Page 46 of Unforgiving Queen
I narrowed my eyes on him. “We have bigger shit to worry about.”
“Like what?” my mother cut in. “What’s more important than your birthright?”
“Besides, it will be good for the Omertà if you take over the Yakuza,” Dante pointed out. He now had a seat at the table, and it made the way he was pointing out the obvious even more maddening.
A sardonic breath left me. It didn’t fucking matter whether I was Leone’s or Romero’s son. I was still a fucking outsider. That seat at the Omertà table wasn’t mine. I was the illegitimate son.
I gritted my teeth, reining in my temper. “I’ll take over the Yakuzamyway. I don’t need that document. Discussion over.”
“Fucking sensitive much?” Dante muttered under his breath, but at least he dropped the subject.
Or maybe it was because Oba made her way to our table, her wrinkled face a testament to years of experience and hard work. Sometimes you could just look at someone and know they’d lived a full life.
“My favorite customers.” She beamed at us, her hands folded over the front of her kimono. “Amon and Hana, so nice to see you. I didn’t know you’d be back in Paris so soon.”
“She never left,” Dante grumbled.
“Ah, did you decide to stay for Paris Fashion Week?”
Mamma offered a weak smile. It was hardly appropriate to say she remained because Father—correction, Dante’s father—decided not to return home on New Year’s Eve, and his death would remain out of the press.
It wasn’t exactly unusual—he had mistresses all over the fucking continent—so none of us had thought twice about it. Although it worried me that Dante hadn’t reacted at all since that sliced dick showed up.
My mother muttered something vague in response, but luckily Oba didn’t seem to notice, her attention pulled elsewhere.
She looked in the direction of the entryway door and waved. “Hello, Reina. So nice to see you.”
My heart stopped. It fucking came to a screeching halt. I slowly turned my head, following Oba’s gaze, and the world faded away.
Reina returned the greeting, her back to all of us as she dusted flurries from her coat. “Hello, Oba.”
Fuck, her voice was as soft as I remembered it.
The petite figure wrapped in a flowy pink coat. Her white wool skirt barely reached her knees, her legs hidden under pink tights and white boots.
And her hair—
Fuck, what had she done to her hair? Her golden curls barely reached her slim shoulders.
She turned in our direction and her smile froze on her face. A round of gasps erupted, and through the red haze that filled my brain, it took me a while to realize it was my mother’s and Oba’s.
Reina’s face was black and blue, the bruises stark against her pale skin. And her neck—
Before I knew what I was doing, I was on my feet and prowling through the restaurant, my chair falling to the floor with a thud. The sound of silverware clinking against the ground.
None of it mattered.
Someone hurt her. Someone put their fucking hands on her.I’m going to murder whoever did this with my bare hands.
The buzzing in my ears refused to ease. My anger coated her in red, taking over her pink colors.
Reina didn’t move, her eyes tracking my every step until I towered over her. She still smelled like cinnamon, still as beautiful as ever. But there were no hearts in her eyes. At least none for me.
My eyes fell to her slim neck, fingerprints on it clear as fucking day. Someone had choked the living daylights out of her.
“Who hurt you?” I growled, my limbs shaking with anger. “Who fucking touched you?”
Something flickered in her eyes. Was it fear? It couldn’t be. She knew I’d never hurt her.Except you did, my mind whispered.
