Page 11 of Broken Crown

I wanted to feel his arms around me. I wanted to hear his deep, gravelly voice tell me everything would be okay.

That he would keep me safe.

But the question was: safe from whom?

Him?

Or my father?

The car weaved through the streets of Rome, leaving the scene of death and destruction in the rearview mirror.

It hadn't escaped my notice that not a single police officer had even questioned Sebastian's actions. The man had killed another man, shooting him three times at point-blank range, in the middle of the day in the center of Rome…and nothing.

No recriminations. No handcuffs. No arrest.

Hell, if he had stayed, I suspected the police would have patted him on the back and congratulated him on what a nice shot he was.

It was a sobering reminder of the omnipotent power Sebastian wielded, especially in Rome. The man was Caesar, Mark Antony, and the second coming of Christ all rolled into one for these Italians.

And I was trapped in his world.

With a barely suppressed sigh, I stared out the tinted windows.

The sleek black Range Rover glided through the narrow cobblestone streets of Centro Storico, past Roman columns and Renaissance façades burnished gold by the late afternoon sun.

Tourists scattered like pigeons as Sebastian's driver navigated around the Tiber, taking us through a maze of back alleys and quiet residential streets that few visitors ever saw. The sweet scent of jasmine and fig trees drifted through the vents, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood I could still taste on my tongue.

I wasn't sure where we were headed. I only knew it wasn't back to the palazzo.

Finally, the car pulled up along a massive, curved stone wall on a quiet, tree-lined street.

Two guards dressed in the distinctive Renaissance-inspired uniforms of the Vatican Swiss Guard—royal blue, red, and orange-striped pantaloons, white ruffs at their necks, and gleaming silver breastplates that caught the dying sunlight. The guards flanked an arched wooden door with iron hinges.

I turned to Sebastian. "Is this the⁠—"

"Yes." He enclosed my hand in his warm one as he exited the car and helped me alight. He then tapped me on the nose in a gesture that any innocent bystander would have mistaken for one given by an affectionate boyfriend. "So behave yourself, little one."

The door swung open, and a man dressed in a black cassock emerged from the shadows.

Arcangelo Diamanti, Sebastian's brother.

He raised his arm and pinched his fingers, shaking his hand back and forth. "This isn't a fucking Airbnb I'm running here. First Benedict Cavalieri and now you."

Sebastian clapped his hands on Arcangelo's shoulders. "Relax, brother. It is only until I can be certain there were no leaks to the media. I have no wish to navigate through a full court press to get through my own front door."

Arcangelo shrugged him off and turned to me.

His gaze traveled over my disheveled hair, my torn bodice exposing way too much of my breasts, over my hips to my bare feet and back. "Che bella donna, sono il tuo umile servitore. Casa mia è casa tua. Per favore, fammi sapere se c'è qualcosa che…desideri."

Beautiful. Your servant. My home is yours. Desire.

Even if I hadn't caught enough of what he said to understand his salacious meaning, his tone and heated look would have told me all I needed to know.

As I opened my mouth to respond, Sebastian stepped in front of me.

"I had no idea you wished to meet your Lord and master so soon, brother."

Arcangelo smirked and gave me a wink over Sebastian's shoulder. "Some things are worth tempting death and damnation for, brother."