Page 97 of Accidental Alliance

“Yes,” I say and shift the car into park.

His gaze moves past me to the men outside. His body sinks further into the seat. “Do we have to get out?”

The question nearly breaks me. No child should sound so scared.

I can’t imagine what all of this looks like to a boy who, less than two weeks ago, believed the worst that could happen to him was bringing home a bad grade or breaking a bone.

I brush his hair away from his forehead. “Yes, baby. But you stay with me.”

One of the guards branches off to meet us, his hand nowhere near his weapon but his body tense all the same.

He is tall with dark hair that is trimmed tight to his head and a beard to match.

His eyes roam over both of us through the windshield, giving us a firm nod before stopping right next to the driver’s side door.

“Ms. Russo,” he says when I shut the car off and push the door open.

I nod at him and then turn to Matteo. “Ready?”

His eyes dart out the windshield, moving from the stone walls to the armed guards to the open front doors. He eyes the men warily before looking back at me.

He gives me a small nod, but his body remains sunk deep into the seat.

My chest aches.

He is trying so hard to be brave.

I reach over and unbuckle him before hooking my arms under his and sliding him across the center console.

He comes easily, his limbs wrapping around my body the same way they had earlier, arms locking around my neck, legs curling against my hip.

He is too big for me to carry like this for long, especially with my body screaming from the run and fall, but at this point, I don’t care.

The guard shuts the door behind me once we’re out, then escorts us up the front steps. The graveled drive shifts slightly under my shoes, each crunch too loud in the waiting silence. Armed men watch us from a distance.

Their gazes do not linger on us for long, which I appreciate. Or maybe Davide ordered them not to stare.

The steps are wide, old stone worn smooth in the center from years of polished shoes passing over them.

Warm light spills from the open doorway, golden and almost inviting.

There is danger in a place that knows how to appear welcoming. The Contis always favored brutality in its most natural form. It seems Bianchi violence comes wrapped in Old-World hospitality.

Inside, the foyer gleams. Dark wood floors and vaulted ceilings of the same color open up in front of me. An iron chandelier hangs in the entryway, lit low enough to soften every shadow but not banish them. Oil paintings line the walls farther down the closest hallway, portraits of old architecture and flower-covered fields. A sweeping staircase curves upward along one wall, its banister carved and polished from the same wood as the floor.

Matteo lifts his head slightly. His eyes go wide at the foyer with wonder, his head craning around to look at everything while the guard leads us down a long hallway. At the end of it, two men stand outside a pair of large double doors. They open them as we approach.

The room beyond is a study.

Of course it is.

Men like Davide always prefer rooms like this one. They like desks, leather chairs, decanters, bookshelves filled with titles they may have never read but keep on hand, anyway. They like rooms where power can sit down and appear civilized while deciding which enemies need to be buried before dawn.

Davide Bianchi stands near the window with a phone in one hand. He turns as I enter, speaking into it softly before ending the call and lowering his arm back down to his side. In a strange way, he looks exactly as he did on my doorstep and also completely different.

Here, in his own stronghold, surrounded by his men and his walls and the quiet machinery of his power, he looks every inch the boss I remember from childhood.

His eyes.