Page 116 of Accidental Alliance

Over the past few days, I have earned enough of Davide’s trust to allow me use of my phone again, something I have been steadfast in not taking advantage of.

I know what trust costs in houses like this. I know how quickly it can become a collar around my neck if handled wrong.

I pull away from Isabella carefully. She makes a soft sound in her sleep, turning slightly toward the warmth I leave behind. The sight of it twists something deep inside me.

For years I dreamed of having her beside me again. I never imagined I would have to leave the bed like a thief because someone is calling me.

I roll to grab the phone. The number flashing across the screen freezes the blood in my veins.

My father.

I stare at his name until the letters stop looking correct. I could ignore it. I should ignore it.

Nothing good has ever come from answering when my father calls, least of all now when I’ve been MIA for several days after my flight returned from Italy.

My thumb slides across the screen almost unconsciously.

I press the phone briefly to my chest as I stand, letting the silence on the line listen to my heartbeat before I step away from the bed. The floor is cold beneath my bare feet.

I cross the room without turning on the light and slip out onto the private balcony overlooking Davide’s grounds.

“Elio.” My father’s voice cuts through the other end of the line, edged with command and, surprisingly, exhaustion.

Vittorio Conti is not a man who ever sounds tired. He drains the life from his enemies and delights in the satisfaction of watching those he deems weaker crumble.

Strangely, though, tonight, there is something worn beneath his anger, frayed enough to let me hear the age in him.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you. Isabella and the boy are gone. Alessio is tearing the city apart looking for them. I know your flight landed days ago. Come home immediately,” he demands.

I lean against the iron banister and stare out at the armed patrols. “No.”

A stunned silence follows. “What did you just say?”

My hand grips the banister until my knuckles go white.

Once, those words would have moved my body before my mind had time to object. Now they strike something that has long since grown cold.

“No.”

A stunned silence follows. It is almost satisfying. “What did you just say?”

“I said no.”

“Elio.”

He used to use my name like a hand around the back of my neck when I was a boy, shaking whatever defiance I had in me out of my system until all that was left was blind obedience.

One word used to carry that weight of ownership, silently telling me, You are my son, my blood, my weapon. You do not refuse me.

I close my eyes briefly.

All I see is Amos Russo’s handwriting.

Alessio Conti approached me privately.

Threatened to remove me as an obstacle.

Elio is blind to it.