Page 24 of The Mafia's Bride
“Not sure.” My sister tugs me in the opposite direction. “Whoever he is, he doesn’t look like someone to mess with. He’s probably here for business with Maeve.” That’s an understatement.
The only impression I got from him was the touch of death, a coldness that seems to follow me even as we enter the dining room.
With its burgundy paint and dark wainscoting, it looks like something from an old Victorian home, rather than a castle. The burning fireplace casts angry shadows all over the walls, turning the antique room haunted. Red roses dot the large table, a sick memory of my mother’s taste in this room.
She loved red roses. It’s why I wear her perfume, why I have a tattoo of it on my lower hip. Not because I miss her, but because the only time my father ever spoke nicely to me was when he compared me to her.
Rich notes of savory food hit my nose and my stomach grumblesin response. Roasts of veal and lamb, rich pastas, and salads with gleaming green beans and potatoes have been laid out by our personal chef, a man that hides in the shadows and only makes his presence known with the delicious smells of his cooking.
We’re not alone in this room, though. Three older women, all in their late fifties or sixties, sit at the table. Two have dark dresses, with simple diamond earrings and no makeup, judging me with bold disgust. The woman in the center, though, is dressed in a burnt orange dress, her soft brown hair long with streaks of grey. She doesn’t look as irritated as her friends, but gives me a quick scan, eyes lingering on my hair and my exposed legs.
I didn’t feel self-conscious in this dress before but under her gaze, I’m ready to run and change. This is a woman used to receiving respect and won’t tolerate anything else.
“Your sister and the De Luca men are on their way,” Hayes says from behind, startling me. “Your sister requests you sit down and behave.” He shoots me a knowing look and I roll my eyes. There goes my last hope he wouldn’t show.
“We’ll behave.” Collins smiles sweetly, hand placed on my arm in warning.Traitor.“Come on, Sloane.”
She directs me to the table, and I grab the unopened bottle of wine before she can stop me. The buzz is wearing off and I’ll need all the extra help I can get.
My phone goes off, and when I open it, I’m greeted with pictures of a yacht from Danica. A place I should be, escaping this nightmare and enjoying the various warm bodies crowding her.
I send her a quick comment before turning my phone off, placing the screen face down. Collins glares at me, two lines forming between her brows.
“How will your new husband like knowing you still talk to an ex-hookup?” she whispers, avoiding triggering the matrons.
I have no such reservations, clearing my throat. “Considering it’s not my choice to be here, he’ll have to deal.”
“Sloane—"
“You know, we do this every time she’s mentioned.” I flick my fingers at her.
It’s not like Danica is my best friend. I’ll be damned to admit that to Collins who seems to think she knows everything.
She glares. “Because eventually you’re going to learn that she’s not the person you should keep in your orbit. There are better choices for friends. Friends who aren’t addicts.”
My heart pangs. Not because she’s wrong, but because she’s right.
“At least I have friends.” I sip from my glass, keeping the cunning smile on my face even as I lash out. Collins winces as if I’d stabbed her, and the buzz is keeping any guilt from penetrating my heart. “Maybe you don’t know what a good friend looks like.”
Demurely, Collins places her hands into her lap, not touching her wine. “Maybe.”
The clock strikes seven over the fireplace mantle, the ring bouncing around the room as I shift. Time to meet my future fiancé and end this marriage before it starts.
9
LEX
“Stop fidgeting,” Nico reprimands, tapping my gloved hands. I let go of the sewn edges, settling my hands onto my lap like a scolded eight-year-old little boy again.
“Apologies, Zio.” I lean back in the town car, sinking into the warmed seats and the scent of Nico’s aftershave. Letting the small things ease my discomfort.
Nico coughs, a broken sound that has my heart hurting. He cuts me a glare as I try to help him. “Nervous?”
“To meet my future bride?” I snort, reclining. “No.”
I’m not. I’ve met my future bride, twice now, and both times have been intriguing to say the least.
Will I get the sex kitten from the bar, who hides her sorrow behind a daring smile and a flirtatious attitude? Will I get the intelligent, fierce woman who sees more than most, deducing logic quicker than the smartest men in my outfit?
