Page 23 of Bound in Vengeance
And I plan to make her flinch a lot in two weeks.
“My apologies, Massimo,” I say evenly. “Let’s continue. There will be no more disturbances.”
A strange beat passes.
Then Massimo clears his throat like we merely suffered a minor inconvenience.
“Yes,” he says. “Dessert.”
Servants immediately rush to obey and dessert is placed in front of us. Chocolate cake. Espresso. Fruit.
I expect Sienna to excuse herself and go clean the blood splattered across her dress, her neck, the side of her face. But she doesn’t move.
She sits there calmly with Pietro’s blood drying against her skin like she can’t even feel it and I can’t stop looking at her.
The blood against her olive skin is ruining my fucking sanity.
She lifts her fork delicately, takes a bite of cake, then reaches for her wine glass with those slender fingers stained red.
Fucking hell.
My cock hardens painfully beneath the table and I’m one second away of fucking her right on this table with our families watching us.
There’s something deeply wrong with me.
Across from me, Sienna finally looks up and our eyes lock. And slowly—very slowly—her tongue slips out to lick a tiny streak of chocolate from the corner of her mouth.
My grip tightens around my fork hard enough to bend the silver slightly.
Fuck this lunch.
Fuck this table.
Fuck everyone here.
I need her alone.
By the time the meal finally drags to an end, Massimo pushes his chair back as if nothing happened.
“I’ve had the grounds expanded,” he announces, casual as the breeze. “There’s a golf course being built out back. Let’s go see it. We can walk off our food.”
Like Pietro isn’t groaning on the floor, bleeding out.
Like this is a normal afternoon.
We rise.
The group filters out through the rear doors into the open air. The estate stretches out ahead of us—fresh-cut grass, half-finished landscaping, and workers scattered in the distance. Everything is designed to look peaceful, while everyone walking through it is anything but.
Massimo leads. His men follow.
Before I can take a step, Salvatore De Luca and Vittorio Moretti close in. They’re the two elders who came with me.
“Alessandro,” Salvatore says, his voice barely a breath.
I exhale through my nose, finally glancing at them. “What?”
Salvatore’s jaw is tight. “Pietro needs a hospital. Now.”
