Page 4 of King of Omen

Vitto must have spotted my distraction because he shot me a quizzical glance, following my gaze to the mysterious woman.

I leaned closer to him, my voice just discernible. ‘Who the hell is she?’

He shrugged. ‘Fuck, if I know.’

I arched a brow before he turned his attention to the priest at the pulpit.

The service continued, but my focus kept drifting back to the woman in the front row, surrounded by an air of mystery.

Was this the woman who had coordinated the funeral for us?

We’d never Bianca’s so-called dear friend who’d nursed our aunt and stood by her side in her final days. All we’d caught wind of had been a last name.

I’d envisioned a middle-aged lady with white hair, but the woman in the pew didn’t match that image.

Still, she had sat in the family section and had no right to be there.

Bianca deserved respect, and taking a family seat when the family had no clue who you were was sacrilege.

Besides, her beauty was distracting me from focusing on the sanctified nature of the service.

I turned my head until I met Mauri’s gaze at the back of the chapel and raised my head with a slight jerk. He powered to me.

Bending, he inclined his ear as I murmured into it in Italian.

He understood the ask and eased off to do as I demanded.

MIA

I recognised Lorenzo the second my eyes fell on him.

His arrival had caused a stir amongst the small-time malefactors hanging about the church steps, waiting for a glimpse of the legendary Omertà enforcer.

He didn’t disappoint.

In his mid-to-late thirties, he carried significant gravitas. Sinewy and commanding, each step he took demanded respect.

He towered above them, tall and imposing.

Broad upper arms. Lean, muscular frame. Body tight as fuck, like a man who prioritised his fitness.

His face, a craggy-hewn sculpture of rugged masculinity and dangerous allure, featured a jawline reminiscent of the iconic figures of Italian cinema.

Dark, slicked-back hair set off piercing dark blue eyes, which held an alluring and threatening intensity.

He wore a navy chambray shirt beneath an elegant, unlined, double-breasted navy blazer that hugged his muscled, sinewed body, exuding confidence and power.

It accentuated his shoulders and tapered waist. Thick thighs were encased in trousers of the same material, feet clad in patent leather upper black dress shoes with embossed detail.

He’d accessorised his timeless style with a silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket. My gaze fluttered to his akimbo tie — sprezzatura incarnate—it made the outfit, adding a touch of playfulness to a classic jacket.

When one of the guests called his name, I raised a brow as he lifted two lean fingers to his lips as if to kiss them. I tagged it as the signal for Omertà silence, but to witness it in person blew me away more than any man had in all my thirty-one years.

Damn, it was sensual.

The move caused a similar shaken response amongst those watching, which he ignored. He powered on, exuding confidence and a dangerous magnetism that drew the eye and commanded attention.

I ran my tongue over my lip in wonder at how one man, in a single glance, had the ability to convey the sheer weight of his unspoken power and influence in the underworld and above.

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