Page 106 of Broken Crown

She leaned a hip on the desk and stared down at me. Her shadow fell across me. "I love my son. He deserves better than marrying some little American whore because her pig father is threatening the legacy we have built with our own blood. There are other ways to deal with pigs. You simply slaughter them."

My mind was a shattered mirror, each fragment reflecting a different lie Sebastian had told me.

She grabbed my chin and raised it, forcing me to meet her eyes. "I will save the House of Diamanti, not my son. And you have no part in my plan. I suggest you leave Italy. Now. Today."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a manilla envelope.

Tapping it with one red nail, she said, "Inside is a plane ticket and the name of a man at the US Embassy who will help you. The plane leaves tonight. I suggest you be on it."

With that, she strode out, leaving a sick cloud of perfume and smoke in her wake.

The click of her heels faded down the corridor. Then, silence. Just the ticking of the ornate clock across the room and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

I didn't move.

Couldn't.

The manilla envelope sat on the desk like a grenade with the pin pulled.

My gaze drifted to the chair Sebastian had recently sat in. The leather still held the impression of him. His jacket was draped over the back, the lining a deep burgundy silk that I'd pressed my face against once when he'd placed it around my shoulders. I'd breathed him in like he was oxygen.

Like a fool.

I pressed my knuckles against my teeth until I tasted copper.

Every moment replayed in brutal clarity. Not the way it had happened—the way it had actually been.

The "chance" meeting in Paris. The job offer that had materialized out of thin air, that had seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime.

Breadcrumbs. All of it. A trail laid by a man who'd already mapped out every step I'd take before I took it. And I'd followed it like a starving bird.

The worst part wasn't the deception. It wasn't even the danger he'd put me in, though the fury was there for that too, banked and waiting.

The worst part was the morning in Chieti.

The frittelle. The way he'd known how I took my cappuccino. The way he'd sat beside me instead of across from me, close enough that I could feel his warmth through my clothes.

I'd thought that meant something.

I'd thought he meant something.

A sound tore from my chest—half laugh, half sob. The kind of noise that came from a place beyond tears.

God, my mother. My poor mother, who'd survived a monster only to have her daughter crawl willingly into bed with a man cut from the same cloth. Different suit. Same hands. Hands that moved people around as if they were pieces on a board and called it protection.

Called it love.

I stood. Too fast. The blood rushed from my head, and I gripped the edge of the desk until the room stopped tilting.

The crystal paperweight still sat on the corner of the desk. I picked it up, testing its smooth weight in my hand. I wanted to throw it through the window. Through every window in this goddamn building.

Instead, I set it down carefully. Precisely where it had been.

Because that was the difference between Sebastian and me. He destroyed things and called it strategy. I held myself together and called it surviving.

I picked up the envelope. The paper was thick, expensive. Even Filomena's threats came with a luxury finish.

Inside: a first-class ticket to JFK. A business card with a handwritten name and direct number. And a folded note in Filomena's sharp cursive.