Page 103 of Unholy Union
I lean in toward Harper’s ear and mutter, “Tell them I’ve got a meeting. The import out of Cape Town—the one with the diamonds.”
She nods, always composed and professional. Then, with a graceful pause and polite smile, she makes the announcement to the table. “Apologies, gentlemen, but Mr. Valente has an evening engagement. We’ve scheduled a meeting with a client importing some high-value items to South Africa.”
I toss a couple hundreds on the table—more than enough for my uneaten steak and half-drunk wine—and then rise to my feet.
“Have a good evening, gentlemen. Don’t let the celebration kill you before that board vote.”
The door clicks shut behind me, the echo swallowed by the silence of the Valente mansion. As far as I can tell, I’m the only one home except for my lovely wife and the staff.
Papà’s still at the Butcher having his celebratory dinner, Mama’s on a shopping spree, and Cassian’s… Cassian.
I loosen my tie, and instinctively start toward the stairs, my fingers absently scrolling through the notifications on my phone. A few texts from Lazaro about tracking down Mario Pompa, a reminder about tomorrow’s meeting with the art brokers in Tribeca, and a ping from the app I rarely open unless I’m feeling paranoid.
Orpossessive.
The GPS tag linked to Sabrina’s wedding ring glows on the map—first floor, music room.
I pause at the bottom of the staircase, thumb hovering over the screen as I stare at the blinking green dot. That room’s always been more ornamental than functional, a relic of my mother’s brief obsession with classical arts before she lost herself in prescription bottles and spa retreats.
No one uses it. Not even the cleaning staff linger there longer than they have to.
So what the fuck is she doing in there?
Curiosity takes the reins, and I veer off course, my steps silent on the polished marble floors as I head toward the west wing.
The past few days between us have been… strained, to put it mildly. Since the cyanide incident, she’s kept her distance. Not that I blame her. I was brutal and intense. But fuck, she was equally as reckless and brazen.
She looked me in the eye and risked my life like it was a game, and Christ, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since.
It was so fucking sexy.
My little wife’s dangerous. And I think I might love that about her.
There’s something about knowing she could’ve killed me—and chose not to at the last second—that’s been gnawing at the back of my brain in all the worst ways.
It’s all sorts of fucked up and toxic. I’m aware most people would claim I needed therapy if they found out I find it attractive that she’s tried twice now.
But I can’t help it if that appeals to a man like me.
It shows she has a fire inside her. She’s truly a mafia princess. She’s worthy of becoming my mafia queen when I take my father’s place and head the family.
As I near the music room, faint notes meet my ears. Delicate, resonant, and slightly off-tempo. It’s a melancholy melody that drifts into the hall.
I stop short, one hand braced against the doorframe, my head tilted as I listen.
Sabrina’s playing the piano.
She’s seated on the black velvet bench, her back straight, slim fingers gliding over the ivory keys with trembling precision. Her long, dark curls cascade over one shoulder, catching the soft amber light in the room. Her profile is soft and delicate, her lashes fluttering as she blinks a few times.
It takes me another second to realize she’s trying to keep tears from slipping down her cheeks.
She’s crying as she sniffles and lets her fingers press the keys, producing more sad, somber notes.
Truthfully, I’ve never enjoyed watching people play the piano, but Sabrina brings a certain raw beauty to it, even in her grief.
I stand until finally she senses an intrusive presence and glances up.
Her hands freeze mid-press, dropping from the keys with a discordant thud. Color tints her cheeks and she wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand.
