Page 24 of The Proposal

Our moment is broken when there is a loud knock on the door. I take the few steps separating us and reach for her hand. “Come,” I say, wrapping my fingers around her delicate ones. “Do I need to warn you to be on your best behaviour?”

“No.”

“Don’t embarrass or undermine me in front of my men.”

“I’ve been around my father and his goons my entire life,” she spits. “I know how to act, Dante.”

Goons?

I’ll be sure to address that with her later, but there’s no time now. “Good.”

When we reach the door, I let go of her hand and idly twist the chunky gold ring on my pinky finger. It’s shaped like a coin, with the Mancini coat of arms engraved in the centre.

It was my father’s … and now it’s mine. It’s not just a symbol; it’s a legacy. It should be enough to remind the men I’m now in charge. I’ll be sure to make that clear if it doesn’t.

I fill my lungs with air as I reach for the handle, and when I open the door, I’m greeted by a sea of smiling faces.

They came.

We are gathered in the dining room as Arabella hands out steaming cups of cappuccinos. She’s been the dutiful host and gave everyone a warm greeting.

It should’ve pleased me, but all I could think about was the day we met, when she wiped her hand on the side of her dress after we touched … like I was fucking contaminated. She’s obviously a good actress; I’ll need to remember that going forward.

I watch as she hands a coffee to Sammy, and when his leery eyes run down the length of her body as she walks away, my fury rises.

“Sammy,” I bellow across the room. I know I shouldn’t, but I’ll be damned if I’ll stand back and be disrespected like that in my own home.

“Yeah, boss?” he replies, tearing his eyes away from Arabella’s arse. The smile drops from his face the second he locks eyes with me. He knows he’s fucked up.

“Look at my wife like that again, and I’ll personally cut your eyes out of your head.” I keep my voice measured, but the warning beneath it is unmistakable.

These men know me well enough to understand that I don’t make idle threats.

He swallows thickly, nodding once as the entire room goes silent. Every pair of eyes, including Arabella’s, snap to me, and the tension in the air is suddenly thick. That feeling only intensifies when Edoardo enters my home a second later … like he fucking owns it.

My father may have let him come and go freely when he was alive, but I’m not him, and this house now belongs to me.

“Dante, my boy,” he says, throwing his hands in the air.

“I’m not your boy,” I grumble. “And I didn’t hear you knock.”

He approaches me, clasping both of my shoulders. “I didn’t know I had to.”

“This ismyhome now, so I’d appreciate it if you do that going forward.”

“Noted,” he says with a casual smile, but his hard stare tells a different story. “I’m so happy to see you looking so fit and well. I was concerned we were going to lose you too.”

“Really?”

“Of course … we are like family. Your father, God rest his soul, was my best friend.”

It could be a coincidence—I once never would’ve doubted this man’s loyalty—but I’m suddenly finding him suspicious as fuck. It could be just paranoia on my part, but Stefano’s words are at the forefront of my mind:“It sounds like they may have had someone on the inside.”

I would hate to think my father’s closest friend of forty years would be behind his demise, but stranger things have happened in this world.

My brother never really warmed to him. He thought Edoardo was more of a devil on my father’s shoulder than a confidant, but I’m not sure if that was the case. Papa never needed encouragement.

What does strike me as odd, though, is that I haven’t heard from him once since I got shot, and he has my number. He used to call me almost daily when my father was alive. If he cared so much, he would’ve fucking been there when I needed him most. At the very least, to offer his condolences. Every single one of our men reached out to me in some way. Whether it was flowers, a card, a phone call or a text message, all I got from Edoardo was radio silence.

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