Before the crack of dawn, I’m in the kitchen, deflated to see Leo’s mug emptied and sitting in the sink. It’s four-thirty in the morning, and I somehow managed to miss him.
Last night, I pushed too hard. Pried my way into his own private pandora’s box—a part of his life he wasn't ready to put on display. I want to make it right. Prove to Leo I won’t push my way into his life … by pushing my way into his life at four-thirty in the morning.
Solid plan.
“Hello.” The voice is deep and low and catches me off guard. When I turn, his face is unmistakable. He looks so much like Antonio, I nearly choke up. The only thing missing is the streak of silver across his hair.
“You must be Dante,” I say and extend my hand. My decision to wear a plain blouse and flowy skirt pay off. I can meet with each and every one of them confidently. I try being graceful as I meet a man who might be my brother. “I’m Ivy.”
“Ivy. Right.” He rubs his chin. “Trinity’s miracle worker.”
The reference stuns me. Is that what they’re calling me? “I really didn’t do anything at all. Just tried to be there for her. Though I did help her rescue a baby swan.”
Dante offers me my choice of pastry first. I grab my usual bagel. He opts for a blueberry bran muffin, popping it in the microwave. I slide him the butter, which he readily accepts.
He smiles that dazzling smile, and asks, “Did Trinity really name the swan Fluffer?”
My eyes widen in shock. “Oh, my God. No. Fluff. Not fluffer. Fluff is an adorable swan that still follows Trini around the lake like she’s on a leash.”
“And a fluffer is an occupation in the porn industry,” he says with a beam. I get why his nickname is the Devil.
I smack him playfully on the shoulder, and instantly regret it. Dante’s not my friend. He’s a D’Angelo. Who has no idea I might be his sister, and is probably unaccustomed to being smacked around by the hired help.
He arches a brow. I shrink and apologize profusely. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
He tops off my coffee before pouring one for himself, and laughs. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, you didn’t hit my bad arm.”
“Your bad arm?”
“Yup. Trini socked me so hard this morning, it’s definitely leaving a mark.”
I smile into my mug. “If Trini socked you in the arm, you must have done something to deserve it.”
“I might have made fun of her for her latest romance novel. Seriously, who reads that stuff? And why can’t the men afford any shirts? Aren’t they supposed to be billionaires?” He laughs a wicked laugh, and I have to compare it to Smoke’s. Their laughs are joyous, but different. Which one of them laughs like our father?
Dante slathers butter over half of the steamy muffin, biting in as it melts. He stares as he chews. So much so, I’m uncomfortable.
“You’re staring,” I point out.
“Sorry.” He glances away, then slowly circles back to stare at me again. “Do I know you?” he asks.
I study him back. He’s a little too Henry Cavill for me not to remember. I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I moved here from North Carolina a few weeks back.”
“Oh,” he says as he takes another bite.
I know time with the brothers—my brothers—will be fleeting, so I make the most of it. “What was it like? Growing up here?”
He thinks over my question as a warm, reflective smile reaches his eyes. “Loud. Competitive. The type of home where everybody knows everyone’s shit, and the only reasonable privacy was taking your time in the bathroom.”
“It sounds like heaven.”
“Spoken like an only child.”
“Guilty,” I reply, slipping my hair behind an ear as my southern accent tries to make its way out. Dante finishes off his coffee and stares. “What?”
Whatever he was thinking, he shakes from his mind. “Just something about you is familiar.” He studies my features for way too long. “I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere.”
I shrug. Maybe our paths have crossed. “I go into Chicago twice a week. Where do you work?”
“Here and there.” His evasiveness isn't exactly helpful. Two buzzes light up his phone. He stands. “Enzo’s on the rampage.”
Worried, I ask, “What does he want?”
“Other than to make all our lives a living hell, who knows? Could be anything from fancy mineral water flown in fresh from the Alps to a string of sushi girls and hookers.” He faces me, flashing what I’ve come to know as the D’Angelo smile. “It was very nice to meet you. And never change that.”
“Change what?”
He points to the silver strands I’ve been subconsciously twirling around my finger. “Your Mallen streak. Our father had one, too.”
He leaves the room, and the nerves I swallow land heavy in my gut. I can’t keep hiding who I am, and not telling them who I might be is feeling more and more like a lie.
There’s one person—the only person—who would believe I’m not some random gold digger after the D’Angelo fortune. I was only trying to find my father.
Trinity would believe that.
Trinity has come so far, so fast. Dressing in gowns. Chatting up a storm. Kickboxing her brothers. The fragile girl I was afraid to disturb isn’t frail like she was. There’s nothing stopping me from unloading this secret on the one person I’m closest to.
I round the corner, ready to climb the stairs when a small sound stops me. What is that?
The muffled whimpers grow louder as I check under the stairs. Is someone crying?
The winding staircase is grand, and I tiptoe around to check the alcove beneath it. Trinity has her knees against her chest, clinging to them as she weeps.
I kneel beside her, resting a gentle hand on hers. “Trini?”
She doesn't look up, but her hand latches on to mine. “Something’s wrong with me,” she says, staggering her words through a sea of tears.
My arms wrap tight around her. “I’m here. You’re safe.” I kiss her head and chase away every demon determined to steal her back to hell. Cold sweat drips from her neck, and the long scar along her wrist reminds me why I hadn’t told her yet. I steel my voice. “There is nothing wrong with you,” I insist. My words are strong and determined even as I fight back my own flood of tears.
Maybe I’ll never know my father, but as far as the world is concerned, Antonio is gone. I’ll be damned if I’m losing Trinity, too. Trinity is my sister. Case closed. God put me on this path for a reason. It wasn’t to right the wrongs of my life. It was to right the wrongs of hers.
Her sobs settle into short pulses of breath. “I can't remember everything…”
I don't speak or ask any questions. Compassionately, attentively, I listen.
“But I remember little things. Smells. Cologne—or aftershave—a horrible…musk.” Her breath fragments into hard, choppy pants as if she’s about to throw up. Anger drives her words. “Why the hell can’t I get over it?”
“You’re safe,” I assure her. “I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”
Her trembles subside, and we sit for a long stretch, waiting out the storm. Timid words break through her torment. “Have you ever held on to something, where the harder you squeeze, the faster it slips away? Like a cloud. One minute, it feels so close. But the next minute, it’s suffocating me, and I can’t see how to get out.” Her eyes slam shut. “I can’t see. I can’t breathe.”
“Shhh. You can breathe, Trinity.” I suck in a deep breath, encouraging her to do the same. She does. “Now, let it out.” We both blow it out.
We breathe as she wades through the darkness of her thoughts. My hand clasps hers like a tether. A lifeline.
A shadow moves along the floor. Leo. How long has he been silently keeping watch?
Trinity sits up, wiping her sad face as she gains her composure. “My brothers can’t see me like this.”
I reassure her. “They won’t. Leo can help. His security team will check the halls and get you back to your room without them seeing.” She understands and nods.
From where Leo stands, he must have heard me. Still, he waits until I wave him over, careful in his approach. Leo lifts her like cradling a wounded bird, carrying her through the halls and settling her in her room.
He sets her on the bed and moves past me. Then, with phantom steps, he’s gone.
Is this the real Leo? Caring and loving one minute, detached and isolated the next.
It’s mid-morning when Trinity falls asleep. I hope she can rest. In a few hours, I’ll check in on her and bring her some lunch.
I slip out the door and into the hall. Leo is there. His strong arms wrap around me as he lays a kiss on my head. “How is she?”
“Resting. I’ll check on her in a little while.” He turns to face away. He’s worried. “You could visit her later,” I offer, hoping it will lift his spirits.
He shakes his head with regret. “I can’t.”
“Why?” He’s been waiting outside her door for nearly two hours. He must want to see her.
“Because I’m here to protect her. When I see her like this—” He cuts himself off. With a long exhale, all his emotions are erased. “My feelings do me no good, Ivy. And I can’t see her right now without feeling them. I can’t keep her close and keep her safe at the same time.”
What does he mean? “Aren’t those one and the same?”
“No.” His tone sharpens. “You don’t get it. Either I’m a man who feels, or I’m a man who fights, but I can’t be both. The D’Angelos need my protection. You’re here to hold her hand. I’m here to hunt down anyone with a clue about what happened to her and drive shards of bamboo under their fingernails until they crack. And I can’t do that unless I’m numb.”
His hard expression melts to regret. He drags a hand down his face, and stares at his hand.
“Leo?”
Nothing.
He moves to leave. I block his path. He stares past me, rage building behind his eyes. “I need to leave. Now.”
“Not until you talk to me.” I wrap a hand around his.
He knocks it away so hard, I fall against a small table. A tall crystal vase topples with an ear-splitting crash as it shatters. “Don’t move,” Leo demands, his tone dark and hard.
I do as he says, keeping my body perfectly still as my head drops. A million tiny chips of light have splintered at my bare feet. There’s blood. Hardly any, really, but enough to make a mess. “I can clean this up.”
“Get Morris and Greer,” he barks down the hall. “And get Smoke.”
“Smoke? Why?” Jesus, does he have to make this a federal case? “It’s fine. I saw a broom downstairs.” Leo ignores me. In seconds, he hoists me high to his chest and cradles me tight.
Morris and Greer rush past us and tend to the mess. Leo charges in the direction of my room.
“Leo, stop.”
His steps hasten.
“Your men aren’t janitors. I can clean it.”
More angry steps. I try to wriggle from his hold. It does no good. King Kong has a stronghold on me, whether I like it or not. My tone softens. “We’re clear of the glass, Leo. I can walk.”
Annoyed, he keeps going. “It isn’t glass. It’s vintage Baccarat.”
“Bah-cah-rah,” I repeat the pricey sounding word. “Sounds French. Is it expensive?”
“It’s 33-percent fucking lead, that’s what it is.” He kicks in my door and enters my room. A new wave of anger crashes down harder than before. “Is this what you want, Ivy? A man who’s cursed?” I’m set down on the side of the bed. “You need to move on.”
Leo isn’t pushing me aside for his job. He’s shutting me out. Again. It’s clear as bah-cah-rah that whatever we have between us isn’t going anywhere. Or it should be.
I should back off and give him his space. But I am so over this. Outraged, I poke him in the chest. “Stop being a martyr.”
His eyes bulge. That sets him off. “Stop acting as if we’re more than a few one-night fucks, because we’re not.”
We stare for a long, breathless beat. A rap sounds at the door, and I bite back the tears. Smoke enters carrying a first aid kit and glances at the shattered door frame. He quickly scans me on the bed. Did he hear us? Does he know I’m half a second from disintegrating? The crease in his brow tells me just how unsettled he is. He smoothes it out, and addresses Leo. “You called for a doctor?”
“I broke Aunt Angelica’s vase,” he lies. Another martyr move that pisses me off.
“The door looks like your handiwork, too,” Smoke says, patronizing him.
Leo yanks Smoke into the hall. I strain to listen. “There are crystal daggers lodged up and down Ivy’s legs.” Leo’s voice is tense. It’s only then that I notice the red specks up and down my legs. I usually wear jeans, but I wanted something nicer. Something to impress the brothers—possibly my brothers. The one day a month I choose to wear a skirt …
With a few tissues from the nightstand, I blot them up.
“Do we need poison control?” Leo hushes.
Smoke tells him what I already knew. “She doesn’t have lead poisoning, Leo.”
“How do you know?”
“Because unless you crushed up the entire vase and fed it to her, lead poisoning is out.”
Leo peers around the door to look at my legs. I dart him a go-fuck-yourself glare. And since his voice carries, the panic in his voice carries with it. “She’s lost some blood.”
I dab a few more spots—the dumbass has no idea I’d need to lose about a hundred times more to rival the first day of my period. “I’m fine, Leo,” I shout.
Smoke enters and observes me, underwhelmed. “She looks fine.”
I rub the tissue against a spot that’s starting to pool. “Shit,” I hiss, wincing. That one stings. Blotting it harder just makes it worse. I snag a few more tissues and hold them in place.
Leo looks at me, then my legs, and then at Smoke. When I think his simmer is about to cool, his head explodes. “She’s injured. You’re a doctor. Fix her!” he shouts before storming off.
“Fix her,” Smoke repeats under his breath before striding over to me. “I love how that fucker thinks I work for him.” He inhales, exhales, and pastes on a smile. “Hey, Ivy. How about I fix you?” He kneels before me and assesses my injuries—as microscopic as they are.
Mortified, I wave him back. “You don’t have to—”
He sorts through his first aid kit, too busy to look up. “Yes, I do. Otherwise, I’ve got apeshit Leo to deal with the rest of the day.” He zeroes in on the tissue I’ve glued to my shin. “Move that for a second.” Carefully, I do. The bleeding is slight, but steady. He grabs tweezers from the kit. “Hold still.”
My nerves get the better of me, and I ask a question I feel foolish asking. “Are you really a doctor?”
His smile lifts wryly. “I am.”
He is? Why isn’t he practicing? Did something happen? He steadies the tweezers, clamping on an invisible particle only he can see. It doesn’t hurt at all until he dabs it with an alcohol wipe. “Ow.” I hiss in pain. In an odd big-brotherly sort of way, he blows. The cool air soothes the cut instantly. “Better?” he asks.
I nod and smile, suddenly shy. What would it have been like having a brother? Someone like Smoke to share birthdays and holidays with. Talk about nothing for hours and glean nuggets of wisdom from his brotherly advice. Someone to lean on when life bears all its weight on you, and the bridge you’ve become threatens to snap.
I shake away the fantasy as my senses kick in. I have to tell him the truth. “I’m really sorry about the vase. Leo didn’t break it. I did.” He says nothing and sticks a small bandage to the cut. He gathers the first aid kit together, tosses a few items along with my tissue into the trash, and stands.
He studies me with tempered amusement. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“Leo says he broke the vase. Then, you do.” He leans in. “Who should I believe?”
What do I say? His chief of security is a logical choice. Trustworthy, too. Smoke’s Catch-22 doesn’t escape me. It pins all the blame on Leo, and that’s not exactly fair. Or true. At least, not entirely true.
And if I say me, well, I’m stuck paying for a demolished vase that would eat up my paychecks for months. Maybe longer. And what happens to Aunt Grace?
I have to do the right thing. My wallet cringes. I look up, hoping he’ll take pity on me for my good deed. “I wouldn’t let him through.” I leave out the part about me pushing him—again—because I’m determined to crack open my nutty guy with a sledgehammer.
“Maybe I could work out a payment plan?” I add. A really long payment plan with zero interest and lots of leniency for late payments. Not exactly what the mob is known for, but a girl can dream.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “How about we make a deal?”
“Deal?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry. How very mafioso. I sport a clipped smile. He’s giving me an offer I can’t refuse. Literally.
“Come to Erede al Trono. Trini said you wanted to back out. If you come, we’ll call it even.” He isn’t waiting for my reply—it’s not a choice.
I nod meekly. I haven’t told him the truth. Never mind that the gown I arrive in might be a flowy result of six rolls of toilet paper held together by dental floss and super glue. At least Aunt Grace’s meds are intact.
“Deal?” he asks, his hand extended.
I clasp his, grateful we’re not doing a blood oath. “Deal.”
His chin points to the door. “I haven’t seen Leo this unhinged in a long time. You seem to stir up a lot in him, Ivy.”
I fiddle with my fingers. “My aunt always says, ‘Kick up enough dust, you get a tornado.’”
He cracks a grin. “I like that. We Italians have a saying too. Niente che valga la pena di avere è facile.” I tilt my head inquisitively. “Translation: nothing worth having comes easy.” His hand lands soft on my shoulder. “He cares about you, Ivy. He just has a piss poor way of showing it.” He taps my nose. I can’t help but smile.
He walks away, and I’m left with a heart full of hope and the first brotherly advice of my life.