Page 45 of Broken Crown

The Italian words dripped with venom. Without knowing all that she said, the meaning was crystal clear.

Sebastian’s body stiffened.

Since he held me so close, I could practically feel the heated rage radiating off him. His fingers dug into my side, not painfully, but possessively, claiming me as his in front of his mother.

Lowering my head, I whispered, “It’s fine. Really. I didn’t want to be here anyway.”

I trembled despite my attempt to sound indifferent.

Ignoring me, Sebastian kept his hard gaze on his mother. “You will respect my future bride and speak only in English in her presence. If you are incapable of doing so, then you are not welcome here.”

Future bride.

The words echoed in my head like a thunderclap. Yet beneath the shock, a forbidden thrill coursed through my veins at his public claim in front of his horrid mother.

I too had a complicated relationship with my mother, but I still loved her and knew that for all her unintended faults, she loved me.

The same could not be said for Sebastian and his mother.

From all appearances, they seemed to hate the sight of one another, the air between them crackling with years of unspoken resentment.

I tried again to flee the awkward situation, my feet shifting nervously against the intricate mosaic tiles of the courtyard floor.

Sebastian’s grip on me tightened, his thumb stroking small circles against my side—a silent command to stay put.

The gesture was both comforting and controlling, making my heart race for reasons other than the incredibly tense situation.

I was so uncomfortable, I couldn’t even summon the courage to complain about him calling me his future bride.

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.

It was Arcangelo who broke it.

“Well.” He swirled his drink from where he leaned against the bar, his expression the picture of bored elegance. “Future bride. That’s rather more interesting than the usual Friday gathering.”

He pushed off the bar and strolled toward us with the casual authority of a man who’d grown up watching his mother declare war over antipasti. His broad frame inserted itself at an angle, slightly ahead of me—not quite a shield, but close enough that the message was unmistakable.

His mother’s eyes narrowed. “This is a family matter, Arcangelo.”

“Exactly.” He raised his glass to me with a wink. “And Sebastian just introduced family.”

Arabella appeared at my side too, as if she’d been waiting for her cue. She looped her arm through mine with an ease that suggested we’d known each other for years rather than minutes. Her perfume was soft and warm—the exact opposite of the suffocating cloud emanating from her mother.

“You must be Sabrina.” Her smile was genuine, her voice pitched just loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ve been dying to meet the woman who’s managed to make my brother act almost human.”

Their mother’s jaw tightened. “Arabella⁠—”

“Mother, you look stunning.” Arabella’s tone was warm. Her eyes were ice. “New work? Your surgeon really is gifted. One can hardly tell.”

Rafaello approached from the far side of the courtyard, his hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable. Of the three siblings, he was the hardest to read—measured where Arcangelo was bold, reserved where Arabella was cutting.

He stopped beside Sebastian, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. A quiet show of solidarity.

“Sebastian,” he said evenly, as though their mother hadn’t just hurled a slur across the courtyard, “you didn’t mention your guest was so patient. Most people don’t survive the first five minutes of a Diamanti gathering without a drink.” He extended a glass of prosecco toward me. “For your nerves. Or your aim. Either may prove useful tonight.”

Sebastian shifted slightly so I could take the glass, my hand trembling. I didn’t trust myself to speak.

The four of them had formed a loose semicircle around me without any visible signal. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was reflex—the practiced choreography of children who’d spent a lifetime managing the same volatile force of nature.