Marat began to rise. “Who do you think—”
“Also,” Lander’s voice cracked like a whip. “If you give the girl any trouble, you won’t get another dime out of my House. In case you forgot, my House is bankrolling most of this project.”
Tatyana put her hand on Marat’s forearm. He sat back down.
“House Jiang extends its deepest regrets for the loss of the heir,” Stephen said. “Should you take some time to mourn and make the necessary arrangements, we will extend you every courtesy.”
Lander swiveled toward him. “Fuck your regrets.”
Stephen blinked.
“I have more money than all of you put together,” Lander announced. “I can tie this up in court for years. It will give me something to live for.”
Cheryl cleared her throat. “Of course we will cooperate fully. The sooner the cause of this tragedy is discovered, the better. As much as it pains me, I must point out that Felix was involved in every aspect of the project and often served as tiebreaker during our votes. Will you be taking over for him?”
“I’m old,” Lander said. “My health isn’t good. I have doctors and grandchildren to keep happy. This project needs someone young with a good head on his shoulders. Someone none of you can influence.”
Marat opened his mouth. Lander glared at him, and Marat clamped it shut.
“You’ll appoint a proxy?” Tatyana asked.
“Yes. It’s my right.”
The sound of quick steps echoed through the open doors.
“That would be him now,” Lander said.
A dark-haired man walked through the doorway, gliding as if his joints were liquid. All the air went out of the room. I tried to take a breath but there was none to be had.
“My apologies,” Alessandro Sagredo said with a charming Italian accent. “So sorry to be late.”
Augustine Montgomery was a dead man. He just didn’t know it yet.
Alessandro looked straight at me. Our stares connected and for a split second my brain ground to a halt. I couldn’t think, I could only feel, and what I felt was intense, searing rage.
I couldn’t afford to react.
Tiny orange flames sparked in his irises and vanished. Nobody else saw it. His expression remained perfectly neutral.
Why? He had the entire world at his disposal. He could have gone anywhere, but he came back here, to my city. It hurt to look at him. It hurt to remember him holding me, because when he wrapped his arms around me, he made me feel safe, and loved, and wanted. All that and he left, without apology, without explanation. He’d made it absolutely clear that I didn’t matter and now he was back, the son of a bitch, as if nothing had happened.
Alessandro walked to Lander’s left side and bent to him, an expression of utmost concern on his handsome face. “How are you feeling today, Zio?”
I had to snap out of it. There would be time to feel later. Right now, I had to think, because the equivalent of a hungry raptor just casually strolled into the room and nobody besides me, Morton, and possibly Augustine knew it. Alessandro called Lander his uncle. They weren’t related. I knew the genealogy of House Sagredo like the back of my hand. I could recite them down to the fourth generation in my sleep.
Lander patted Alessandro’s hand with his, affectionately, as you would to a nephew.
“I didn’t know House Morton and House Sagredo were on such good terms,” Tatyana commented.
“Why would you know? When his father and I were friends, you were just a twitch in your daddy’s dick,” Lander said.
Lander Morton, the very soul of courtesy.
Marat rolled his eyes.
Alessandro straightened. Not a hint of magic. He’d pulled his power so deep inside himself, he felt inert. Harmless. Most of his targets kept on thinking he was harmless, right up until he killed them. That’s why they called him the Artisan. He’d elevated murder for hire to an art.
Why are you here? Was this work or really a family obligation?
He wore a pewter-colored suit, impeccably tailored, Neapolitan-style, cut close to the body to accentuate his narrow waist. The suit shimmered slightly, probably a summer wool-and-silk blend. Spalla camicia, the “shirt shoulder,” without any padding and wide lapels with a convex curve that drew the eye, all of which minimized the shoulder line. Alessandro had shoulders like a gymnast; if you put any padding on him, he would resemble a linebacker. He was here to work, and he was trying to disguise his build to appear less of a threat.
It might work on the four Primes. It might even work on Augustine. They would look at his suntanned skin, his artfully disheveled brown hair, the expensive suit, the tailored trousers ending at a perfect shivering break—the hem meeting the shoes’ vamps as closely as was possible without rumpling—and they would see a young Italian Prime, an heir to an old family, indulged, confident, carefree, handling a bit of business as a favor.
It didn’t work on me. I’d seen him fight. Once you witnessed the way he moved, flawless, spare, each strike landing with unattainable precision, you never forgot it. Alessandro dedicated himself to killing. Under that shimmering suit, his body was corded with powerful flexible muscle. He was shockingly strong and abnormally fast. His face wasn’t just handsome, it was the face of a fighter, chiseled, masculine—strong jaw, full lips, straight Roman nose, carved cheekbones. His amber eyes scanned the room, and I watched him assess the threats and measure the distance to them in a split second. They saw a playboy. I saw a gladiator.
Alessandro unleashed a smile. The two women shifted slightly.
“I have arrived here on short notice and under painful circumstances.”
Usually he had almost no accent. Right now, he was layering it in. If he sounded any more Italian, the conference table might sprout grapevines and olive branches while the strains of “lnno di Mameli” spilled from the speakers.
“I am not familiar with this project, so I ask for your patience and guidance as I find my footing. Let us move forward through this time of grief and ensure the continued success and prosperity of our families.”
“Mr. Sagredo,” Marat said, “I think you give yourself too little credit. You’ll get up to speed in no time.”
“Yes,” Tatyana said. “Any of us would be happy to answer any questions you have.”
The mood around the conference table lightened. He looked like them, he spoke their language, and he was pleasant. They had no idea he could slit their throats before they realized what was happening.
How shrewd. Lander showed up, insulted them, threatened them, and then presented them with an attractive, urbane alternative. Given a choice between Alessandro and the basket of joy that was Lander Morton, they fell over themselves in a rush to choose Alessandro, accepting him without scrutiny or questions.
This was the major leagues of House society: every word mattered, and every action had a hidden meaning.
“There,” Lander croaked. “It’s settled. Alessandro will look after my business interests and the girl will find out which one of you killed my son.”
“None of us killed Felix,” Tatyana growled.
Lander sneered at her. “We’ll know who did it soon enough. I’m done here.”
He turned his wheelchair and rolled out of the room.