Chapter Eleven SANTINO
The rooftop was empty. The candles had burned down to puddles of wax. The whiskey bottle sat half-empty beside abandoned glasses. And Aurora was asleep somewhere beneath my roof.
I hated that I knew exactly which room. I hated that I knew exactly how she looked when she was tired. I hated that I knew she tucked one foot beneath herself when she sat. I hated that I knew she wrinkled her nose when she laughed. I hated all of it.
Because I should have spent tonight with Angelo. Instead, I'd spent it with her. The realization followed me all the way downstairs. The mansion was silent. Dark. Still. The kind of silence only existed after midnight.
I walked through it alone. Past empty hallways. Past sleeping guards. Past rooms worth millions of dollars. None of it mattered. My feet carried me automatically.
Toward him. The black door waited at the end of the hallway.
Exactly where it always was. Exactly where it would always be.
I opened it. The familiar scent hit. Cologne.
Leather. Dust-free air. Memory. My chest tightened.
Nothing had changed. Nothing ever changed.
The bed remained perfectly made. The jacket still hung over the chair.
The shelves remained untouched. The watches gleamed beneath glass. Everything exactly where it belonged.
I looked anyway. The watch collection. The photographs.
The books. The dresser. My gaze moved over every single item.
Checking. Confirming. Verifying. I hated myself for it.
But I did it every time. Every fucking time.
Because if something disappeared... If something moved...
If something changed... Then Angelo disappeared a little more too.
And I couldn't allow that. Not even a little.
My gaze stopped on the desk. A photograph sat there. One I'd brought earlier. A stupid photograph. Angelo standing on a yacht. Arm around my shoulders. Both of us grinning like idiots.
I stared. Then saw Aurora. Sitting beside me. Asking questions. What was he like?
The memory hit harder than it should have. Because nobody asked that. Not anymore. Not for years. People asked how he died. How many snakes. Whether Leo regretted it. Whether I still wanted revenge. Nobody asked who he was. Nobody remembered he existed before becoming a corpse.
My grip tightened around the photograph.What was he like? I laughed once. Softly. Bitterly. The room swallowed the sound.
"The bastard stole my girlfriend, and he’d steal you, too." The words slipped out. Nobody answered. Of course nobody answered. The silence hurt anyway. A knock sounded behind me. I didn't bother turning around.
Marco. Only Marco knocked. Everyone else was smart enough not to interrupt me in here.
The door opened. Then closed. Silence. A few seconds passed.
"You're talking to yourself now."
I rolled my eyes. "There are easier ways to announce your arrival."
Marco walked deeper into the room. His gaze swept across everything once. Never lingering. Never touching. He knew the rules. Everybody knew the rules. "You're in here."
"Observant,” I noted.
"Alcohol?"
"Obviously,” I added.
He sighed. "Healthy."
I took another drink. Marco remained standing. Watching me. Waiting. The prick knew me too well. Eventually he nodded toward the photograph. "You talked about him."
My grip tightened. I looked away. Marco's expression softened slightly. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough. "When was the last time you did that?"
I didn't answer. Because I knew exactly what he meant. Not that mentioned Angelo. Talked about him. Actually talked. Stories. Memories. The stupid shit. The real shit. The human shit. Not the murder. Not the snakes. Not the revenge. Him.
I couldn't remember the last time. Marco already knew that.
"Never," he said quietly. The word landed hard. I hated him a little. "You know I'm right."
Unfortunately, he was. My gaze dropped back toward the photograph. Toward Angelo's stupid grin. Toward eighteen-year-old versions of ourselves who genuinely believed we'd live forever. Idiots. Complete idiots.
"You laughed. On the roof." Marco shrugged. "You laughed."
I stared at him. Then looked away. Because somehow that accusation felt worse. Much worse. Aurora had laughed too. God.
Aurora.
The thought arrived. Like it always did now. Unwanted. Uninvited. Persistent. Dark hair. Dark eyes. White heels. Motorcycle keys. Lemonade. Little troublemaker.
The room felt smaller. I drained the rest of my whiskey. Marco watched me. Then smirked. That annoyed me. "What?"
"Oh, nothing." I narrowed my eyes. Marco's smile widened. I hated him. Deeply.
"Say it."
He sighed dramatically. "You like her."
The room went silent. I stared. Then laughed. Actually laughed. Because the suggestion was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Insane. Absurd. "I don't like her."
Marco crossed his arms. "What do you call it then?"
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Annoying. Extremely annoying. Because I genuinely didn't know. I wasn't in love. Not even close. Love wasn't this. Love was soft. Warm. Safe. This wasn't safe. This felt like standing too close to the edge of a building. This felt dangerous. Possessive. Wrong.
Instead I looked back at the photograph. At Angelo. At the room. At the life I'd spent four years preserving. Then I realized something. Something ugly. Something dangerous.
Aurora had walked into this room. Into my grief. Into the one place nobody but Marco was allowed. And somehow she hadn't broken it. She'd made it feel less empty. The realization terrified me. Because I wanted more.
Not sex. Not kisses. Not games. More. More conversations. More laughter. More midnight arguments. More of her. The need settled somewhere deep and ugly inside my chest. Possession. Not love. Not yet. Something darker. Something much more dangerous.
Marco looked at me for a long moment. Then sighed. "Oh, we're fucked."
I frowned. "We?"
"Unfortunately." He pointed at me. "Because whatever this is..."
His expression became genuinely concerned. "It's getting weird."
I looked away. Toward the photograph. Toward Angelo. Toward the girl currently asleep somewhere in my house. Then I smiled. Slowly. Dangerously.
I stood, set the photograph down, and headed for the door.
"Where are you going?"
I didn't stop walking. "The surveillance room."
"Santino." I kept walking. The warning in his voice made me grin. Because he already knew.
I smiled without turning around. Then walked faster. The surveillance room door slammed open before I could pull up the footage. Marco groaned as he shook his head. I didn't even look away from the monitors.
One of my soldiers stood in the doorway. Nervous. Never a good sign. "We caught one."
My jaw tightened. Caught. Not found. Caught. Different. "Who?"
The soldier swallowed. "He is working for your father."
The warmth from the rooftop disappeared. Aurora vanished. The whiskey vanished. The candles. The laughter. The photographs. Gone. Just like that.
"What did he have on him?" I asked.
The soldier hesitated. "Photos."
Silence. The room went dead still. My eyes lifted slowly. The soldier swallowed hard.
"Aurora’s photos."
Something ugly moved beneath my ribs. Not jealousy. Not anger. Something worse. Possession. The kind that made violence feel reasonable. The kind that made murder feel practical.
Marco cursed in Italian quietly. "That's not good."
No. It wasn't. I stood. Slowly. The soldier took an unconscious step backward. Smart man. "Where is he?"
"Downstairs."
I nodded once. Then walked past him. Marco followed. Of course he followed. Somebody had to make sure I didn't accidentally start another war before breakfast.
The elevator descended in silence. Nobody spoke. Nobody was stupid enough.
The lower levels of the mansion felt different from the floors above. The upper floors belonged to Santino Moretti. The lower floors belonged to the Devil. Concrete. Steel. Security doors. No sunlight. No warmth. No humanity.
The private holding area sat beneath the west wing. Nobody came here by accident. Nobody left without permission.
The room smelled faintly of blood and bleach. A combination that usually meant somebody had made a very unfortunate decision.
The prisoner sat tied to a chair. Mid-thirties. Bruised. Terrified. Good. He should have been terrified. Six armed men lined the walls. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The second I entered, the prisoner started shaking harder. He already knew.
I walked past him. Ignored him completely. Stopped beside a black cabinet built into the wall. Opened it. Inside sat a single mask. Black leather. Red detailing. The Devil.
The room somehow became quieter. I could feel it. The shift. The soldiers felt it too. Even Marco sighed. Like he'd just watched somebody pull the pin from a grenade. I lifted the mask. Turned it over once. Then slid it over my face.
The prisoner made a strangled sound. "Fuck."
My voice sounded different beneath it. Colder. Sharper. Less human. I turned. Then started talking. Too fast. Too loud. Words tumbling over each other.
"I didn't know…It wasn’t my idea. Please!”
I raised one finger. Silence. Instant. Good. At least somebody here had survival instincts. I crouched in front of him. Slowly. Patiently. The way people approached frightened animals.
"What were the photos for?"
His breathing became uneven. "I don't know."
I smiled. The mask hid it. Unfortunately for him. My eyes didn't. "You should try again."
"I swear…" I grabbed his broken finger. Hard. The scream echoed off concrete walls. Nobody ever expected pain to hurt. People always looked surprised.
I released him. Waited. Patiently. The room settled again. His sobs sounded pathetic. Good. I wanted pathetic. Pathetic was honest. "What were the photos for?"
His head dropped. Defeated already.
"Edoardo wanted updates."
The room went silent. "Updates?"
The man nodded frantically. "Routine surveillance."