“For the last time,” Sergio starts, pauses. I know this tone of his voice. It’s the one that says this is the end of the discussion. “I wash my hands of this. Of this contract. Of these particular consequences. Of Lucia DeMarco. This is finished.”

Lucia DeMarco. She belongs to Sergio—according to Franco Benedetti. The jealousy I feel shames me. Lucia is a victim, she doesn’t want anything to do with any of the Benedetti brothers, I am sure. She’s a pawn. Like I am to Sergio’s enemies.

So she and I, maybe we’re more alike than I think.

Someone slams a fist on what I assume is a desk and I jump. I know it’s Franco when I hear what he says.

“And for the last time,” Franco begins, his words and tone similar to Sergio’s and I imagine the two nose to nose, two powerful men doing battle. “Lucia DeMarco belongs to you. You’ll be the one to collect her when the time comes. It doesn’t matter who signed what and I don’t give a fuck if you have that whore lick your floors clean day in and day fucking out. You do what you need to do with Natalie, but this is my final word. Am I fucking clear?” Franco demands.

I close my hand over my belly. I’m trying to process, to understand what the hell is going on. I mean, I do understand. But it’s too impossible.

I step backward, stumble over something that wasn’t there a moment ago. I spin as I begin to fall, see him standing there as tall as Sergio. As big as him. As menacing as Sergio can sometimes look.

Salvatore Benedetti.

He’s right behind me.

It was his foot I tripped over.

He catches me, keeps his hands wrapped around my arms even once I’m steady on my feet. My mouth falls open and I can’t look away.

He knows what I heard because he heard it too.

“Natalie,” he starts, then stops and all I can do is stand there, mute and caught. “You shouldn’t listen at closed doors. Especially with this family.”

“I wasn’t…I,” I’m stuttering. "I didn’t mean to.” I realize how big he is, how that kindness I’d perceived earlier is gone. Did I imagine it? Because something else has taken its place. Something harder. Something darker.

He studies me. His eyes are different than Sergio’s. Where Sergio’s are midnight, Salvatore’s are a cobalt blue. It’s a striking contrast to his olive skin and dark hair, and I feel like, just as his brother can, he, too, can see right through me.

“Don’t tell him,” I whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t react, not for a long time, but then he nods once. “Go back to Sergio’s room and wait for him there.”

“I really wasn’t—”