“I’m not stupid, Francesco,” he says in a low tone now. “I know you want her, but for your own selfish, twisted desires, not in a way that counts.”
I can feel the rage building, but I hold it in. The last thing I need is to make this worse. “Grow up, Marco. This is not the time to be unserious. You think I’m the only one who has to live by La Mano Nera’s rules? They are watching you, every one of us. Your name doesn’t protect you from their wrath. They’ll give you your kill soon. You need to start acting like a man.”
Marco shrugs, unconcerned. “I don’t give a fuck. In fact, I’ll give them a wonderful show while I’m at it. And I don’t care about their blood rites or masks or fake honor.”
Does he really mean that? I know Marco can be careless, but he’s smart. He knows when to take important things seriously.
Right?
I let out a frustrated breath. I don’t have the time to think about what might be going on in that head of his.
“You might not care now, but you will care when you’re marked for death.”
He doesn’t say anything else, but his eyes are angry. I walk out of the room.
Dinner starts not long after, and I’m already half-checked out. My fiancée sits beside me like the prize she is, poised, perfect, and beautiful as always. We are a perfect picture of what the Romanos and Morettis would look like together. No one would argue that, on paper, we look perfect for each other.
The two families have been very close for years. My father and Giovanni Moretti, Silvia’s father, have been friends since they were young. The friendship naturally passed down to us. We and the Moretti siblings grew up around each other. I was seven years older than Silvia and a few more older than her younger siblings, but it didn’t matter.
We had family dinners regularly, attended the same private schools, and hung around the same social circles.
With Silvia and me married, the age-long family bond will turn into a blood union.
We’re seated at a long, polished table, silver gleaming under the chandelier’s light. Giovanni and my father are seated toward the right end of the table. Elena, Giovanni’s wife, is seated lovingly by his side. Giulia, Dario, and Lucia, Silvia’s siblings, are seated opposite Elio and Marco. Silvia sits beside me at the left end of the table. Easy conversation flows through the space. Wine glasses click together. Cutlery scrapes against fine china.
Lucia is already halfway through her second glass of wine, and she’s not holding back. She’s got a mouth on her, always has. I can hear her rattle off something about a big scandal in Naples, distracting everyone, as usual. I don’t care to follow the conversation. My mind is elsewhere.
I haven’t seen her yet. I know she’s avoiding me, tonight even more than she has for the past three days. But it’s no use because I made sure she’s on duty tonight.
My mind flashes back to a few hours ago. Seeing her in Marco’s bedroom, of all places, made me feel indescribable emotions. I can feel Marco’s stare across the table. There’s a smugness in his posture as he leans back, looking completely at ease, as if nothing matters except his own amusement.
As if by coincidence, Lia comes into the dining room with a replacement bottle of wine.
My eyes immediately zoom in on her. I can’t look away from the way she moves. There’s something about the way she doesn’t belong here but still carries herself with that quiet dignity that’s hard to ignore. She doesn’t try to make herself small or invincible. She doesn’t try to capture attention, either. She just moves like she’s completely indifferent, like she can’t give us any more ammunition to ruin her life.
She quietly drops the bottle on the table and turns to leave before Elena calls her attention and tells her something. I watch the way she nods stiffly before moving to leave. When she walks past Marco, he says something that makes her smile.
I cut aggressively into my steak, earning a look from Marco. He’s trying to rile me up to prove that he meant what he said earlier about not giving a fuck about expectations. Or maybe he’s just doing it because he knows how I feel toward Lia.
I don’t even know what it is that I feel toward her.
Lia returns to the room with a basket of extra bread and places it beside Elena. I take a bite of my tender meat as I watch Marco call her attention, this time talking to her for a bit longer than he did before.
“Isn’t this fun?” Silvia whispers in my ear, her hand slipping over my wrist resting on the table. I cast her an absentminded glance and nod, but my gaze strays again when I hear a faint laugh from Lia.
I feel my blood heat up.
I can’t tell what’s worse—the fact that she doesn’t look at me at all or the fact that she lets Marco talk to her like that in my presence, after I just caught them together a few hours ago.
It’s like they’re both in on saying a big “fuck you” to my face.
I can’t stop the words that slip from my mouth. “You think this is a whorehouse?”
My voice cut through the conversation, sharp enough to silence everyone. They all turn to look at me, including Marco, who looks furious. But I don’t look at any of them. My entire focus is on her. Everyone looks between me and Lia, and the tension in the air tightens even further at her silence.
Lia blinks, confusion flashing across her face. My gaze flicks to the few undone buttons down her neck, a careless detail I latch onto. She’s not showing any skin. She probably unbuttonedthem to receive a little more air and not choke herself. But I don’t care.
I use my fork to gesture toward her exposed neckline. “Maybe next time you dress to serve us, try not to confuse the dining table for a street corner.”
