Chapter Twenty-Three

Dante

The Irish Mob lied.

They have been lying for two decades.

My throat constricts, a vise grip of understanding tightening with each passing second. Addy was the child from eighteen years ago.

The little girl survived the assassination that sparked a decade-long war.

Benjamin O'Shea might have saved her life, but the son-of-a-bitch didn't raise Addy—the daughter of his enemy—out of the goodness of his heart. He took her, kept her, and rewrote her entire history.

Addy is not his daughter. She's his hostage. A deadly bargaining chip for future use.

I hold Addy tight to me, murmuring soothing words into her ear as I rein in the shock, awe, and rage roiling in me.

My fingers trace the three parallel scars on her back, scars I now recognize for what they truly are: gunshot wounds, cleverly disguised as glass lacerations. Each line tells a story, one that has fascinated me from the start, but now consumes my every thought.

But it's not just Addy's real identity that's hit me. With it comes a far more staggering reality. One that could change everything.

Addy is half-Italian.

It's common knowledge that Naomi Ritter was involved with a high-ranking member of the Outfit. But there's a whispered rumor, shared only in the shadows and passed along in secrecy—a rumor I've always dismissed. One suggests that this high-ranking member was none other but Vito Vitelli himself.

My father's face flashes in my mind, the way his expression hardens whenever the events of that night are mentioned, as if guarding a secret too heavy to bear.

The pieces start to fall into place, the implications chilling me to the fucking bone.

Addy could be my half-sister.

Addy's voice, small and uncertain, breaks through my spiraling thoughts. "Dante? Are you okay?"

I face her, forcing my features into a mask of calm, then run my thumbs over her cheekbones, catching the drop of moisture hanging onto her lashes. I can't resist raising my thumb to my mouth and licking off her tears.

She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth, her green eyes open and trusting despite everything she's just learned. "You were silent for a while."

"I'm good," I say, reaching for her hand and linking our fingers. "Tell me what you're thinking, Addy."

Her hand moves to my chest, fingers tracing over my pecs and abs, sending currents of pleasure all over my skin.

"Growing up, I always felt . . . different," she says softly. "Like I didn't quite fit in with the other kids. I never felt comfortable in my own skin, and I thought it was because of the homeschooling."

"Something inside you knew you didn't belong there, tesoro."

"Yes." Addy's fingers dip lower, down my abs, and then lower until she lightly circles my cock. Then her fingers trace beyond the shaft to boldly cup my balls.

"Addy . . ." I warn. "You need to rest."

"I know. I'm just . . . admiring. Nothing more." Her eyes flicker down, and she licks her lips. "I really like these, you know."

Society would tell me to care. But Lord knows I don't give a flying fuck we could be half-siblings. "I know, you sexy little minx." I push her to her back and let my hands roam over her, too.

When I touched her earlier, my vision was clouded by lust. Now I take in her sexy form again. Her breasts are fuller than I remember, her areolas darker and more pronounced, and the deep red shade starkly contrasts with her pale skin.

"Addy? You look . . . different."

"Good different or bad different?"

My palm cups her breast, then moves lower to her hip, slipping a thigh between hers.

"Good. So fucking good."

"I feel different. I am different."

I watch as she takes a deep breath, her chest rising. When she speaks again, her voice drops even lower, almost inaudible. "Speaking of, I should tell you something."

"I'm listening."

"It's about the time we were together at the airstrip. Things didn't end there."

The casual way she says it, as if commenting on the weather, makes the impact all the more powerful. My body goes still, every muscle tensing as the meaning of her words sinks in.

Without a word, my hand slides from her breast, fingers skimming over the soft skin of her stomach before coming to rest on her flat lower abdomen.

I meet Addy's gaze, searching her eyes. She simply nods.

For a full minute, I just stare at my left hand as it spans her belly. My pinky finger brushes the short red curls on her mons, the same finger I wear my signet ring on. The crest of diamonds on the bezel of the ring sparkles in the low light, branding her as mine. A fierce sense of possession grips me, setting every nerve ending on fire.

Addy is pregnant. This changes every fucking thing. Half-sister or not.

"Dante? Please say something."

My gaze meets hers again, and I roll us over, pinning her beneath me. My lips crash down on hers in a bruising kiss, swallowing her gasp of surprise.

I pour everything I'm feeling into the kiss—the possessiveness, the need, the overwhelming urge to protect and claim. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, tasting, exploring, demanding. Addy responds with equal fervor, her hands sliding up my back, nails digging into my skin.

When we break apart, both panting, I growl against her neck, "Tesoro, there's nothing left to say. You're carrying my child." I punctuate the words with a nip to her pulse point, feeling her shiver.

"So?"

I pull back slightly, bracing myself on my forearms to look down at her.

"So what?"

Addy bites her lip, a gesture that never fails to drive me wild. "Does it mean you're excited?"

"Baby, I'll burn the whole fucking world to the ground to keep you happy and safe. Both of you."

Later, even after she's finally drifted off to an exhausted sleep, my hand continues to splay on her belly.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticks eerily loud in the room, which, except for Addy's rhythmic breathing and an occasional soft snore, is silent as a graveyard. It's too quiet for me to sleep. I eye my discarded earbuds scattered on the carpet near the door, but I don't bother to grab them. I know I couldn't sleep if I tried. There's too much swirling through my head.

I check the time again. It's nine in the morning, although you can't tell from the windowless state of this fucking dungeon. Nico should be back from Paris. I imagine he'd be grief-stricken. But he doesn't even know the half of it. Yet.

It's going to be carnage today.

Addy will be livid when she finds out why she won't be allowed to return to Boston. I can see Benjamin O'Shea and the rest of the Mob foaming at the mouth, declaring another war. And Orlando De Luca? Well, the man might as well start plotting my accidental demise.

Addy makes a soft mewling sound and burrows closer, drawing me out of my dark thoughts.

I take a moment to drink her in again. She's on her belly, her face turned toward me. The chandelier's light catches gold highlights in the wavy mass of red hair splayed across the pillow. I run a blunt fingertip along the smattering of freckles across her cheekbones, her full lips, slightly parted, still swollen from my kisses, and then I turn her over gently because I need to see all of her.

I lightly trace the thin pink line between her full breasts, and then my finger drifts lower to my favorite spot, the sensitive, jagged scar on her hip. The reason she has that sexy hitch in her step, one she tries her damnedest to mask.

She'll probably think I'm a fucking creep if she knew how hard I get just watching her walk.

I trace the curve of her thighs with my finger, seeing the drying evidence of her juices and my cum smeared all over her skin. We were at it until she fell asleep half an hour ago.

And I want her again.

But instead of spreading her thighs and sinking into her slippery warmth, I plant a soft kiss on her forehead and make myself slide off the bed and get dressed.

I need to see Nico, and Addy needs to rest. She could possibly do with some space too. I've never been anything but gentle with her, and last night was a small departure from what she's known with me.

She needs to see the bruises and handprints on her porcelain skin and decide that she's okay with it happening from time to time.

She needs to get used to the fact she's just been shoved into the plunge she couldn't take two years ago. And ultimately, her life in Boston, her job at the DA's office, her blog, everything she used to be, is over.

So, with one last look, I head out of the room, heading toward the conference room where a pissed-off Nico will be nursing a scotch. It's almost uncanny how well I can predict my brother's thoughts and actions. I know Nico will be in the room, jet-lagged and exhausted yet unable to sleep. He'll be bent over the laptop, studying the CCTV feeds and police reports from last night and trying to piece together what the fuck happened.