Page 66 of Dishonored

“Point is,” he returned easily, “you should know now, donna. Don’t ever fuck with me because I will answer back each time that you do. This time, it was your father. Next time, it’ll be someone else I know you care for. I won’t be a game for you to play and win—I am no one’s pawn. Remember it.”

Aria couldn’t help herself.

She laughed even as she passed Caesar by.

“Who do you think really killed my father, Caesar?”

She didn’t give him a chance to answer.

She didn’t care.

“Has he been drinking?” Aria asked as she walked the path leading up to her home.

Nico, keeping a respectable distance behind her, made a noise under his breath. “I couldn’t get a clear answer on that one, and I didn’t want to press lest someone get suspicious on why I was asking.”

Well, damn.

“I’m sure—”

“It’s fine,” she said quickly.

She didn’t want Nico to worry, or concern himself with what might happen once she opened the front door to her home. It would do neither of them any good at the end of the day. He did his best to look out for her from afar, and that was all she could really ask for. Anything else, and he might be the next target.

Straightening her spine and shoulders, Aria kept her head high and gaze straight as she opened the door to her home. She could smell him the moment she walked inside—a strong, masculine musk that he preferred. One that could damn near make her sick to her stomach every time she got a whiff of the cologne.

It reminded her of a heavy, sweaty body pushing her smaller frame over a footboard, and forcing her legs apart. It reminded her of delicate lace being torn away from her body time and time again when all she wanted to say was no.

“Aria—angelo bellissima.”

Aria did her best not to stiffen at Raffe’s voice drifting from down the hall. She found him standing in the shadows between the enclave of the kitchen and the light in the hallway. Tall, large, and formidable, he was not the kind of man a woman wanted to meet in an empty alleyway in the dark.

And yet, she had been forced to meet him in the dark for a year and a half.

“Raffe,” she replied kindly.

Somehow.

Aria found it easy to keep her attention off her husband as she removed her coat, and shoes. Hanging the items up on the coat hanger with her purse as well, she turned only to find Raffe had moved silently down the hall to stand in front of her.

Nico had not come inside.

The house was empty.

It was just … them.

She peered up at her husband—he towered over her by inches.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get back in time for the funeral,” he said.

Aria nodded. “You couldn’t help the delay.”

And frankly, she was grateful for it.

The less time with him, the better.

Raffe’s dark eyes drifted over her features with the slow grace of a predator taking in his prey before he pounced. His hand came up to cup her cheek, and his thumb stroked her skin with a softness she knew was a lie.

“I will handle the Italians for what they did,” he murmured.