Page 61 of Salvatore

I’m walked to the elevator like a death row inmate and spend the ride to the seventeenth floor staring at the security camera, willing whoever mans the front desk to notice me. When the elevator dings, I’m led into a quiet hall to the first door of five apartments.

There are no visible neighbors. No guards. No new faces that might help.

“Don’t go getting any ideas,” my brother snarls. “We run this floor. Nobody else comes up here.”

“Except the girls.” Gun Guy snickers while unlocking the front door and pushing it wide.

Alonso shoves me forward, and I clench my teeth to stop from flinging a string of profanity his way as I stumble inside.

“Hurry up.” He pushes me again. “Dad’s waiting.”

I sidestep out of his reach as both men continue into the sunlit living room of a well-appointed apartment, the front door falling shut behind us. The space is anchored by two sleek leather sofas facing each other, flanked by glass side tables, a matching coffee table centered between them.

Art hangs from the walls. Abstract paintings in bright colors.

The place is clean and tidy—almost normal. Except for the subtle security cameras in the ceiling.

I continue farther inside, the interior opening up to a large kitchen and dining room where the man who was once my father sits at an elegant wooden table, a laptop open in front of him as he squints at the screen.

He looks different. Less thug-like than I remember and more underworld chic with his linen button-down and thick, slicked back hair.

“She’s here.” My brother drags a gun from the back of his waistband and dumps it on the polished wood along with his wallet and keys, then heads for the kitchen and grabs two beers from the fridge.

Gabriel raises his gaze, slow and imperial, taking me in with an unimpressed once-over.

“Want me to keep my Glock trained on her?” Gun Guy asks.

“No.” Gabriel indicates with a lazy hand for me to take the chair opposite him, his expression impassive, unreadable. “I can handle my own daughter.”

A chill skitters down my spine. More than ten years, and he still doesn’t understand the concept of emancipation.

“Sit,” he commands.

“I’d rather stand.” I raise my chin, my wrists still bound and bearing the heavy weight of Alonso’s jacket.

Gabriel chuckles. “I see you’re still a petulant brat who hasn’t realized the air in your lungs is only there because I allow it.”

Oh, I’ve definitely realized. But I’ve also come to the understanding that cowering to him doesn’t help either of us. As much as he hates my animosity, he despises weakness in any form, especially from those he spawned. “Why am I here?”

He closes the laptop and relaxes back in his chair. “When you dishonored this family and filed for emancipation, it was under the strict instruction that you wouldn’t interfere in my work.”

I keep my expression locked tight, my breathing level. “I remember.”

“Then why is it that I’m seeing your photo in theBaltimore Sunwith the mafia boss’s nephew?”

Photo? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He raises a brow and retrieves his cell from his pants pocket. He swipes the screen a few times, then slides the device toward me.

I step forward to read the heading of an online article—Remembering Carlo Pelosi—A Pillar of Support in Times of Loss.Beneath it is an image of Carlo’s wake and through the mourning crowd, you can clearly see me talking to Salvatore, our gazes locked, bodies facing.

I swallow the bile coating the back of my throat. “Not many funerals are by invite only. Unfortunately, I don’t get to pick who attends.”

“So you recognize the man you were talking to?”

“Yes.” I don’t bother denying it. He knows I’m smart enough to remain informed. “But he was only asking for directions to the bathroom. He didn’t know who I was.”

It’s so fucking risky to lie, yet in this case Gabriel’s suspicion is riskier. He’d be paranoid that I was making deals with his enemies, which is a far more punishable crime.

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