“Nothing gets said or done without my say so.” I stop in front of the barrier separating me from assholes I despise, the intercom a foot outside my closed window, and shoot a glance to Layla through the rearview. “No comments. No actions. Nothing. You hear me?”
She smiles, batting her lashes in an innocent taunt.
“Don’t test me, Layla.”
“Don’t worry,” Bishop snarls. “If she fucks this up, they won’t be the only ones preparing to kill her.”
Her smile remains in place. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Enough,” I grate. “We’re on the same side.”
“You sure about that?” Goodin mumbles in the back. “You guys aren’t giving off a fuzzy sense of comradery.”
“We’ll be fine,” I force the misguided optimism into existence. “We’re only here for a fucking conversation.”
Layla rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “We’ll see.”
“Yeah, we’ll fucking see,” Bishop mutters.
“Enough,” I repeat. “None of us are stupid enough to fuck this up, right? So show some goddamn restraint.” I lower my window and reach for the intercom to press the call button.
The inside of the car falls silent. There’s nothing but the rumble from the engine and the rustle of wind as we wait.
I’m sure our presence is already known. Either Emmanuel, my siblings, or a battalion-sized security team are hiding in the wings watching. Waiting.
“Hello?” A fragile female voice breaks the quiet, the fake innocence nudging my agitation.
Adena—the woman who birthed me.
I clench my teeth against my disdain. “I need to see Emmanuel.”
“I’m sorry but he’s currently in Italy. If you’d like to leave your name and number I can arrange for him to get in contact on his return.”
They don’t know it’s me. They weren’t expecting a visit. Why?
“Maybe Remy didn’t say anything,” Bishop whispers. “You might have been wrong about him.”
Bullshit. That fucker was beyond hostile. He would’ve told someone.
“I know he’s inside.” I speak to the intercom. “He’s going to want to see me.”
There’s a pause, the briefest blip in time where I picture her squinting at the live feed from the security camera pointing my way.
“Who is this?” she asks.
My anger rises at having to use the only name she’s familiar with. “It’s Dante. Now open the damn gate.”
The silence returns, creating a cavernous void where Layla’s loathing grows. I can feel her judgment from the back seat even though those five fucking letters were put behind me when I disowned this godforsaken family.
“Dante?” Adena’s voice fractures. “Is that really you?”
I glare at the security camera, reliving the last conversation we had and hating her more for it as the seconds pass. How she denied what Emmanuel had done to Grace. How she took his side over that of her innocent teenage son.
The gates rattle, the intimidating metal bouncing a moment before they begin to part.
I don’t answer her question. Don’t acknowledge her offensive excitement. I wait until the gate opening is wide enough, then drive into the heart of hell, pebbles crunching under my tires, disgust settling in my gut.
The gardens are different. The shrubs and flowers once littered in the front yard no longer exist. It’s now all perfectly manicured grass. Nothing but unobstructed view to ensure intruders are seen.
“Fucking big house,” Bishop murmurs. “More than enough room to confine our dumb asses for the rest of our lives.”
I ignore him and stalk my gaze along the two-story mansion as we approach, checking for signs of life behind the sheer curtains, both upstairs and below.
The balcony is empty. No potted plants to block the view. No siblings to welcome me home from the wrought-iron railing.
The only sign of life comes from the two guards Whitby spoke of, both of them wearing dark uniforms as they stand at the front steps of the mansion, each of them with a hand at the ready near their holstered sidepiece.
“De Marco, it’s time for you guys to shine.” I pull to a stop a few yards from the front of the house and cut the engine. “Everyone else, stay in the car. Let me get a read on things first.” I unfasten my belt and climb out, slamming the door behind me before Bishop can protest.
The cargo area opens as I walk to the hood, Whitby, Goodin, and De Marco all piling out to take different positions around the vehicle.
Emmanuel’s guards don’t show surprise. They don’t talk or scowl or move. They’re prepared. On alert. Adena might not have anticipated my arrival, but someone did.
I stalk toward them, jaw stiff, lips snarled, and poised to demand a meeting with Emmanuel when Salvatore opens the front door.
“Brother,” he sneers in greeting. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Believe me, I wish I wasn’t.”
“Then leave.” He approaches, passing his two guards to eye the Lincoln. “Is that her? You brought her here?” His hard eyes cut to mine. “Are you fucking insane?”
“Are you?” I counter. “Stealing a kid? Killing a major player in the Portland underworld? Who the fuck have you become?”
“Someone loyal to my family. Which is more than I can say for you.”
I smile, all teeth and anger. “I want to see him. So either wheel him out here if he’s in as bad shape as Remy claims, or we’re going in.”
“You don’t want to do that.”
“I agree. But I’m still going to.” It’s been a lifetime since we were face-to-face. Now, there’s a mere few feet of space between me and my closest sibling, who stands at the top of the three stairs leading to damnation. But the prankster kid I grew up with is nowhere in sight. The man who stares back at me is cold and calculating. “I won’t let Remy twist the situation and make her more of a target.”
“He hasn’t twisted anything.” Salvatore keeps his tone level, exuding a calm I can’t reciprocate. “Nobody knows. Neither me or Remy want to continue this war with her psychotic family. So the last thing we’re going to do is tell Dad you’ve hooked up with the enemy.”
“That’s not the impression he gave earlier today.” I slide my hands into my pants pockets, hiding the way my fingers twitch for a gun I no longer own. “Remy made it clear he wanted her dead.”
He scoffs a laugh and descends the stairs, the guards following a few steps behind him. He doesn’t stop until he’s squared up with me, shoulders broad and proud, chin arrogantly high.
As a teen, I towered over him, my growth spurt coming well before his, but now we’re equally matched in physical appearance as well as disdain.
“He’s always been more of a slave to his emotions than either of us,” he drawls. “So it’s only natural he reacted to yet another layer of your betrayal when he was the one who took the longest to understand why the fuck you would abandon us in the first place.”
I bristle.
I hadn’t wanted to leave them behind. I’d been a kid when I made those plans with Grace. I’d been young and dumb and stupid. I’d thought things would change once I was gone. That Emmanuel would wake up to himself instead of doubling down on criminal decisions.