The Don's Pawn, A Queen's Revenge

ella

ressure. Through the tinted glass, the Moretti estate loomed against the gray Chicago sky-a gothic fortress o

ting wind, smoothing the skirt of my dress. My grandfather, Don Gilberto Falcone, had

ion. Standing in the center, flanked by two nervous maids, was a woman who could only be Erica

were a stray dog that had wandered onto her pr

I corrected smooth

"Clean her. I won't have the filth of that ci

l disinfectant like a weapon. Before I could process the absurdity, a

my face to remain a mask of ice. When the maid reach

a grip honed by years of self-defense training. The bo

e of them." I released the maid, who stumbled back, terrified. "But I suppose there are

k. I didn't give her the chance to recover. I brushed past her, my heel

gilded furniture that looked too expensive to touch. Sitting on a velvet settee

etti. Vincen

ook the train?" She let out a tinkling, cruel laugh. "I thought the Falcones were struggling, bu

me with pity,

ad chartered an entire private Pullman railcar, complete with a personal chef and a velvet-lined stateroom. It w

t explain thems

ng furniture. "I prefer to see the country I'm about

ion. I walked toward the grand staircase, needing

er footsteps silent on the plush runner. Her face was composed

ncerity. "We got off on the wrong foot. Let me show you t

But I was tired, and th

ings of violent hunts-hounds tearing into stags. At the very end of the hall stood a heavy, dar

hispered, pointing. "Go o

the handle of my su

pen. It swung inward sile

reezing, smelling of expensive whiskey, gun oil, and raw, masculine power. I

click of the door closing, s