Page 25 of Bride By Initiation

We fill our trays with soy sauce and wasabi, and I pick up a piece of salmon and pop it in my mouth. It melts right away, and I groan. "This is so good."

"Yeah, the sushi is the best here. I kind of hate going anywhere else these days," Fiona declares.

"Agreed." I take a sip of water, then ask, "So, are you breaking up with Marcus?"

She chews her fish and shrugs. "No idea."

"Maybe it'll get better," I suggest.

She winces. "Yeah. I thought that the first dozen times we had sex, butI think it's him." She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "Man, why is it so hard to find somebody you're compatible with on all levels?"

"I don't know. You're asking the wrong person," I answer.

"Maybe we should start dating each other," she says, leaning closer.

"You're into women now?" I ask, amused.

"No, but we could figure out how to be and then we wouldn't have to deal with these men."

"I don't think it works that way," I reply.

She sighs again. "You're right. But I need to figure out how to get Marcus to become an animal in bed instead of a puppy."

"Woof! Woof!" I tease.

"Stop!" she orders, laughing.

"That situation sucks."

"Yeah."

We finish our dinner and discuss some family stuff, and then I head to my yoga class.

I'm feeling pretty Zen when my driver drops me off at my door afterward. I tell him for the millionth time, "You don't have to walk me to my apartment."

"Your father's orders," Calogero reminds me.

I roll my eyes. My father is overprotective, but I learned to accept it because fighting it only causes me stress. I groan. "I know. I know. All right. Have a good day." I step inside and shut the door. I shower, put on my pajamas, and go into the kitchen to get a glass of water. And I freeze.

I can hear soft music playing. It's barely audible, but I can tell it's coming from the family room.

My insides quiver, and the hairs on my arms rise. I grab a knife out of the wood block.

"You don't have to be scared," a woman's voice declares in a Greek accent.

I peek around the corner, gripping the knife over my head.

A petite woman in her late forties or early fifties sits in my chair. She has black hair with gray streaks running through it, and it's in a neat French twist. Her makeup is perfect, complete with dark-red lips and long, curled lashes framing her golden-brown eyes. She's dressed in a navy-blue skirt suit and conservative heels.

"Who are you?" I question, staying semi-hidden behind the kitchen wall.

She points at the couch. "My name is Sylvia Stevens. Sit down. Let's chat."

"Sylvia Stevens," I repeat, realizing that her last name is just as popular as Smith, and I think of Sean.

"Yes, Sylvia Stevens. I think you know my associate, John?" She arches her eyebrows.

"Yes," I reply.

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