Page 72 of Dishonored

Caesar chuckled dryly, and stood straight. “What, do you think you don’t deserve what I am doing to you?”

“Oh, Caesar …” Aria shook her head, and gave him a pitying look. “You’re not doing anything to me that I didn’t already expect. I did ask for you to step back—to help me that way so that we could both get what he wanted. Remember, I tried to warn you.”

Wait, what?

Caesar opened his mouth to ask just that, but the man stepping out of the restaurant earlier than he should have kept him quiet. Raffe’s gaze narrowed in on Caesar standing beside the car the second he stepped into the light.

The rage in the man’s eyes should have been a clue to leave.

The mask of calm Raffe kept firmly in place was a lie.

“He has people watch me all the time,” Aria murmured, her gaze never drifting from the windshield. “Why do you think I wouldn’t even look at you? I can’t entertain even the idea of impropriety. I warned you.”

Again with that shit.

He didn’t hear warnings.

He only heard challenges.

A smaller man—with no pride and a hell of lot less ego—might have taken a step back from the car, or even made an effort to put more distance between themselves and the man coming their way, but Caesar wasn’t that guy. Arrogant to a fault, even if it was the very thing that might kill him one day.

He couldn’t help it.

He was who he was.

“Caesar, right?” Raffe asked, dark eyes narrowing into vicious slits. “Yeah, Angelo Accardo’s oldest fucking prick. I haven’t gotten the chance to speak with your father since I got back in the city, but today seems like a good damn place to start—a lesson, if you will. I think you’re all due one. Especially where my fucking territory is concerned.”

“This isn’t your territory,” Caesar returned. “These streets are no man’s land.”

And it was well known.

Raffe laughed darkly. “I’m not talking about the streets, cafone. Step away from my wife before I use your head and the cement to make a piece of conceptual art for my goddamn living room.”

Damn.

Caesar always did appreciate a good threat.

Even if it was on his life.

Aria still hadn’t moved. Her gaze never drifted away from the window.

Raffe came closer; Caesar refused to move.

The two men came toe-to-toe next to the car, and Raffe reached in to cup Aria’s cheek with a large palm that all but swallowed half of the side of her face whole. Caesar didn’t miss the way her eye twitched, or how her flinch came and went all in a blink.

But he had seen it.

And he wondered …

“I’m sure you know the baseball analogy,” Raffe said, drawing Caesar’s attention away. “This is strike one for breaking my rules—now your family loses something for it.”

Caesar smirked even in the face of the man’s rage. “Is that a threat? My father doesn’t take kindly to threats.”

“You—”

“But me?” Caesar asked. “Well, I fucking love them.”

Raffe nodded, and his white teeth flashed in a half-sneer. “Good to know. Unfortunately, you haven’t had to deal with me yet in this business as my wife has been handling it. So, it’s a good time to learn, isn’t it? Don’t ever approach my wife again. And do let your father know what comes next could have been avoided, and should he want to prevent it from happening again, then I am willing to negotiate for what I want.”