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That last statement jerked Uncle Flávio’s attention away from the priest, power and influence being the twin drugs he rabidly fed on. When he wasn’t boasting about how he’d acquired them, he was greedily plotting nefarious ways to gain more.
Odessa, knowing she would inevitably be trapped in whatever web his plans created, redirected her attention from her father’s casket too, her heart squeezing in dread at whatever calamity was approaching. Because she’d learned to her cost that there was always, without fail, a worst-case scenario with the Santella family.
Following the gazes of the mourners, realising even the priest’s words had trailed off, she blinked away tears she didn’t remember shedding.
Then her heart stopped altogether.
What was he doing here?
Because this was truly the last place she’d expected to see him.
Aristotle Zanelis.
Ares.
The name exploded in her head like the earth-shaking feats of his Greek namesake.
In the years since she’d last seen him he’d conquered the world, moulded it to his will and made himself a formidable force to boot.
He wielded the kind of power Flávio and Vincenzo would give their limbs for. And he was here, at her father’s funeral?
Belatedly she saw the smaller man striding at his side.
Sergios Zanelis—his father. The man who’d chauffeured her father for the better part of twenty years until crippling arthritis—and her father’s unscrupulous behaviour—had forced the gentle Greek to retire.
‘Who invited him?’ Flávio barked, but already she could hear the thirsty speculation in his voice, the fervid scramble to work this angle to his advantage. She felt more than saw his hard eyes drill into her temple. ‘Did you—’
‘No,’ she interjected strongly, still unable to take her eyes off the towering, broad-shouldered man who bore down on them as if he owned the very land he walked on.
Odessa would’ve speculated that he probably did—considering his international real estate mogul status these days—if she hadn’t known for a fact that the mansion she’d been born in now belonged to her uncle.
Besides, considering how they’d parted ten years ago, she wouldn’t have dared to reach out to Ares for anything—never mind condolences for her father, who’d treated him as deplorably as Elio had.
What about what you did?
Vines of shame and righteous indignation twisted around her heart, strangling her as he drew closer. Or was it the sheer magnificence of the man who’d lived up to every promise of the drop-dead gorgeousness his younger self had predicted?
Because...angeli sopra...Ares Zanelis was carved from the very best of celestial moulds.
‘Who is this?’ Vincenzo snapped.
Flávio stepped away without answering, crossing the grass towards their unexpected guests. Completely ignoring the senior Zanelis, her uncle held out his hand to Ares, his initial vexation totally eradicated by his covetous smile.
Odessa’s heart leapt with alarm when Ares’s hand remained at his side, his face formidably imperial. But she watched his lips move and a tense second later Flávio was transferring his greeting to Ares’s father, who shook his hand and nodded solemnly.
Only after the older man had been greeted did Ares shake Flávio’s hand. The whole spectacle lasted less than twenty seconds, but it was shockingly clear who’d gained the upper hand in the little exchange.
Odessa gasped as her wrist was trapped in a crushing grip.
‘Answer me when I talk to you, girl,’ Vincenzo growled beside her, sensing the balance of power shifting and petulantly resenting it.
‘Let go of me.’
Her demand was low and hoarse. His cruel grip and the knowledge that later she would be sporting a bruise hollowed her stomach in an unmistakable portent of what was to come.
She tried to snatch her hand away, but he merely tightened his hold. About to protest further, she froze when Ares Zanelis arrived next to her, his imposing body blocking out the sun.
‘Release her.’
