Page 63 of Dance of Madness

I pause, the glass halfway to my mouth. “With me?”

“And Gabriella.”

That elicits a bored laugh from me. “Of course he does.”

Leo was at Knightsblood at the same time as me. Same time as Carmine and Nico, too, as well as Roman, Mikhail, Bane, and Laz—although the four Russians went out of their way to avoid even beingseenwith Leo, despite their mutual backgrounds and the fact that their fathers did business together at some point.

Mostly because Leo was, and I would assume stillis, a fuckingdouchebag. I’ve heard through the grapevine that he doesn’t drink anymore, though. That’s gotta besomekind of improvement.

But if he’s requested that my sister be there for the meeting too, it tells me Leo hasn’t found any sense of subtlety in his sobriety.

“This should be amusing,” I smirk, glancing at Dom. “What’s Gabby got tomorrow, schedule-wise?”

He shakes his head, scowling. “I honestly have no idea.”

I peer at him. “It’s part of your job to know.”

He folds his arms. “Yes, it is. And it would be a lot easier todothat job if she didn’t make a habit of ditching her security detail every other night.”

Fair. And accurate.

I set the glass down. “Make sure she’s here. I can guess what the fuck Leo wants.”

“Would that be something we don’t want to give him?” Dom mutters.

“Depends on how annoyed with her I am.”

He looks up sharply. “Wait—Gabriella? That’s what he’s after?”

“I mean, no offense to my sister, but why would he want her at the meeting too unless it was a marriage thing?”

Dom’s face darkens. “Leo Debolsky is?—”

“A bag of dicks. I’m aware.”

“And Gabriella is your sister.”

“Also aware,” I sigh. “She’s a massive pain in the ass, too. If nothing else…” I shrug and grin at him. “It’d be leverage to get her to stop acting like a spoiled fucking brat all the time.”

Dom chuckles and shakes his head. “That should go over well,” he says dryly.

Just then, the front door to the house slams shut, and a few seconds later, Hurricane Gabriella makes landfall in the kitchen.

My sister and I are a lot alike. Same dark hair, same green eyes.

Honestly, same temperament.

Tonight, she blows in wearing a black leather jacket over what I guess some people might call a dress—tiny, sparkly, and very Gabriella. Her Louboutins click on the tile as she steps in, her hair half-falling out of its elaborate up-do and a sly, alcohol-fueled smirk on her painted red lips.

She looks like trouble incarnate.

“Oh, did you boys wait up for me?” she drawls.

She peels off her coat and tosses it over the back of a stool like it’s someone else’s problem. Then she opens the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and downs half of it at once.

“Good morning, Gabby,” I drawl. “Please, come right in. Make yourself at home.”

She turns to shoot me a look. “Itismy home, asshat.”

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