Turning, I’m surprised to see a man, his shoulder pressed against the wall as he leans into it. His arms are crossed over his chest, and he looks past me down to where my brother went.
He’s exceptionally handsome in his all-black tuxedo, looking lethal as he stares daggers down the empty hallway. His dark hair is short and well-styled, as is his well-groomed facial hair.
But his hazel eyes…they’re piercing. Colors swirl together, hues of green and brown, and there’s something about them that sparks recognition.
“Did he hurt you?” he asks, his Italian accent thick through his words.
“Not physically,” I tell him. “That was my brother.”
“It is clear that family relationships mean nothing to Joseph Paladino. Has he ever hurt you?”
My eyes narrow on him, my lips pursing as I work to solve the puzzle of how I know this man and why he finds it appropriate to ask such a personal question. “Not physically,” I repeat. “You know who I am?”
“Sì, and you know who I am, so let's save ourselves the back and forth we went through many years ago, Vincenza.”
He reaches around and unties his masquerade mask, and just like that, I’m transported back in time, knowing exactly who this man is. Once the realization hits, Iseehim.
Beneath the features of a man, I see the boy who I met so briefly but who made such an impact.
“I thought you were out of the country,” I question, knowing it’s quite possibly the lamest thing I could have come up with, but still, the words trickled out of my mouth quicker than I could stop them.
“Keeping tabs on me?”
“The maids talk.”
My heart is hammering in my chest at the smirk that dusts his lips as he pushes off the wall and takes two steps toward me. Now that he’s closer, his scent floods my senses and smells better than I remember it.
I’ve been raised to hate this man—hate his family—to the depths of my being, yet just being in his presence makes me weak in the knees.
Lifting my chin, I stare him down. My arms cross over my chest as he comes closer, crowding my space just like he did all those years ago. The memory of that night is still vivid. It took years before my imagination stopped creating scenarios ofmore.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” he says with sarcasm as he places his palm against the wall behind me, caging me in with one arm. “Your brother is dirt on the bottom of my shoe—the scum that walks this earth. He is the reason things go bump in the night, and children have nightmares of monsters under the bed. He makes your father look like a saint when we both know he’s anything but.”
“I’m under no illusion that my father nor my brother are upstanding men. Why are you here, Sly? Felt like reliving the past and being an ass to a woman who has nothing to do with the grudge you hold against my family?”
He laughs, and the sound is so beautiful I have to force myself not to smile at it—to remember that while he clearly doesn’t like me, I don’t like him either.
“A grudge? Bella ragazza, this is more than a grudge. Your father murdered my blood,my uncle, and has threatened my family for more than a decade.”
“It has nothing to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you. You’re a Paladino.”
“I may be a Paladino, but I was achildwhen my father did what he did. Your feud is with my father, not me.”
“It is with anyone who has your surname,” he scoffs.
Exhaling a breathy laugh, I push my hand against his chest to distance him. He backs up without any hesitation or lingering, which I can’t help but find refreshing. Most men would have pushed back or stepped closer, but with the simple gesture, he took the hint and gave me the space I wordlessly asked for.
“I get it—you hate me and anyone with my family name. So I’ll repeat my question, Sly. Why are you here?”
His eyes flare, then he turns on his heel, facing away from me. I watch him push his fingers through his hair in frustration, then swipe them down his face.
I stay silent, watching him closely. His reaction. His body language. He seems as confused as I feel.
Looking over his shoulder, his eyes sweep over me slowly, as though committing me to memory. “I don’t know,” he answers. “I shouldn’t have followed you out here, but I saw him and needed to know he wouldn’t harm you. The way he looked at you in the ballroom was not how a brother looks at a sister. It is how someone looks at an enemy. A threat.”
His answer slams into my chest, the admission softening the anger I’ve been clinging to for the last several minutes, yet it also puts me on edge.
