Page 67 of Unholy Union
“I hate you,” I whisper hoarsely.
He leans back in his chair, one arm lazily resting on the table’s edge, and shrugs. “I don’t care.”
I jump to my feet, the chair tipping over and thudding against the hardwood floor. But I don’t look at him or anything else as I storm out of the dining room.
I’ve had enough.
The sound of the shower is steady and rhythmic, a staticky noise that echoes through the conjoined wall.
I lie still in bed, my cotton nightgown damp from the heat my body’s producing. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this nervous.
My eyes are fixed on the bathroom door, waiting for the right moment.
A faint clatter of the shampoo bottle being set down. Water beating against the tile as he rinses off.
There’s still time.
My fingers tighten around the blue and silver rosary tucked inside my palm, its beads warm from my grip.
I slide out of bed slowly, padding across the room while mindful of every creak in the floorboards and shift in the air.
I don’t breathe until I’ve cracked open the door and slipped into the hallway.
The house is still. No Allegra and no Don Valente. Cassian’s still in Manhattan and most of the staff is off shift by now.
It’s just me and him.
And this moment, I can’t take back once it’s done.
I hurry down the hallway, heart hammering, the hem of my nightgown brushing my thighs as I reach his office and slip inside.
The air smells of leather and smoke. The room is dim, cast in the amber glow of the desk lamp he always leaves on. I make a beeline for the minibar, my gaze locking on the crystal decanter that holds his favorite aged scotch, the one he often pours from after a long day conducting business.
My hands tremble as I remove the stopper. The scent of oak and spice rises instantly, rich and bold, so at odds with the sharp, bitter tang of what I’m about to add. I unscrew the small vial hidden inside the rosary’s hollow cross and watch as the fine white powder spills into the amber liquid in a delicate stream, dissolving in its warmth.
It doesn’t cloud or leave a trace. It blends flawlessly within a couple seconds.
For a single breath, I hesitate. I think of his face. How cold he sounded when he said, “It was deserved.”
The way his eyes never flinched when he tore into me like I was nothing.
Then I think of Leo and my fractured heart aches.
He said I have blood on my hands.
Fine.
Now I really do.
I wipe the decanter clean with the corner of my nightgown, erasing any trace of my fingerprints. It’s almost scary how calm I feel now that it’s done. I close the cabinet, slip out of the office, and return to the bedroom before the water shuts off.
Maybe it’s the Corsini in me after all. Iammy father’s daughter.
The daughter of a mafia don, even one as spoiled and protected as me.
I slide under the covers and pull them up to my chest, forcing my breathing to even out, matching a natural rhythm for sleep. The rosary lies hidden under my pillow, no longer a gift but a weapon that’s already been used.
The bathroom door opens with a soft click, and his footsteps pad across the room. He pauses at the dresser to open a drawer and grab something.
