Page 90 of Sinner's Vows

“We have a private jet,” he says, already busy on his phone.

“Of course you do,” I mumble, more to myself than to anybody else.

My heart sinks as I watch Dominic swipe away, searching for a contact on his phone.

“Get those pancakes started, Portia,” he says. “We’re going to need energy for this day.”

I watch him, his profile as he turns, his firm stride as he walks out into the corridor and away from us to make his call in private.

It hits me then, a sharp punch to the gut that winds me: once in Italy, I have to separate myself from this man. The easiest way would be to alert the police on arrival at the airport. The long-winded way would be to take Dominic to Franco’s uncle’s farmhouse, help him interrogate everybody in that house, find Gabriella, and then somehow try to escape.

Either way, we’re over. Any way you cut it, we’re done, and I’ll never see him again. And suddenly, I don’t know if I can do it. Or if I even want to.

Somehow, it feels as if we haven’t even started yet.

48

DOMINIC

I know it’s fucking early, but who cares. In our world, shit doesn’t wait for you to get ready before it hits the fan.

I’m courteous enough to knock, but by now, Matteo’s security team should have alerted him that I’m about to walk into his apartment. Perks of installing all your brother’s high-tech security? You know how to breach all of it.

I give him a minute, then walk through the front door and the foyer. As I enter the big double-volume open space, my brother is coming down the stairs in sleep shorts, rubbing at his face.

“What the fuck, Nicky? Jesus. It’s like five in the morning.”

“Yeah, well. The party’s started, and I’d hate for you to miss the good parts.” I’m on my way to the kitchen, aiming to make him a coffee strong enough to kick him right in the balls.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he grunts as he slouches on a stool by the kitchen island.

“Busy night, hmm?”

That makes two of us. I sweep him down with a quick inspection. Hickeys on his chest. Is that a nail scratch on his side? Uh-huh. I called it. Tasha is a little kitten with claws. Serves my brother right. I bet he fucked her just as she likes itlast night, and from the dark circles under his eyes and satisfied smirk smeared over his face, I bet he’s now waking up to the memories of it.

“Not exactly getting enough sleep,” he says.

“And it isn’t just Gabriella and Petrov giving you sleepless nights.”

“Now you’re fucking with me, Nicky,” he says, but there’s a small smile.

The thought of the nights he gets to spend with Tasha only makes my own frustrations pop to the surface, and with a suppressed groan, I give him my back to work on the coffee.

Behind me, he stretches and yawns, then drags in a deep breath. “Fill me in?”

I give him a detailed run down of everything that’s happened since we spoke last.

“Fuck me,” he says as I slide a double espresso in his direction. “He had Arturo in a chokehold what with Portia and Rosalia in his house all these years. Right underneath our noses.”

I’ve been selective with the details I share. I left out the part about Randazzo’s sons being among us, as I’m still digesting that fucking tidbit. Deep inside me, I know it’s because I want to protect the memory of Alex. Once he’s no longer one of us…no longer our blood brother, but that fucking maniac’s son?—

But there’s another conspiracy theory battling for space in my head—one that helps me make sense of everything happening lately. What if that night Alex died, things had gone wrong? Matteo was the real target, the Don’s evil plan to get rid of this son that was never his, but Alex got killed instead. That would explain why the Don could never let go of that one vendetta involving Peter Armstrong and demanded Matteo put Tasha up for auction.

Fuck. This is going to torment me for the rest of my days and the only person knowing the real answers is dead.

“Yep,” I say, just to say something, then forcing myself to take a sip of my third espresso for the day, swallowing my rogue thoughts in the process. At this rate, I’m going to rattle all the way to Italy.

“What’s the plan?”

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