Page 78 of Unholy Union
“It’s not Cassian or Lazaro. I told both to focus on finding the shooter. They wouldn’t show up without calling.”
He starts to move, grimacing as he tries to push himself up, but I’m already standing. My legs are stiff from sitting too long on the rug, but I cross the room anyway, heart picking up speed with each step.
“I’ve got it.”
Cato’s voice snaps out before I reach the door.
“Sabrina. Check who it is!”
There’s a sharpness in his tone that makes me pause; he’s not angry but more so suspicious and protective, two things that make me extra cautious as I step toward the door and peer through the peephole.
My stomach drops. “It’s your father.”
Cato swears under his breath. “Let him in.”
The moment I open the door, the atmosphere in the penthouse changes.
Don Augusto Valente doesn’t need to speak to command the space. He enters like he owns the floor, the building, the air itself. His long black coat moves around his legs, his stride fast and imperious. He’s flanked by his main enforcer, Pello Severino, a brutal slab of a man who resembles a bulldog in human form. His gaze rakes the room in a slow, predatory sweep.
Don Valente doesn’t spare me so much as a glance. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence at all. He walks past me like I’m invisible.
I turn to watch him cross the room, heading straight for Cato on the sofa. Cato’s sat up, clearly worn down from tonight’s ordeal, though alert enough to glare at his father as he approaches.
“Care to explain what happened?” the Don demands without preamble.
“What does it look like? I took my wife out for the evening,” Cato answers bluntly. “There was a shooter. I was hit.”
He doesn’t addyou already know this. He doesn’t have to.
It’s in his tone and the way he doesn't perform for him.
Don Valente’s jaw tics, his dark eyes narrowing. “I came to see for myself whether my heir could be so careless.”
Cato shakes his head as if tempted to counter him but fights off the urge.
“I expected more from you,” his father snarls almost contemptuously. “You’re supposed to lead. To rise above distraction. Instead, you bleed on your own floor, shot in public like a common thug. You’re proving to be more like your brother than I thought. Maybe worse. At least Cassian knows not to get emotionally invested in his playthings.”
The word stings even as it’s not spoken directly to me.
Plaything.
He means me.
My throat tightens, but I keep my expression neutral and arms folded tightly across my chest. I’m not letting myself react to him.
Not visibly, even if I feel the burn prickling my skin.
But I do notice how Cato momentarily seems to glance in my direction before he glares at his father.
“How I live my life—and run my marriage—is none of your concern.”
Don Valente lets out a short, mirthless sound that’s half scoff and half breath.
“Everything about you is my concern,” he bites back. “You think being my first born by virtue makes you untouchable? You haven’t been handed the throne yet, Cato. Don’t confuse your birthright with my approval. You make one more mistake, and this entire legacy turns to ash with you.”
He turns sharply, adjusting the cuff on his coat sleeve as he strides out without another word. Pello follows like his not-so-distant shadow, closing the door behind them with a snick.
For a moment, the only sound in the penthouse is the soughing wind pressing against the windows and the faint buzz of city traffic far below us.
