Chapter 29
SEBASTIAN
Iclenched my hand into a fist as I resisted the urge to lock her in.
It would be easy to justify it.
I lived in a massive palazzo filled with endless corridors and dark corners.
It would be for her own safety if I didn't allow her to wander. I hadn't yet introduced her to the armed guards.
She risked antagonizing one of them if she stumbled into the wrong area.
I pressed my fist against the door before opening my hand and splaying my fingers across the smooth wood.
She stood on the other side.
So close and yet…
I turned sharply and continued down the corridor to the next door—my bedroom.
A gentleman would have informed her that we would only be separated by a wall.
I was no gentleman.
She would learn of my close proximity soon enough.
For now, hopefully, she would obey me and simply rest.
I checked my watch. My staff should be delivering her belongings, as well as the clothes I'd purchased for her, to her room shortly. That should at least occupy her for a time.
As I shrugged out of my suit jacket, her phone tumbled out of the inner pocket.
The screen flashed in the dim light of my room.
Twelve missed calls from her mother.
That woman was becoming a problem.
I couldn’t have her convincing Sabrina to leave Italy.
Or worse, come to Italy herself.
The best revenge plans were finely honed blades that cut so cleanly there was barely any blood.
That was Sabrina.
A cut to the judge’s ego, reputation, and career plans.
Nothing fatal. Just painful enough to get him to back off the House of Diamanti.
But if her mother were to show up, and the judge learned she was on Italian soil? That would be the equivalent of a dull ax, hacking everything to a bloody mess.
I reached for my own phone and pressed a number in my favorites.
“Yes, boss,” came the answer after only one ring, despite the international time zone change.
“The contingency plan we discussed for Sabrina’s mother, Abriana Dolce Badalamenti.”
There was a long pause. “Yes.”
I caught my reflection in the mirror. By the end of this, would I still be able to stand the man who looked back?
“Do it.”
Without waiting for a response, I disconnected the call.
I turned my back on the mirror and finished changing.
* * *
I made my way down the winding hidden staircase to the sala d'armi.
The air hung thick with the scent of aged leather and faintly oiled steel. Shadowed racks of blades lined the walls—rapiers, foils, and épées—each one whispering of forgotten duels and centuries-old rivalries.
As the lights flickered on, they illuminated the worn parquet floor, scarred with the ghostly scuffs of countless assalti, as if every botta dritta and parata e risposta had etched its own sinister memory into the room’s very bones.
After adjusting my guanto imbottito, I selected a slender fencing foil, its balance perfect as I tested its weight with a flick of my wrist. The polished blade gleamed under the lights, a silent promise of precision and discipline.
When I took over the palazzo, I converted its gymnasium into a sala d'armi, a room of arms, which suited my purposes far better.
Never a man with the patience to lift weights for no reason or run miles to nowhere on a treadmill like a rodent, I preferred the deliberate exertion of fencing—the perfect interplay of attacco, defense, and strategy.
The strict rules of etiquette and engagement in fencing were neat and orderly.
You either struck your opponent or you didn’t.
It was controlled. Disciplined. Elegant violence in the name of sport.
I tapped the handle of my foil against the side of my breeches while I waited for the computer program to engage the bersaglio elettronico. The life-size practice dummy would record my colpi validi, hits to the valid target areas, as well as track the speed and precision of my strikes.
I stepped into guardia and adjusted my posture into the classic Italian stance, my knees bent, my weight forward on the balls of my feet.
I executed a fluid affondo, the blade cutting through the air with precision, followed by a finta di sotto to bait an imaginary defense. I continued my relentless barrage of botte segrete and coupés, weaving feints into perfectly timed lunges, when a low whistle interrupted me.
Wiping my forearm across the sweat in my eyes, I turned to face my brother Arcangelo. Dressed in his full monsignore garb—a black Roman cassock and purple faille fascia sash around his waist—he leaned against the sala d'armi entrance with his arms crossed over his chest.
“What did that dummy ever do to you?”
“Aren’t you too busy running the shadow evil empire to bother me?”
Arcangelo chuckled as he stepped into the room.
Running his hands over the sword rack, he selected a rapier and tested its balance with a flessione of the blade. “I’m taking the day off. It’s some religious holiday.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”
He shrugged. “How the fuck should I know?”
My grandfather had insisted the Diamantis model themselves after traditional royal families, and my father had followed suit.
As the firstborn, I was destined to run the company.
Father had forced Rafaello into the Italian Armed Forces, although he retired this year after turning thirty-five and reaching the rank of Major.
And Father had forced Arcangelo into the church.
The fact that the man didn’t have a drop of spiritual blood in his body was of no concern to the family.
With our wealth and connections, Arcangelo was not only assigned to the Vatican, but had been elevated to increasingly high-ranking positions within the secretive and powerful Vatican Bank.
Shaking my head as I laughed, I turned back toward the dummy and resumed my position. “Did you get the file Benedict Cavalieri prepared?”
I delivered a botta lunga, the blade striking the dummy’s torso with surgical precision, followed by a quick disimpegnoto to avoid an imaginary parry.
Arcangelo smirked, adopting a fencer’s guardia. “How is our good friend Benedict?”
Rolling my shoulders, I executed a seamless riposta after a feigned attack. “Still determined to cut your throat if you come anywhere near his new bride.”
Benedict didn’t take kindly to Arcangelo’s flirtatious attitude toward Liliana when they'd first met.
The loyalty between the Diamantis and the Cavalieris could never be questioned, but that didn’t mean Benedict wouldn’t hack Arcangelo’s dick off if he ever tried something.
Arcangelo pushed out his lower lip in a mock pout. “Oh no, does that mean I’m off the Christmas card list?”
I snapped a coupé at the dummy’s head. “Just don’t bitch at me when you aren’t invited to the winery for the next wedding or harvest festival.”
I knew that would hit a nerve.
Since our own family was about as cuddly as a nest of vipers, my siblings and I cherished the warmth and love we found at the Cavalieri gatherings.
He swiped the foil in the air several times, performing exaggerated movimenti circolari. “Fine. I’ll make nice with Benedict and stay away from that delectable little morsel of corrupted innocence he married.”
I stretched out my arms and bowed to him. “That’s all I’m asking, brother.”
He bowed back, his foil held loosely in his hand.
Turning my attention back to the tactical exercises, I struck the dummy with a precise series of botte dritte, working up a sweat as my blade found its mark again and again.
Leaning against the far wall, Arcangelo watched me for several minutes before asking, “Speaking of corrupted innocence, are we going to talk about your latest…acquisition?”
Facing him, I yanked at the side zipper on my padded jacket and ripped open the flap to cool down. “You’re not going to give me shit about Sabrina too. I’ve already heard enough from Rafaello and Arabella.”
He raised his palms. “Hell no. All’s fair in love and war…and business.”
I pulled off my glove and reached for the crystal carafe of water set on a silver tray by my thoughtful staff.
After pouring a glass and taking a sip, I asked, “So you don’t have any objections to how I plan to handle the judge situation given the new investigations he’s started?”
The moment I arrived in Italy, I had gotten word that the judge had hauled several House of Diamanti executives in for questioning. Questioning that apparently took place in the middle of the night at an undisclosed location.
I wasn’t worried. My people were loyal.
Still, it meant the judge was escalating his feud with us.
It was only a matter of time before it became public knowledge that the House of Diamanti was being investigated as an organized crime syndicate.
Every wedding and engagement ring we sold would be tainted with a mafia association.
Arcangelo picked up the water carafe and wrinkled his nose. “Got anything stronger?”
I nodded toward a walnut cabinet on the far wall.
He crossed to it and opened it to expose a dartboard.
Pulling a wooden panel down, he revealed the hidden bar.
He poured himself a scotch and then turned back to me. “As I see it, our dear brother and sister don’t truly understand what it means to sacrifice for the family.”
Arcangelo had never forgiven our father for forcing him into religious orders.
Our father’s threat to disown him was a powerful motivator to fall into line.
And as far as my father was concerned, it shouldn’t have been any real sacrifice for Arcangelo, since no one expected him to take his vow of celibacy seriously.
And he didn’t.
His place in the church was about power, not God.
After approaching the bar, I poured myself a scotch. “Rafaello spent over a decade in the army.”
He drained his glass. “Please don’t insult me, dear brother, by equating Rafaello playing soldier while getting all the pussy he wanted across four continents, to being forced to exist under the constant watchful eye of God’s minions.”
Rafaello had actually seen some pretty dangerous combat, but there was no point in aggravating an old wound that would never heal.
I raised my glass in a mock surrender toast, drank, then set the glass down and turned to leave. “I’d invite you to dinner, but I don’t want you here.”
Arcangelo placed his hand over his heart. “What a gracious invitation. You read my mind. I’ve already told your chef to set another place for me. You know I can’t resist his Tagliolini ai Frutti di Mare.”
“This is your only warning, Arcangelo. If I even suspect you’re thinking about Sabrina with anything other than brotherly affection, I’ll save Benedict the trouble and cut your dick off myself.”
“Well, well, well, brother. This is an interesting development. Now I’m even more intrigued to meet the mysterious and beguiling Sabrina Dolce Badalamenti.”
Forgetting how dangerously perceptive Arcangelo could be, I realized too late that I’d revealed far more than I intended.
To mask my misstep, I turned my back on him and, with an air of finality, said, “Just don’t test me, Arcangelo.”