Page 35 of Auctioned To Her Dad's Mafia Enemies

“I knew,” he says. “I knew she wasn’t but…” Hehangs his head, and I feel his despair and relief deep in my bones.

“I know,” I say.

“If she was…”

“Don’t.” What the fuck is the point of goingover that sick scenario? We have better things to do like find a place to eatbefore my stomach devours my insides and tell our brother that Aemelia isCarlo’s spawn who he doesn’t give two flying fucks about.

“Do you think Luca will let her go?” he asks,turning to face me.

I rub my jaw, uncertain of a lot of things.Why does Antonio look like the thought of releasing Aemelia is going to rip hisheart through his mouth? Will Luca want to push harder to get someone in thatfuckingLambrettifamily to break about Carlo’slocation? How do I feel about Aemelia staying with us for longer, or leavingtoday?

I don’t want her to leave.

“I don’t know.”

“You like her?” he asks, his breathing harsh.Would it be so hard for him to hear, yes? Does he have actual feelings for thegirl outside a desire to get inside her and break open the thing we paid for?

“She’s…” I pause to find the right word. Sexy.Gorgeous. Funny. Strong. Determined. Brave. “Intriguing.”

“And Luca?”

“Who the fuck knows what Luca wants.”

My words make his middle tighten, like Ikicked him in the gut.

“We should let her go,” he says. “We’re nogood for her. We’re too old. Too fucked up. Too tangled up in this shit.”

“And let her return to this? It’s like theAddams Family in there. Fuck.” I laugh, unable to hold it in, and Antoniosnorts and then fixes his mouth into a grim line.

“It’s bad,” he says.

“So, we keep her?”

He shakes his head, but I can tell he wants toagree with me. He’s torn between doing the right things and doing what hewants, and it’s not a place either of us are that familiar with.

“For a while.”

For a while.

***

We don’t go back empty-handed. If we’rekeeping Aemelia, even for a little while, she should have some creaturecomforts. We stop at a local trattoria and load up—fresh bread, meats, cheeses,olives, and a selection of pastries, including a box of cannoli and some sweetsand chocolates. The scents of roasted garlic and freshly baked focaccia clingto our clothes as we step back onto the street.

We pass a small boutique, and Antonio lingersin front of the display. “Stay here,” he says.

I hang by the open door and watch as he picksup a thick, plush robe, running his fingers over the fabric like he’s trying toconvince himself she needs it. He doesn’t say a word; he just pays in cash andwalks out with the bag. I don’t press him. His actions speak loud enough.

By the time we get back to the penthouse, thesun has dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the tall building.Luca is waiting for us on the balcony, his arms crossed, face unreadable. Thecool night air is thick with the scent of the city, mixing with the faint aromaof espresso from inside the house.

“Well?” he asks the moment we step through thedoors.

Antonio grips the bag in one hand, tensionradiating from him where there should be relief. “She’s not Mario’s.”

Luca exhales, long and slow. He nods once,absorbing the words. “The doctor will confirm for certain, but I knew Enzo waslying. And Carlo?”

“Doesn’t give a shit, according to Carmella.”

“Never did,” Antonio adds. “Enzo was rightabout that.”

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