Page 48 of Revenge

“Where to?” Leo, my soldier behind the wheel, asks.

I shake my head.

“You don’t know, boss? Or you don’t care?”

“Head to Miami, you idiot,” Il Greco, my capo, mutters. “We’re in a fucking motorboat. It’s not like we can sail to Australia.”

“Shut up.” I just need to think. To figure out my next move. I always have the next move. I’m the fucking king of strategy.

Except right now, my mind is completely blank.

I don’t care about the next move.

I don’t care about anything at all.

It’s no longer about revenge. I realize, suddenly, that it never was. It was about that girl in the closet who I felt unworthy of.

All this work was actually to bring myself up to Dahlia’s level. To make myself worthy of her.

And I just blew it all by showing her what I really am.

A monster.

Chapter Twelve

Antonio

I stand on the balcony of my Manhattan apartment and look down.

Dahlia’s in this city, not that I’ve seen her.

But illogically, her presence here is what drew me back. I needed to breathe the same air she breathes. Walk the same streets.

Every cell in my body aches for her. It seems incredible that I only had her in my bed four short nights because I seem to remember every single freckle on her skin, every curve of her flesh. I remember how silky her hair is, the way her mouth parts when she’s close to coming.

And the music.

It haunts me all day and night.

I hear her voice singing Puccini. I remember the joy on her face when she was on that stage in Miami, singing pop songs and dancing with abandon.

“Boss, you gotta see this.” Il Greco comes out on the balcony and shoves a newspaper in my face. It’s the society pages of the Manhattan Times, and the bold headline reads, “Yacht King Heiress Spills About Her Marriage.”

I thrust it back at him. “I don’t want to read it.”

“No. Really, Antonio. You need to read it.”

My lip curls in a snarl, but I snatch the paper back and snap it open. What kind of fuckery do I have to strategize around now?

In the days I’ve been back, I’ve expected some kind of assault from King. I expected the FBI or more mercs. I bolstered security on the King Yacht operations and my private residence, but nothing has come.

Now, it seems they’re fighting with public opinion.

What a laugh–as if a brute like me gives a fuck what people think of him. I’m a Beretta. My reputation was tarnished the day I was born.

King Yacht heiress Dahlia King reveals all about the man she has loved since she was fifteen. My eyes slow as the words jumble and rearrange themselves on the page.

What is this?