Chapter 11

A charade showcasing ego and control. The bubbling humor, however, faded when I crossed a sober reflection.

Not one cared for me.

It wasn't fully their fault. They were never taught to protect me. Never taught to look out for me, and the only way they did was by causing others pain or treating me as they would a boy of their age. Mother was the only voice for me, but even then, it was minimal. After she was gone, they only had a slight idea of what wasn't right. Shortly after, I never saw them again as I was shipped out of the country. The times I did see them, they had changed with time into vicious and overprotective brothers.

Dante didn't like other men speaking to me. If they did, it always ended with his knives drawn and a fight. So when I received the whistle that caused the end of someone's life, I knew I couldn't handle the idea of someone dying for nothing. We had argued that day in Italy.

We'd yelled and cursed so harshly that it was the last time he visited. I said things, and he said things out of spite. But Dante never accepted his fault. He believed that meant being a brother.

Aldo, on the other hand, often talked to me. He didn't treat me like the kid I was. On the contrary, he chided me and spoke to me the same way my father did to him. Stern and emotionless.

Our broken relationship wasn't all on them. I too had issues. I too fought back and lashed out with words I knew would wound. I picked their weaknesses and learned their scars to keep them bleeding and open. It wasn't until I was older that I realized my faults.

It was too late then.

It was too late now.

Our wedge was too unstable to repair.

Us Zanettis were known for our blades, and while we hadn't bled each other, we stabbed one another. Too bad, even as siblings, we'd lived up to our last name.

It was all about power.

Money.

Fear.

Massimo didn't miss my weakening spark, and his palm flattened. Was I so easy to see through? It was rare when someone could see my inner struggles. I excelled at concealing emotions. Most times better than my own father. I was off my game.

Today, I was weak.

"Franco couldn't stay. Business demanded his attention." Aldo explained our father's absence, but the disrespect wasn't lost on Massimo.

"Expect a summer wedding," Massimo's cold voice announced. "I'll let Alessandra decide the date." Aldo stretched his hand out. Massimo shook and held it. "No harm is to come to Vadim or Davina."

At the mention of the woman's name, his eyes shot toward Dante, who wore a cruel smile. Massimo's fingers curled over my skin, catching his reaction.

"As long as my sister is protected, I don't see why we wouldn't hold our end of this deal."

Massimo pulled away from their shake and slid his hand over my waist. His hand wrapped so effortlessly.

"Tell me, Zanetti. Who protected her from the bruises on her face?"

Aldo's lips twitched as his eyes slid to me. He was bothered by Massimo's accusation.

"She'll become my wife as promised, but what occurs under my city and roof is not part of the arrangement."

Aldo searched my eyes, but we'd become strangers and anything he wanted to share got lost in broken communication.

Drained from this made-men meeting, its politics, the unsaid threats, and warnings, I drew away from the present. I only heard the distant, "I'll be waiting for the decided date," from Aldo.

We walked out of my childhood home without my acknowledgment of my family. In spite of wearing a long coat, the low temperatures of New York, and my feelings, numbed my heart with a bitter blow.

Massimo's warm hand left my back as I slid inside the back cabin of their black car. Keeping my eyes on the headrest in front of me as we rode in silence.

I never looked back. Not even when the airplane took off into the air and away from the city I'd been born in.

An hour had passed with the low humming of the engine circulating in the bleak atmosphere. It was hard to keep busy when I was seated in front of Massimo. Difficult even to refrain from asking questions or keep my eyes from wandering toward him.

Of course, nothing bothered Massimo. He just sat comfortably, with a tablet in one hand and a drink in the other.

A second hour passed. This time, I spent my time entertained by the straight lines and angles of my drawing. I was lucky the moment I spotted my large carry-on where I kept my sketchbook. I didn't ask. I stood and picked it up, taking out my pencil and drawing book. Massimo's attention never flickered away from his tablet. I sketched, erased, drew again, and erased some more.

Not even my design worked in my favor.

I gave up on my model and closed the book.

I stared at him.

Stared at the sharp lines of his face. The light scruff that helped hide his reactions but added a distinctive appeal to him. His hair was lightly styled, enough to know he took his time in the morning to run his fingers over the longer strands but not enough to seem preoccupied with such detail. His thick hair almost seemed naturally shaped as it waved back on his head and an inch to his right. Only the top was long enough for my fingers to grip. I shook away the thought and lowered my gaze to his neck, but the tattoos peeking out of his tailored collar shirt were more difficult to shake.

Any turn my gaze took of him wasn't safe. I chose his chest instead. Before he had taken his seat, he had discarded his coat and blazer, leaving only his tie and shirt safely tucked underneath his vest.