Page 66 of Unholy Union
“Any leads on who was behind it?”
That question earns another tic of his jaw. He sets his wine glass down before giving the same answer I’m already expecting.
“The specifics of the family business are none of your concern, principessa.”
Heat rushes up my neck and scalds my skin like a low-grade burn. I avert my gaze, focusing on a bead of condensation sliding down my wine glass.
The words echo like a slap.
None of your concern.
I force another bite of antipasto, chewing slowly, as if that alone might keep the frustration from spilling out of me.
It’s not like it’s anything new for important information to be kept from me. I was married off without my consent, for heaven’s sake!
My input, my agency, my anything has never really mattered. Even when it wasmylife that was in danger.
I guess I should be used to it by now. But there’s something about it this time that proves to be too much. Just an inch too far after a lifetime of being pushed around.
“Silly me,” I laugh, reaching for my glass of wine. “How dare I want to know who tried to kill me? It’s not my place.”
“I already told you I’ll handle it.”
“Of course you will,” I mutter, swallowing the tart wine.
“And if you really want to know,” he goes on, “we’re still figuring out who it was—unless you have other enemies I should know about?”
I let out a short, humorless scoff, rolling my eyes so hard it hurts. “None that I can think of. Except for you, my dear husband.”
He lets out a low, dark laugh that borders on mocking.
“If I wanted to hurt you, principessa, I’ve had ample opportunity. I promise you, I get too much fun from making you miserable to ever kill you.”
I raise both brows, the corners of my mouth tight. “Is that so? I wouldn’t know. You and your familydidkill my brother.”
Uncertain silence follows, the atmosphere shifting at once. The air thickens with tension so palpable the staff seem eager to escape into the kitchen.
My chest is rising and falling too fast, fingers clenched around the handle of my knife. I set it down slowly and try to compose myself before Cato Valente gets the best of me.
But it’s already too late.
My husband hasn’t so much as flinched. He hasn’t blinked or moved at all. He sits immobile across the table, peering at me with his stormy dark eyes and chiseled, handsome face as if he’s unaffected by it all.
It’s almost maddening how aloof he can be.
When he finally speaks, his tone is cold and eerily like his father’s.
“You keep bringing up your brother’s murder. Yes, my family did kill him. And do you know what? It wasdeserved.”
My throat tightens, bile instantly rising up the narrow passage.
“Your family killed my Uncle Adriano first, principessa,” he continues coldly. “So get off your fucking high horse and realize you have blood on your hands too. Your whole family does.”
I don’t even register the hot tears until they’re blurring my vision and wetting my cheeks. My hands are trembling, but so is the rest of me.
I’m so angry, so frustrated and hurt.
So fucking sick of feeling powerless.
