Page 82 of The Mafia's Broken Vows

“What does that mean?” I insist.

She looks as if she’s debating telling me. Then she suddenly pulls me into another hug. “Dante can be impulsive, alright, but his instincts are never wrong. If he tells you to stay here, I’d do it, Addy.”

Her answer does nothing to reassure my peaking nerves, but before I can press further, Antonella speaks up.

“Okay, enough with all the hushed voices.” She gestures to the large round dining table with half a dozen chairs around it. “Let’s sit down, have food, coffee, and some proper gossip, shall we?”

I'd prefer tea. But asking for it might invite questions about why. Or it might not. Still, it’s better to keep things simple and accept a coffee instead. As soon as we settle around the massive kitchen table, Sophie starts to give me a crash course of who is who among the family and the house staff but she doesn’t get far before the older woman gently cuts in.

“So, Adele, tell us a bit about yourself. What do you do?”

And this is where it all goes south. “I work at the DA’s office in Boston.”

A long silence follows, during which I wait for the other shoe to drop.

Antonella, who paused in the process of sipping her coffee, carefully puts her mug back down. “The Boston DA’s office?” she asks with an overly bright smile. “That's amazing.”

“What Mama V is wondering is,” Sophie pipes up, her eyes twinkling, “what your job role is and specifically, where you stand in a certain man’s trial.”

“Sofia Lauren!” Antonella scolds.

“What, Mama V?” Sophie laughs. “I’m a therapist. And you’re the definition of wearing your thoughts on your sleeve. Anyway, Addy, where do you stand with Tommy Martelli?” Sophie prompts me.

I shake my head. “I’m just one of the forensic guys. I’m supposed to be neutral and not have an opinion either way.”

The tension in Antonella’s shoulders reduces a fraction, but I can still see the furrow of concern on her brow.

Sophie leans forward, her elbows resting on the table. “Forensics. It could be worse, Mama V. At least Addy isn’t on the prosecuting team. Not that Dante would care. He’d eat that shit up.”

“Where did you and Dante meet?” Antonella continues, her plate of pastries forgotten.

Before I can respond, the deep baritone that never fails to send thrills through me, cuts through the room. “Boston.”

I turn to see Dante standing in the doorway. His shirt looks wrinkled around the collar, and his hair is unbound and tousled, but that doesn’t detract from his allure. My breath catches in my throat as our eyes meet. Electricity crackles between us. His eyes look almost as stormy as they did the last time I saw them.

When he was deep inside me.

I quickly look away, subtly clearing my throat and desperately wishing I had Sophie’s olive complexion as I feel my cheeks heat and my heart rate kick up. It would be so embarrassing to react to him this way in front of his family.

Out of the side of my eye, I see that instead of coming to the table, Dante heads straight for the glass wall and sits on the counter beside it.

Behind him, two men who I assume are Dante’s brother, Nico, and his father file into the kitchen. I’m struck by how stunning they are. Tall and muscular with jawlines that could cut glass, they look almost identical, and as if they’ve walked off a runway. The Vitelli genes are clearly something special.

Dante is the bigger of the two brothers, but Nico exudes an aura of danger and authority that instantly sends a shiver of fear down my spine.

Vito is an older version of his sons and carries himself with a quiet dignity, his presence commanding respect.

“So good for you boys to join us for breakfast,” Antonella chirps, then puts an arm around me. “Carissimo,” she says to her husband, “look who I found. It’s Adele.”

Vito comes to me and I stand. His blue eyes are somber when he kisses both my cheeks.

“Welcome to our home, Adele. I’m Vito.” His eyes look like they are saying more, but since I’m not skilled in reading the subtle expressions of made men I’ve never met, I simply smile and murmur a soft thank you. He gives his wife a quick kiss, then sits at the table while she fetches more food.

“Nico.” Nico simply acknowledges me with the barest hint of a smile and a curt nod, then makes a beeline for his wife. I thought his greeting was a tad frosty, although I can’t blame him. He’s the Don of the Chicago Outfit and, therefore, entitled to be as grumpy as he wants, I suppose. Not to mention that I more or less killed one of his men yesterday.

But then I see another side to Nico when he wraps an arm around Sophie and takes her mouth in a kiss that is so not fit for public, although no one else seems to care that they have their tongues down each other’s throats.

Vito watches me silently. His gaze is warm and kind, but I don’t miss his slightly furrowed brows. I can’t decide if it’s puzzlement or irritation.

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