There’s no doubting that Sofia won’t answer right away. She’s a player, even though she’d die before admitting that. And like all players, she’ll make me wait, let me stew in the aftermath of our hookup, because she’s too damn stubborn to admit what we both already know.
She wants me just as much as I want her.
With a tight breath, I shove my phone into my pocket and push forward, my steps sharp against the marble floors of the Salvatore estate.
History clings to the walls, thick as the scent of aged wood and old secrets.
Chandeliers burn overhead, their flames refracted through crystal, spilling fractured light across the room—shattered gold pooling in corners, flickering over faces frozen in oil andtime. The ancestors watch from their gilded frames, their eyes shadowed but knowing, their legacies etched into the very bones of this house.
Ornate sconces flicker along the corridors, their glow catching on the edges of oil portraits, each one bearing the same sharp jawlines and ruthless eyes. Images of the men who shaped this city, who bent it to their will.
And now, Luca holds their legacy in his hands. No wonder why he’s in such a foul mood these days. I grimace, and wonder, for the fiftieth time in the last minute, why he needs to see me right away.
My brother doesn’t summon me unless there’s a reason. He doesn’t waste time, and he sure as hell doesn’t entertain distractions. That’s exactly what Sofia is, or at least, that’s what I need her to be. A distraction. A mistake I should forget.
I scoff under my breath. No. She’s not a mistake.
She’s a problem.
I adjust my suit jacket, rolling the tension from my shoulders as I near Luca’s study. The heavy oak doors loom in front of me, carved with the crest of our family—a coiled serpent wrapped around a dagger. A warning to anyone who underestimates us.
I don’t bother knocking. The door swings open, and a whiskey-soaked, tobacco-laced drift spreads out languidly, teasing at my nostrils. The smell lets you know that the room is lived-in.
The space is steeped in a quiet, smoldering glow, the kind that clings to leather and wood. Light spills in uneven streaks from the flickering fire in the grate, stretching and twisting over the walls, almost alive.
Luca stands at the window, his back to me, the city stretching beyond the glass in a sprawl of lights that ebb and flow.
His suit is immaculate, pressed to perfection, his posture composed. But I know my brother.
He’s waiting for a fight.
"Fratello." My voice is even, but there’s an edge to it.
Luca doesn’t immediately turn.
He draws on his cigar, the ember pulsing to life before he exhales, sending tendrils of smoke weaving through the air like unspoken thoughts.
Luca is never still, though I suspect that’s something he inherited from our father more than anything else. Even here, with the estate’s lights spilling over him in uneven streaks, illuminating the sharp lines of his frame, there’s a restless energy thrumming under the seeming stillness.
He isn’t waiting. He’s assessing, turning possibilities over in his mind, stripping everything down to angles, risks, and inevitabilities.
Then, finally, he speaks.
"You were with Sofia tonight." His voice is smooth, even, but I know him well enough to sense the displeasure beneath the courteous tone.
I slide my hands into my pockets and lean against the heavy oak desk, affecting a casualness I don’t feel. "I was."
Luca exhales, just loud enough for it to matter, and turns. He looks like a ghost painted in gold and shadow, his profile etched in the dim glow of the study. Firelight flickers behind him, the city skyline glittering through glass, casting him in perfect half-light.
His sharp eyes cut through the shadows, locking onto mine with quiet authority.
"She’s a complication, Marco." He doesn’t need to elaborate. We both know exactly what he’s talking about.
I roll a shoulder, shrugging off the weight of the conversation. "It was a mistake." The words taste like a lie because they are. "It won’t happen again." And another lie. May as well go big.
Luca watches me, unreadable as ever. Then, with the kind of unhurried grace that makes men nervous, he steps around his desk. "You and I both know that’s bullshit," he says, his tone damn near conversational, like we’re debating wine pairings.
I lift a brow. "You don’t trust me?"
