The trouble didn't arrive with weapons or with combat, but in secret.
Dante waited for the house to fall silent, until his people had occupied their positions and the night pressed against the windows. Then he called her to his office. Isla came with her head held high, though she was all tension. Dante was leaning against the desk, his hands holding it, his body stiff as if carved from stone.
You can never ever do that again," he said to her, his voice low, each word cutting like a knife.
She didn't need to ask him what he meant. She already knew. Her speaking before his people, taking attention that wasn't hers to take, had annoyed him. Their faces—her in their presence, not his—had upset Dante Valentino more than being shot.
Isla crossed her arms, cocking her chin. "Do what, Dante? Talk? Think? Breathe without asking?"
