Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84763 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
The one with the cobalt eyes? He’s the man who does the telling.
Behind these two, my brother enters and my heart thuds when I see his face looking paler than usual, sweat lining his hairline. Two more soldiers follow him in, and before they close the door behind them, I see more in the corridor.
This man managed to get his soldiers past our guards. I’m not sure if that says more about him or us.
Michael glances over his shoulder at the closed door before facing the stranger who I know instantly is no stranger to him. When Michael’s eyes land on me, he appears confused, but he masks it quickly.
Someone flips the light switch, and the ceiling lamp comes on. The sudden brightness jolts me, making me jump.
“There you are,” the stranger says in that casual tone. We all know there’s nothing casual about him, though. His every word is calculated. Purposeful. He only wants to appear casual. “I don’t like being made to wait. Luckily your sister kept me entertained,” the stranger says, and I feel his eyes on the side of my face even as I refuse to look at him. To look away from my brother who is calculating now. Taking in the two of us here together.
One of the soldiers shoves my brother hard and he stumbles forward, almost falling.
I go to him, instinct. “Michael!”
Michael’s gaze jumps to me. He looks caught and I realize that’s exactly it. He’s done something and he’s been caught. That’s why this man is here. Because my brother fucked up.
“What the fuck are you doing in here, Allegra?” he snaps, taking me roughly by the arm.
“Ow!” I try to tug free, but he doesn’t let go. I’m very aware the stranger is watching and when I glance his way, I see how his eyes are locked on my brother’s hand, which is clamped vice-like around my arm. I see how his eyes narrow, that electric blue darkening dangerously.
“Let go,” I say to Michael, trying not to struggle because something tells me this man seeing this is worse than the bruises Michael will leave. Those I can survive.
My brother ignores me, though. I’m not sure he realizes how tightly he’s gripping my arm. He addresses the stranger instead. “Trevino.”
Trevino? It’s familiar.
I look at the stranger as I work through all the names I’ve heard to place his.
Trevino. Samuel Trevino has had meetings with my father. He’s been in this house. They’re a mafia family but our territories are separated by a wide stretch of land. We never cross paths. At least we didn’t while Dad was alive.
But this isn’t Samuel Trevino. Samuel is an old man. I recall my father talking about how he wouldn’t be around much longer. How whether or not the next generation would keep to the truce or if something would need to be done, an example made, to set things straight before the old man died. He never got the chance though because he died.
I look to the stranger again. This one, he’s not going anywhere. And I remember his name. I remember my father’s expression when he mentioned it.
This stranger is Cassian Trevino, heir to the Trevino family. Did his father die then? Has he assumed the throne? It hardly matters. He’s not here paying a social call. He said himself he has business with Michael.
Michael did something and whatever it is, it’s bad.
“What are you doing here? I don’t recall putting your name on the guest list.” Michael says. He’s trying to appear casual too, but his voice is an octave higher than usual.
“Oh, I’ve never let a lack of invitation stand in my way, Mikey,” Cassian says. The way he says Mikey is a clear taunt. A belittling.
Michael juts his chin upward, but he knows as well as I do that we’re outnumbered. We have soldiers in the house, but if this man got in here with his own, he’s already taken care of that. They’re of no use to us. What Michael said earlier about being at the top of the food chain? The Moretti family hasn’t been at the top since my father’s death.
Cassian Trevino crosses the room and casually picks up the still open bottle of whiskey to pour himself another. “Whiskey?” he asks Michael. “No, never mind. You look like you’ve had enough.”
“You weren’t invited, you can’t barge in here,” my brother says sounding like a petulant little boy. I can imagine his heart is pounding. I know he’s terrified, which means Cassian Trevino is well aware and relishing the moment.
At twenty-eight, my brother is eight years older than me. After our father’s death, he took his place as head of our family. As the only son, he was always expected to take over, but he’s not a natural fit. Michael enjoys the fruits of other people’s labor. The glory. Not the work. His hands may be bloody, but he’ll only fight when the odds are in his favor or once soldiers have done the heavy lifting.