Page 16 of Accidental Alliance

He is the only person in the family besides our father who has the standing to demand answers when I disappear from an event without word ahead of time.

After a banquet like tonight’s, there is always the expectation of a debrief. Who said what, which alliances seem strained, which politicians are leaning too hard in one direction, what opportunities surfaced beneath all the polished smiles and wine passed around in crystalline glasses.

Our father likes every detail gathered and laid at his feet before dawn, if possible.

A message from him after an event would hardly be cause for alarm. He would be curious to know where I vanished off to. Annoyed, probably, leaving him to deal with our father alone without some kind of buffer.

Suspicious enough to needle me about my absence in that nosy, older-brother way of his.

Especially because I had been expected to remain visible and circulate through guests to gather my usual share of leverage for the family machine.

But him calling this late? That is what feels wrong.

Texting is what he prefers. Alessio does not waste time engaging in long, drawn out conversations and rarely wastes urgency unless he has no choice.

If he is calling me instead of sending a clipped message about where I am, then whatever problem sits on the other end of that line is not something he trusts to text.

My thumb tightens around the phone.

When it lights up for a third time with his call, I do not hesitate to swipe my thumb across the screen to answer it and straighten to full height in one motion.

I cross the room quickly, the floor cool beneath my bare feet, and slip out into the hallway.

As I pull the bedroom door shut behind me, I take care not to let it latch too loudly.

The soft click of it closing sounds too final for my liking, almost like a line is being drawn between the warmth I have just left and whatever waits for me now.

The softness Isabella dragged out of me earlier retreats, folding itself away beneath older instincts.

The tenderness still on my mouth from kissing her forehead feels suddenly out of place on the same face that is undoubtedly about to hear bad news.

Whatever is going on is not something I want her overhearing.

I move through the apartment in silence, leaving the hallway and crossing into the living room where the floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the sleeping city.

The skyline glows in the dark like a field of banked embers, towers and street grids lit in gold and cold white, every window below holding strangers inside their own small worlds.

From up here, the city looks almost peaceful.

When I finally lift the phone to my ear, I ask, “What happened?”

Alessio’s tone is clipped, colder than usual. “Amos Russo was found dead an hour ago. Father wants you back here immediately.”

The floor drops out from under me. The sensation of falling is immediate and violent as it rips through me.

I lean forward to press a hand to the glass to steady myself. For one half-second, my mind goes completely blank.

Amos Russo.

Dead.

I just saw him tonight alive with his arm draped over his daughter’s shoulders, familiar calculation tugging at his smile like it always has.

He had been speaking to a few politicians when Isabella and I had snuck out, mostly likely trading pleasantries while silently creating plans like every other predator in that room.

And now he is dead?

I turn away from the windows without realizing it, my whole body suddenly too charged to stay still.