The one that got away

Chapter Four

The DeLucas were late.

Typical.

I drummed my fingers against the table, the long mahogany surface polished so perfectly it reflected the chandelier overhead. My father sat at the head, posture stiff, a glass of red wine cradled in his hand. He looked like a king waiting for his subjects, every line of his body humming with pride and arrogance.

And me? I was his heir, his weapon, the one he’d thrust into this ridiculous arrangement and told to smile like a good soldier.

The doors opened at last, and in they came. DeLuca. His wife. His daughters.

My gaze flicked over them, pausing when it landed on her. Angelina.

She was in black again, pale skin glowing against the color like moonlight cutting through shadows. Her eyes met mine instantly, sharp and defiant, and I felt that same pulse of irritation and intrigue slam through me.

She wasn’t scared. She should have been—anyone with sense would’ve been—but instead she walked like she owned the damn room. Like my family’s table wasn’t carved from the bones of our enemies.

“Welcome,” my father said smoothly. “Let’s sit, shall we?”

Dinner began with pleasantries, but no one at this table cared for small talk. The food was just decoration—perfectly plated courses none of us had an appetite for. What mattered were the negotiations.

“Our families have bled each other long enough,” my father began, his voice echoing across the table. “This marriage will end that cycle. A union, for the sake of peace.”

DeLuca nodded, his hand resting warmly over his wife’s. “Agreed. Angelina will be a bridge. She understands her duty.”

I almost snorted. Does she? Because from the way she sat, back straight, chin high, she didn’t look like anyone’s pawn.

Sure enough, her voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Funny,” she said, twirling her wineglass with delicate fingers. “I didn’t realize I was a bridge. I thought I was a person.”

My father’s jaw tightened. Across the table, DeLuca gave his daughter a warning glance. But she didn’t falter. She leaned forward, eyes flashing.

“If this is about peace,” she continued, “then maybe stop pretending we’re all just pieces on a chessboard you get to move around. Maybe peace comes from something stronger than chains.”

The table went silent.

I bit back a laugh, savoring the way my father’s face darkened. She’s winning, I realized with a jolt of reluctant admiration. At a table full of men who’d kill without blinking, she had the audacity to challenge us. And worse—she was making sense.

DeLuca’s lips thinned, clearly torn between pride and fury. “Angelina,” he said sternly.

But she only smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, Papà. I’ll play my part. I just don’t recall promising to play it quietly.”

I couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my mouth. God, she was infuriating. And brilliant.

My father’s eyes cut to me, sharp as knives. “And what do you think of your bride-to-be, son?”

The room shifted, every gaze locking onto me. I took a sip of wine, letting the silence stretch before I answered.

“I think,” I said slowly, turning my gaze on her, “she’s going to be more entertaining than I expected.”

Her glare was immediate, but there was heat in it. Fire. I wanted to push it, wanted to see how far she’d go before she snapped.

Business resumed, though the air was thicker now. The men discussed territories, money laundering routes, smuggling networks. Usual talk. But every time Angelina spoke, she slid a knife into the conversation.

When my father boasted about the strength of his men, she quipped, “Strength is useless without brains. Or haven’t you noticed how many of your men bleed in the streets?”

When DeLuca promised our families would “stand united,” she murmured, “Until someone decides unity isn’t profitable anymore.”

Each time, my father’s glare grew hotter. Each time, I had to hide a grin behind my glass.

She wasn’t playing safe. She was dangerous in a way I hadn’t expected—not with a gun or a blade, but with her mind. With that mouth.

And I couldn’t decide if I wanted to shut her up… or hear what else she had to say.

The dinner dragged on, but the balance of power had shifted. My father was irritated, DeLuca was desperate to rein his daughter in, and me? I was entertained. More than that—I was intrigued.

As the meal ended and everyone stood to leave, I caught her arm, just briefly. She stiffened, turning that sharp gaze on me.

“Careful, princess,” I murmured, low enough only she could hear. “Keep embarrassing my father at his own table, and you might just make me fall in love with you.”

Her lips parted in shock, then curled into a smirk that was all venom.

“Careful yourself,” she whispered back. “Fall in love with me, and I’ll be the one holding the knife when you least expect it.”

I released her, laughing under my breath as she swept away.

Oh yes. This wasn’t going to be an alliance. It was going to be a war.

And I couldn’t wait.