and old power. My shoes are too loud against the unyielding floor, but I don’t slow my stride. There’s no point pretending I don’t know where I’m going.
I don’t need to be led. I know the way. The study is at the back of the house. The Don’s study.
I pass a painting of Riccardo hanging above the wood paneling. Smiling, suited, young. A perfect lie. I force my eyes forward. I don’t flinch. I can’t afford to.
The door to the study is ajar. I push open the heavy oak door and step inside.
The Don is already seated. Alone. His back is straight, hands resting on the carved arms of the chair like a king on his throne. There’s a decanter of red wine on the table beside him, but his glass is empty.
He doesn’t offer me one.
“Dario,” he says. Not cold. Not warm. Just a name, floating like smoke.
“Don Ajello,” I say, and shut the door behind me.
His eyes flicker to the door. Then back to me.
“You came alone.”
“I always intended to.”
He nods. Slowly. “Sit.”
I do.
