Page 32 of Pretty Pink Poison
It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t comfort. It was hate. Pure, simmering, and sharp enough to flay skin.
I told myself she wasn’t mine to care about. She wasn’t mine to protect, to understand, to want. She was a debt, a pawn, a woman I found myself watching over for a bargain rather than anything more.
Still, when she walked past me and chose the empty seat between Rafe and Jameson, my chest tightened. Rafe to her left, silent and disinterested. Jameson to her right, already leaning toward her with that sly grin.
Fuck. Of all the seats in the room, she picked the one that made my blood boil.
The server circled the table with quiet precision, setting down plates heavy with food and baskets of steaming bread. Mr. Zarelli lifted his glass, cleared his throat, and smirked.
“Now that we’re all here,” he said, glancing pointedly at Bianca and then at one of my waiters, “perhaps my daughter will learn punctuality has a cost. Just give her bread.”
Laughter rippled from Krawson, the fucker, but Bianca stiffened in her chair. Her mouth thinned out like she was trying to hold back a retort and her hand hovered near the basket that was held out to her, trembling for just a moment. But she covered it up by smiling and murmuring that she was happy to see her father. Everyone took her act at face value.
Everyone except me.
I watched as she met his eyes and took a big roll from the basket. He seemed to narrow his like there was a silent war happening.
My gaze flicked to Bianca’s hand, the slight tremor in her fingers. I didn’t know what caused it, didn’t care if it was nerves or something else, but I knew she didn’t want the bread.
“She’ll eat steak,” I told the server flatly. “Salad. Now. No bread.”
The whole table froze.
Her father’s smile curdled. “She’ll eat what her father tells her to.”
I leaned back, voice low and final. “Interesting that you gave your daughter tousbut think you can still control her. Bianca, what do you want to eat?”
Bianca’s eyes darted to me, wide, startled. Not grateful—never grateful—but surprised I’d given her a choice probably. I had to be better about acknowledging her. I couldn’t live with her thinking she wasn’t going to be noticed for five fucking years when all I did all day was notice her. “Are we all that concerned with my plate of food over your own?”
She tilted her head at me, and I couldn’t help but respect her sass even under pressure.
“Fair. Choose what you want.” I waved the waiters on and allowed them to set bread, pasta, and steaks in front of us as I changed the subject. “Let’s discuss some ports, shall we?”
Stefano glanced quickly at Kraw. It was the only sign I needed. The man just couldn’t learn his lesson the first time. He’d already given up his daughter for trying to be slick. And now he knew exactly what his nephew was doing. Still, I let him fumble over it. He cleared his throat for a speech about shipments and ports that needed “attention,” about alliances “requiring flexibility.” I let him talk until he believed he’d wormed his way out of the betrayal he’d allowed.
Then I cut him off with a sentence: “Pier Forty-Seven is closed to your business.”
He blinked. “You don’t control—”
“I do,” I said. “My family and my alliances run every West and East Coast port that means anything to you. Am I right, Jameson?”
Jameson knew as well as I did that the East Coast had ties to cartels and the Italians. The Diamond Syndicate they both belonged to didn’t possess a stronghold there like we did. He shrugged. “He’s right, Stefano.”
“What about you solidifying ties there with—”
Mr. Zarelli was going to mention Jameson’s wife, but that woman had betrayed him, had run off with the cartels and was most likely dead now. Jameson’s temperament suddenly lost all his charm.
Therewas the monster he hid under it all. “Consider your next words carefully, Stefano. I don’t care whether you're in my syndicate or not if you start discussing my family.”
Mr. Zarelli had started to sweat as he glanced around the table and realized not one of us was on his side. “Rafe,” he started, but my brother pressed a button on his phone andfinally met Mr. Zarelli’s eyes as he said into the call, “Take Zarelli off the ports.” And then he got up and walked away.
Bianca’s father barely contained his emotions at hearing that. His face turned a bright red and then I saw the whites of his knuckles as he gripped his fork. His wife made quick work of trying to diffuse his temper by pointing to the flowers on the table, “What a beautiful bouquet, right, Bianca?”
“I do agree with that.” Jameson turned his attention to the bouquet, took out his phone and snapped a picture. “My daughter loves flowers.”
“You have a little girl?” Bianca asked, a frown on her face. I wasn’t sure if it was disbelief or trepidation.
“Yeah, want to see a picture?” Jameson turned his phone toward her and her expression softened.
