Page 74 of Unholy Union
Every movement feels like a question posed in silence—what would you give for love? What would you become to keep it?
I glance at Sabrina. She hasn’t looked away once. Her hand has traveled to my forearm, fingers lightly curled, almost as if she doesn’t realize she’s clutching me and not the armrest. Her grip tightens during a crescendo, when the violinist crumples under the weight of his final sacrifice.
She doesn’t notice me watching her instead of the stage, but I can’t resist studying her reactions to the show, even in the dark theater.
All I can think is how beautiful she looks when she forgets to be guarded. When she’strulyherself.
I’ve never seen this side of her before…
When the final curtain falls, the theater erupts in thunderous applause. People surge to their feet in a standing ovation. Sabrina joins them immediately, clapping hard with her face flushed. I rise more slowly, less for the performance and more for the woman beside me whose energy is still so damn infectious.
I lean in close and murmur, “Not bad for a night out with your villain husband, huh?”
She bows her head in laughter, still applauding the show. But she doesn’t dispute a word I’ve said, which tells me all I need to know.
Minutes later, Sabrina’s still buzzing as we step out into the plaza. Her heels click over the stone as she clutches the folded program like it’s a limited-edition collectible. She’s talking faster than usual, words tumbling out of her in waves of post-show glee, hazel eyes bright under the wash of city lights.
“And I’m telling you, Rosalee Mamet hasn’t danced since the Barcelona tour last year. I didn’t even know she was in New York! That final sequence with the veil? That’s her signature. God, the control in her arabesque—did youseeher lines?”
I did. Briefly. But I’ve been watchinghermore than the stage all night.
I fish out my phone and flick off a quick message to Edgar, our driver for the night, to bring the car around. My fingers move automatically, muscle memory overriding thought, while the rest of me is too busy taking Sabrina in.
Her voice, her energy, even the animated way she talks with her hands fascinates me.
All things I’ve never noticed about her before tonight.
It’s late spring, but the breeze off the fountain carries a chill that snakes beneath her dress. She shivers, then crosses her arms to play it off.
I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Cold, principessa? Don’t be afraid to ask if you need some help warming up.”
She casts a sideways glance at me, lips quirking. “I’m sure you would enjoy that very much.”
That smirk of hers is dangerous. More than dangerous, it’s damn lethal.
I can see why Matteo Basile was besotted with her for so long. I find myself grinning back despite my best judgment. I reach toward her, ready to slide an arm around her waist and draw her in.
But then I see it—a motorcycle tears down the avenue, outpacing every other car on the street. The rider’s dressed in all black from helmet to boots, one arm raised with what’s a machine gun.
FUCK!
“Down!” I shout, surging forward. My shoulder slams into Sabrina, knocking her to the ground.
Gunfire crackles everywhere as suddenly the world around us erupts into chaos.
Chapter 16
Sabrina
This Dangerous Love - Nostalghia
By the time the elevator doors seal shut, Cato’s dress shirt is already soaked in blood, and all I can do is press harder on the wound and pray he doesn’t collapse.
His blood is warm and slick against my palms. A small cry bubbles out of me as I look up at the digital numbers on the screen and the elevator carries us up to the top floor.
Cato refused to wait for the police and ambulance.
As gun smoke hazed the air and people frantically screamed, running in every direction, he demanded we flee the scene.
