Page 22 of Rosetti Family New York
I watch her at our table. She keeps her eyes on me, never looking at the view or the menu. I make her uncomfortable, and it’s the best damn feeling. Our silence is thick, but it’s not the same as before. I almost think she’ll speak first. She doesn’t, but her fingers twist that ring on her hand. Not the wedding band, the other one. I order two glasses of champagne and orange juice.
“Do you want anything else?” I ask.
Her eyes cut into me, and I know she wants a lot of things. None of them are on the menu.
I order for both of us, watch as she nibbles on her caviar toast, puts tiny forkfuls of egg into that pretty mouth. I drink more black coffee, eat like a dog.
A voice comes from the table next to us, cutting through the silence. “Nice piece of ass,” it says, loud and brash.
The words hang in the air, daring me to do something about it. I don’t remember standing, but I’m already on my feet, heart pounding, blood rushing in my ears. Eleanor looks at me, eyes wide, just as I start to move. The punk who said it isn’t much older than me, not much bigger either. He's got his sleeves rolled up, his tie hanging loose. Smug bastard doesn’t know what’s coming. I’m halfway to him when his friends start to laugh, and then I’m at his table, ready to shut him up for good. He turns, surprise flaring across his face, but it’s too damn late. I swing before he can even blink. My fist connects with his jaw, a satisfying crunch that fills the entire restaurant.
A plate clatters to the floor. His glass shatters. People are staring now, horrified, frozen, like they’ve never seen a fight before. Like this isn’t New York City.
The guy I hit stumbles back, shock on his face, hand to his mouth, blood between his teeth. The rest of his buddies are up now too, but they don’t want any part of me. They’re grabbing their coats, their wallets, their broken friend.
My voice rings out, echoing in the sudden hush. “Nobody looks at my wife’s ass but me.” There’s pride in the words, possession. And it’s the damn truth.
The manager rushes over. He’s pale, worried about his fancy customers, about the disruptions I’m causing. I glare at him and point to the door. I’ve made enough of a scene. “It’s fine, we’re leaving.” He nods, relief washing over his face. He knows who I am, and he doesn’t argue.
Eleanor’s eyes are wide. She looks shocked, but also pleased. Like she’s just figured something out about me. I’m a split-second from pinning her against the wall and kissing her until she can’t breathe. Instead, I stay cool. Collected. I wait.
She’s getting under my skin the way ink does, seeping in deep.
We leave the mess behind us. Out on the street, I keep my grip on her wrist tight. I can feel her pulse. Or maybe it’s mine. On the ride home, I drive without thinking.
I have to know. “Are you enjoying this?” I sound pissed. I am pissed. I’m letting her see too much of me.
“Your raging jealousy?” she asks, and I hear the edge of a smile. “Should I be?”
“Never met anyone so fucking—” I can’t finish. I don’t want her to know the end of that sentence. So fucking captivating.
11
Eleanor
The morning air is cool on my skin when we return from breakfast at Il Paradiso. Leonardo pretended he was dragging me there, but I saw through him. He was helping me escape from the insanity of his family. I might be grateful if it weren’t for the way he smirked in victory.
The Rosetti mansion rises in front of me, full of angles and long windows. It's a skyscraper, a prison, a dragon’s lair. Everything but a home.
I take a breath and walk through the front doors, and it is like walking into another world. Not the silence of my childhood or the dark corners of last night, but chaos and voices that pull at me. Rosettis in every room. Brothers. Sister. Even the parents and the tiny grandmother, even though they don't live here, as far as I can tell. All shouting, teasing, yelling over each other.
“It’s like the place threw up Rosettis,” I mutter.
“We were here first, Eleanor.” A tall figure—Raffaele, I'm starting to get them straight—moves toward me.
“And we’re not leaving.” A sharp voice from the corner, the older brother, Domenico, who arranged my marriage. He crosses his arms, looking every inch the future boss.
“Don’t scare her off. You’re both such dicks.” Carmela flutters over, full of curls and wide eyes. She bounces on her feet, and I’m not sure what to make of her.
“I’m fine.” I pin a smile in place. “Just getting my bearings.
I walk through the rooms, watching, listening. Carmela shouts over everyone, trying to explain some new business plan. Raffaele doesn’t seem to care, while Domenico tells her to focus on family instead of running around like an ungrateful brat. Her answer is a barrage of words so quick that Matteo jokes she’s better suited for law school than family matters. Emilio leans against a wall, a ghost with black hair, and grins at me. It is more than a little overwhelming, all of them together like this.
A house of chaos and voices. A mansion that isn’t empty. I feel like a spy, an intruder. I have never seen anything like this. They fight. They yell. They hug and insult each other, and nobody gets slapped across the face. There’s something loud and bright that I don’t understand until I finally realize: this house is alive.
My father’s was a tomb. The rooms as empty as the hearts inside. Every conversation hushed and cold as we moved from one surface to another, never touching, never connecting. This is like a foreign country.
I slip into the library, settling on the leather sofa, letting the words wash over me from the other rooms. Raffaele arguing with Leonardo, Salvatore attempting to stand up to his tiny mother, Nanna Toni.
