Page 94 of Punishing His Runaway Bride
"Daddy!"
Juliet's voice came through the speaker.
I stood in that room, blood still on my hands, the air thick with rust and fear, the man at my feet, who'd been trying to negotiate with me five minutes ago, finally quiet. But the second I heard her voice, all of it shrank back to someplace distant.
"Juliet." I turned toward the window, pushed open the rain-streaked glass a crack. Night air rushed in, carried off some of the rot. "Still up this late?"
"I can't sleep!" Juliet practically shouted, voice bright with that reckless excitement only a six-year-old had. "When are you coming home?"
"In a bit," I said, voice dropping without meaning to. "What's going on?"
"I learned a new dance at school today! Ballet! The teacher said my legs were the straightest!"
I could almost see her—arms waving around as she talked, those little gold curls bouncing, green eyes sparkling.
Olivia's eyes.
The thought stuck like a needle straight into my chest. I shoved it down, down to the bottom where all the things that shouldn't exist went.
"Ballet?" I raised an eyebrow. "Thought you wanted to learn horseback riding. Last week it was painting. Week before that, piano."
Juliet's giggle burst through the phone. "But Miss Cassie says I have talent! She says maybe I could be a ballerina someday!"
I didn't answer right away.
Talent?
The thought dropped like a stone into water, ripples spreading where I hadn't been ready for them, heading toward something I'd sealed off a long time ago.
The stage. Lights. Rowdy crowd and smoke and booze hanging in the air. Blonde hair catching the spotlight with this warm glow—not dyed, the kind of gold that only showed itself in the light, real.
I crushed the image.
"Daddy? You still there?"
"Yeah, sweetheart." My voice sounded normal. "That's great."
"So, Daddy, does that mean you agree?"
I smiled. "Of course, baby. I'll have someone get everything ready tomorrow."
"Really?!"
"Really."
"You're the best, Daddy!!"
I pulled the phone an inch from my ear, dodging the squeal that could've shattered the speaker. Rocco stood in the doorway, keeping the right distance, not looking at me, just waiting.
I turned to him. Just said, "Handle it."
He nodded. Left. No "the elders might have opinions about this." No "family tradition doesn't usually encourage—" Nothing.
That's how it was now.
Five years ago, people in this building would've frowned. Would've danced around telling me what the Don's daughter should and shouldn't learn, that it wasn't my call alone. Those people were all intheir proper places now—some places in this city, some places under it.
The Visconti family was mine.
