Page 50 of Shadows of Steel
I reach for Harlow’s hand. She stills, just for a second, but she doesn’t pull away. The music shifts, the opening notes of “Ti Amo” filling the room, low, sensual, haunting. A song about love, devotion, forever.
What a fucking joke.
I pull her close, my hand settling at the curve of her back, fingers curling around hers. She places her free hand on my shoulder, but there’s tension in her fingertips, stiffness in the way she holds herself.
“Relax, leonessa.” I murmur against her ear, bending slightly to close the distance. My breath ghosts over her skin, and I feel the way she tenses before forcing herself to exhale. But she listens.
I smirk, my voice dropping even lower. “Good girl.”
Her breath catches, sharp and unsteady, like she wasn’t expecting the praise, like she resents how easily she responded to it.
The dance begins slow, fluid, our movements in sync despite the charged energy crackling between us. I guide her into a turn, circling before drawing her flush against me. A quiet gasp escapes as our bodies align. My fingers press firmly into the delicate curve of her spine, keeping her grounded. Harlow’s eyes widen, her cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted.
Everyone is watching, but for a moment, it doesn’t matter. I drag my fingers along her lower back, pulling her even closer. She sucks in a breath, a reaction she tries to hide but fails. When the final note of the song echoes through the room, I don’t let her step away.
She tries.
But I grip the small of her back, keeping her right where I want her. Her breasts press against my chest, her pulse hammering beneath my fingers. “Stop fucking running from me, Leonessa,” I whisper, my lips brushing her ear. “I love a good chase.”
Before she can respond, applause and cheers erupt around the room. People flood toward us, offering congratulations, taking up her attention. And it grates on me.
I don’t know when it started, this irritation, this possessiveness, but it’s there, a constant, simmering thing beneath my skin. It coils tighter with every interruption, every smiling guest who steals another sliver of her time.
My patience is wearing dangerously thin, my grip on restraint fraying. I want this fucking night to be over. Amidst the noise, the laughter, and the ceaseless movement around us, a voice cuts through, steady and familiar, its edge carrying just enough weight to demand notice. “Zio.”
I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
Leonardo.
I haven’t seen him since he left Palermo that day, since he disappeared back into his carefully curated world of academia. Unlike the rest of us, who deal in blood and violence, he walks in circles lined with prestige and power, lecturing at one of the most elite universities for our kind. A place where the sons and daughters of mafia royalty are groomed for the roles they’ll inevitably inherit.
I never wanted him in that position. Never trusted the idea of him embedding himself in that world, pretending to be an educator. But he insisted. Said it was crucial for the Camorra. He never elaborated on why.
I didn’t push. Not yet.
Because Leonardo doesn’t do anything without intent. And whatever he's after, I know it’s not as simple as he claims.
When I finally turn, he’s standing just a few feet away, dressed in a suit that’s too refined for a man who claims to live among students. His dark gaze flicks between Harlow and me, unreadable at first, until the corner of his mouth lifts ever so slightly, his smirk carrying a trace of something just shy of amusement.
“You’re looking well, better than last time I saw you. Must be the change in surroundings.” His attention remains fixed on my wife.
There’s nothing overtly wrong with his words, but they grate on me anyway. The way he says them. The way her eyes meet his, even if just for a moment.
It sits wrong. Twists something in my gut.
Because the last time they met, she believed he was meant to be her husband.
Would she have chosen him, given the chance?
The thought alone makes my jaw tighten, and I shouldn’t fucking care. Leonardo lets the moment stretch, dragging it out, testing, provoking, because of course he fucking would. Before I can put an end to it, two more familiar faces join us.
Sofia, Harlow’s cousin, slips effortlessly into the space beside her, pulling my wife into conversation. It’s a welcome shift, something easy, something that doesn’t make my blood fucking boil.
Elena, however, lingers. She doesn’t speak right away, doesn’t immediately acknowledge Leonardo. When she finally does, her voice is cool, her expression impassive. “Salvatore.”
“Elena.” His smirk deepens, amusement threading through his tone like a quiet taunt. She remains unaffected, her indifference sharper than any retort. She refuses to indulge him, offering nothing more, not a flicker of reaction, not even the satisfaction of a glance held too long.
For a moment, something fractures in Leonardo’s carefully crafted façade. It’s subtle, barely there, but I catch it, the way his gaze lingers on her a second too long, the brief clench of his jaw. His smirk falters before he smooths it over, masking whatever reaction had threatened to surface.
