Page 17 of Obsession & Oath

“And Iwill,”I respond with the defiance of a wayward son, “but I shall do so on my own terms.”

“How, exactly, do you plan to do so?”

The silence stretches for a moment as we both seem to realize how heated our voices have become.

I clear my throat and settle back down. “First, I’m going to set up an office so that I can communicate with my men backhome.”

Her eyebrow twinges at the emphasis on the final word, but I don’t give her the chance to respond.

“Then I’m going to sleep for about eighteen hours before you have me relentlessly shadowing you for the rest of the week,” I go to stand. Evelina rises with me. “I will present to you a proposal for my…marital affairs by the weekend.”

“Dante.”

“Those are my priorities,” I don’t leave room for negotiation as I head toward the door.

“What of the girl?”

I hesitate a moment before I leave. “Do what you wish. She is to remain here until we are summoned back to Brooklyn. I’d appreciate your discretion.”

With that, I storm from the sun room and up the familiar staircase toward my chambers.

I perhaps should have asked if they are, in fact, still my chambers before coming up here. But as it turns out, I needn’t have bothered.

The rooms haven’t changed at all since I was last here.

The office is first—just to the left as I enter. It’s small and cozy, with heavy oak bookshelves lining the walls. Their contents are precisely arranged, rows of leather-bound volumes of history, law, and family records.

Nothing here has been touched except for being dusted, and somehow, that feels more unsettling than if everything had been packed away or moved.

I step deeper into the room, past the office, into the living room. The low, velvet armchairs are still arranged in their perfect symmetry around the fireplace.

The grate is cold now, but I can see it in my mind’s eye, blazing in the winter, as I sink into one of those chairs with a glass of whiskey. The cold penetrates these old walls something fierce. The fireplace is a welcome respite when it’s cold.

A large window overlooks the balcony and gardens below, but I walk past it, my feet carrying me toward the bedroom.

The door opens with a quiet groan, and I step in.

It’s a room frozen in time. The four-poster bed sits in the center, the covers neatly tucked, the headboard still polished to a high shine. The curtains, a deep blue, hang exactly where they always have.

I can’t decide if the weight in my chest is comforting or crushing.

Someone has already brought up all my things, so I shake off the thought and go about setting up my temporary office with a heavy indignation, sparing only half a thought to the woman now residing beneath the foundation of the castle. Which quickly escalates to an entire thought, and the work becomes monotonous.

By the time I’m staring at my monitor as my computer slowly loads the applications I need, I’m trying to figure out if I should chew out or laugh at Carmen Rubio for having the balls to curse at Evelina Grasso.

“Grasso?” The crackled sound of Rocco Morretti comes through the speakers and draws me from—okay, maybe it is a bit funny—the memory.

“You’ve got some nerve agreeing to comms, Morretti,” I say as the video feed pops up, and suddenly, I’m facing my oldest betrayer of a friend.

Rocco shakes his dark hair from his eyes, an easy grin on his lips. “I’m not gonna sit here and feel sorry for you getting sent out to fucking paradise, Dante. The rest of us are running overtime at the whim of Leon’s paranoia.”

“Careful. That sounds like mutiny to me.”

“It would be if his paranoia weren’t so accurate,” Rocco sighs. “We’d have lost so much more if he wasn’t at the helm.”

I grimace in agreement. “I take it there’s no updates then?”

“Eager to be back?”

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