Page 111 of Unholy Union
I rake a hand through my hair, on the edge of losing my shit. I’m known for my calculated, cool demeanor. My aloof and controlled exterior even when enraged, but this… this is different.
Did she step away for air? Did someone lure her somewhere under false pretenses? Was she taken?
If she’s gone—if he’s touched her—I’ll kill him.
I don’t care if he’s my father.
My feet carry me faster, cutting through a crowd of socialites and donors, most of whom are only vaguely aware something is wrong. I don’t stop to excuse myself. I don’t care if I look unhinged. All I can think about is Sabrina’s face, the flash of fear in her eyes if she were in danger.
I’m mid-stride when she appears like a mirage from the other end of the museum corridor.
My eyes lock on her, doing a sweep to check for injuries.
She’s in one piece, but I can immediately tell something’s off about her.
She’s stepped into view from a shadowed hall, flanked by Tessa, both of them flushed and quiet. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, her expression vacant. When her gaze meets mine, I search for some explanation, some spark, some fucking sign that she’s okay.
“Sabrina,” I snap, rushing toward her in two quick strides. “Where the hell have you been?”
She hesitates, barely looking me in the eye. “We… we got lost. Tessa and I. We found a bathroom and exited on the wrong side. Then ended up in a different wing.”
Her tone is clipped, lacking any real emotion.
But it’s a lie. I know her well enough by now to pick up on it.
There’s something she’s not telling me.
I study her face, deciding against pressing her for more answers on the spot. For now, I’ll accept the fact that she’s returned unharmed and in one piece. But as I slide my arm around her shoulders and steer her toward the exit, I’m left with more questions than I had when she first went missing.
For many families, Sundays are a day to recharge, relax, and spend time in each other’s company. For a family like mine, Sundays are just another chance to spend as much time apart as possible.
Papà more often than not spends his Sundays on the green, surrounded by other men with liver spots and expensive watches, trading power plays between swings of his nine iron. If he’s not golfing, he’s at the Gotham Club nursing a glass of scotch older than Celeste and puffing cigars imported directly from Cuba.
When Mama isn’t at some overpriced spa having seaweed slapped across her face, she can be found terrorizing Bergdorf’s, or perched in a velvet booth downtown with the other high-ranking mafia wives, sipping cucumber martinis and fake-laughing at women she’ll later bad mouth behind their backs.
Cassian’s Sundays are predictable. He spends them in bed, hungover, reeking of sweat and sex, deleting texts from women whose numbers he never saved, ignoring the pounding at his door from whatever poor girl hasn’t figured out he’s never speaking to her again.
And then there’s me.
I used to fill my Sundays with work—both as a capo and for our front business, dealing with territory disputes, collecting debts owed, conducting deals, and anything else that came the Valentes’ way.
There was a time when I preferred to spend my weekends like that. But more recently, I’ve become interested in using my free time to spend it with the woman I’m married to.
I reach for her out of instinct, only to find empty sheets.
No soft skin, no warmth, no lingering scent of her perfume. Just the absence of her.
I sit up and glance toward the bathroom door. It’s open and empty, telling me she’s already up and about.
I shower quickly and head downstairs. The staff tells me she’s already eaten.
“She took her breakfast on the terrace,” one of our staffers named Bianca offers, eyes downcast like she’s worried I’ll be angry she let my wife slip through my fingers.
Outside.
Of course she is.
The weather’s nice and breezy. The sun’s out and shining bright.
