Page 2 of The Proposal

That, along with the shooting at the estate, is something I intend to investigate as soon as I return home. With the number of men my father had guarding him, the fact that the Mortellis could walk right up to us on our property and open fire without resistance tells me someone helped them.

If my suspicions are correct, I’ll find out, and whoever it was is a dead man walking.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father. Giovanni was a noble man. He deserved better than that.”

“Thank you,” I reply, but when I see movement out of the corner of my eye, my head snaps in that direction.

I can’t help it; after what happened, my entire body tenses whenever I sense, feel, or notice someone behind me.

Getting shot in the back fucks with your mind. I no longer trust my perception, and it’s something I can’t ignore. My gut goes into overdrive when I hear steps approaching or feel a shift in my vicinity. I’m super aware now, even when I shouldn’t have to be.

We’re sitting outside in the manicured gardens, but it does nothing to ease my anxiety. Anyone could come at us from any direction; that thought never leaves my mind now. It’s fucked up, and while I hope this feeling fades with time, I’ve got my doubts.

The nights are the worst. The true damage hits when I close my eyes. As if being the only survivor of a massacre wasn’t already a big enough burden to carry.

I’ll seek vengeance, though. I won’t rest until I do.

I watch as the driver of the black Maserati Levante pulls up along the side of the house, exits the car, and rounds the vehicle to open the back door. I find myself leaning forward toget a better look. When the first passenger alights, I rest my forearms just above my knees.

It’s a young woman.

The moment my eyes take her in, everything else seems to fade. I can’t see the majority of her face—it’s hidden underneath the large black sunglasses she’s wearing—but her body, with the kind of curves that make it hard to breathe, is impossible to ignore. She’s like a work of art you can’t stop admiring.

A second woman gets out of the vehicle, but I barely spare her a glance. I’m too consumed by the first one. They’re both young, in their early twenties at best, so I can only presume they are Stefano’s daughters.

The one who’s garnered my full attention says something to the other woman, and they both laugh, link arms, and start walking towards the house.

The driver follows closely behind, his hands now laden with numerous shopping bags. The women are flanked by two guards, openly carrying semiautomatic rifles in their hands, which is a sight you’d never witness in my country. My men and I are armed, but our guns are always concealed.

Her movements are fluid, confident, and unapologetically bold.Those fucking curves.My gaze is drawn to places I shouldn’t be looking, especially with her father sitting opposite me.

Common sense tells me to look away, but I can’t seem to tear my eyes off her. There is something magnetic about her that’s drawing me in. She’s definitely a standout and is meant to be noticed.

It’s not just her undeniable beauty, but how she carries herself. She’s fully aware of the power she exudes; it shows like a force of nature, and I can’t help but feel it.

It’s only when Stefano calls out, “Arabella … Lucia,” that I finally manage to drag my focus away from her. He gestures with his fingers for them to approach. “I don’t believe you’ve met my daughters.”

I glance back at the girls, only to see they’re no longer linking arms and smiling. Instead, their bodies appear rigid, and their hands are tightly clasped as they slowly approach us. Their expressions are now dark and sombre. They look terrified.

Is it because I’m here, or is their reaction directed towards their father?

“Hurry up,” he barks, and when they instantly spring into action, quickening their steps, I get my answer.

My eyes flicker to him, and I catch him grinning with a cruel, sadistic satisfaction. This man is something else. Does he take pleasure in intimidating his daughters?

“Sorry, Papa,” the curvy one says.

“So you should be, Arabella,” he grumbles. “When I tell you to come, you’d better run next time.”

Prick.

I stand when he gestures his hand in my direction. “Arabella … Lucia, this is Dante Mancini. He’s now running his family’s business since his father’s passing.”

Lucia is the first to move, stepping forward and extending her hand to wrap her fingers around mine. Up close, I can tell she’s the younger of the two. The smile she gives me is a genuine one.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr Mancini. I’m sorry to hear about your father’s passing.”

“Thank you, but call me Dante, please. Mr Mancini makes me feel old.”

---