Page 83 of Venomous Throne

Isabella squeezed my hands once more before she let go. The skin on my palms tingled from the contact. Only once she was inside did I remember the backpack. Cursing, I slung it over my shoulder. By the time I dropped down to the patio roof, her bedroom was dark, and she’d gone downstairs to attend to whatever business the night was bringing her way.

I lifted the window and snuck inside. Her room was sacred. A hush fell over me as I moved across the carpet. Her scent brushed against me with a warm embrace. I wanted to stay here.

I wanted to belong.

But first I had to prove to her—and probably to myself—that I did.

Carefully unzipping the backpack, I removed the humble offering. I left it on the nightstand, hoping it would be the first thing she saw when she came back.

When I ventured back into the night, it was to undo the damage I caused by coming to Chicago in the first place. Damage that had the force to destroy the fragile bond that existed between the mafia queen and me. I wasn’t letting that happen. Not a chance. Isabella put a claim on me, and it was powerful enough to change everything.

Chapter 32 – Isabella

The chatter had ceased. Utensils hung suspended. As one, the Made Men looked toward the front door as if they could see into the drive beyond.

“Who is it?” I snapped, clattering down the stairs.

“The men posted out front said it was a silver Porsche, donna,” Franky responded, holding up his walkie-talkie.

As if on cue, the device burped and gurgled to life. The guards asked if they should intercept the vehicle.

“No, we’ll answer the intercom. Have the men stand by,” I instructed.

My bodyguard shifted uncomfortably. That might not be how things were done. But he obliged me.

“Pronto?” I said into the home security panel on the wall.

“Signora Moretti, buona sera,” a voice crackled through.

I frowned. The tone was familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

“Vitale! You bastard,” one of the soldiers called out from where he stood near the stove.

Relief swept through the group.

“Is this Giovani Vitali?” I clarified.

“Si, signora.”

I pursed my lips. “What do you want?”

“Let me in, I have news.”

Johnny Vitale was one of my late husband’s capos. He hadn’t joined me at the funeral, standing with Bonetti on the wrong side of the casket.

But from the grins around the room, I feared it would be a wrong move to have him shot in the driveway.

“Open the gate,” I instructed my bodyguard. “And Franky?”

“Yes?”

“Watch him.” I shared a look with my most loyal soldier.

Franky tipped his chin in a silent nod.

Less than five minutes later, the capo was inside. Taller than most, he walked with a confidence that came from the ability to back up his actions. Black eyes flashed from a deeply tanned face. His teeth were pearly white, and black whiskers shadowed his face. A killer in the flesh. Soldiers greeted him, and the other capos shot jibes in his direction. While it peeved me to no end to see him warmly received, I decided to measure my next moves carefully.

My men needed to see me as strong, but also as just and open-minded.