Page 36 of Broken Crown

Adrian entered, his affected casual demeanor belied by the sweat beading at his temples. “Volevi vedermi, Signore Diamanti?”

Sebastian didn’t take his eyes off me. “Yes, you’re fired.”

Adrian’s expression morphed from nervous deference to outraged disbelief. “Mi sta licenziando? Me? Sono il miglior fotografo in Italia. Non può licenziarmi.”

Sebastian continued to keep his eyes on me, the corner of his mouth lifting in a dangerous half smile. “And yet I just did. Security will see you out.”

I opened my mouth to object, but a hard look from Sebastian silenced me.

A look that promised consequences I wasn’t prepared to face.

Adrian’s face contorted with rage as he gave me a rude gesture. “Mi assicurerò che diventi lo zimbello di tutti. Il grande Sebastian Diamanti controllato da una puttana americana e da ciò che ha tra le gambe.”

Puttana. Whore.

My mouth opened on a shocked gasp as my cheeks burned with humiliation. Tears clouded my vision despite my desperate attempt to blink them away.

Sebastian didn’t hesitate.

He literally vaulted over my desk to reach the man faster, sending my carefully arranged sketches flying in his wake.

With frightening speed, his hand was around Adrian’s throat and he had him pinned against the wall. The photographer’s feet dangled inches above the floor, his face rapidly purpling as he clawed uselessly at Sebastian’s wrist.

“If I ever hear you insult my wife…” Sebastian’s calm delivery sounded more chilling than any shout could have.

I raised my arm. “I’m not your⁠—”

At Sebastian’s heated glare, I shut my mouth.

He turned his attention back to Adrian.

“I will have your body chopped into tiny pieces and fed to the birds. Your only lasting legacy will be the bird shit on David’s marble balls. Do you understand me?”

Incapable of talking with Sebastian’s hand around his throat, Adrian nodded frantically, face now an alarming shade of crimson.

When Sebastian released him, he crumpled slightly before scurrying out of the office.

Sebastian straightened his tie and pivoted to face me. Not a hair out of place, not a breath out of rhythm. “All better, dolcezza?”

“That was precisely what I asked you not to do.”

“You had a problem, and I handled it.”

I pointed to my chest. “It was my problem to handle professionally. Not yours.”

He checked his watch then shrugged. “No one insults you. Period. I have a meeting.”

“Now what am I supposed to do about a photographer?”

He called out over his shoulder without breaking stride, “Hire whoever you like.”

Pausing at the door, he turned. “Before I forget, plan to leave the office by six on Friday. My family is coming over to have dinner with us.”

A family dinner…with us?

That sounded like something engaged couples would do.

“I can just eat in my room or⁠—”