Page 488 of Rosetti Family New York
"Little cousin." Marco's voice carries that particular note of command that reminds me of my father and Dom. "We need to discuss your situation."
Before I can respond, movement in the corner catches my eye. Dante unfolds from a chair by the window—tall, elegant, dressed in black that makes his olive skin glow. He doesn't speak, of course. He hasn't since whatever happened to steal his voice. Instead, he inclines his head slightly, dark eyes studying me with an intensity that would be unsettling if I hadn't grown up being studied by dangerous men.
Van's hand tightens almost imperceptibly on my back. I can feel him logging threats, that soldier's instinct always active. WhenDante's gaze shifts to him, something passes between them—recognition maybe, one damaged soldier to another.
"This is Van," I say, turning back to Sofia and Marco, not sure how much Dom has told them. "He's been… looking after me."
Marco's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight narrowing of his eyes. "Domenico mentioned you." His attention shifts fully to Van. "Former military?"
"Marines." Van's voice is steady, respectful but not deferential. He knows how to navigate power too, just differently than I do.
"Sit," Marco commands, and we all move to our assigned places. I notice the choreography immediately—Marco at the head, Dante to his right as his silent strategist, Sofia across from me where she can watch everything. The seat to Marco's left stays empty, and I know without asking it's for Luca.
Marco pours glasses of Giacomo Conterno Monfortino Barolo Riserva for me and Van, who doesn't touch his.
Food arrives without us even ordering, and the smells of garlic and rich red wine spark my mouth into watering instantly.
"What have you been up to lately?" I ask, excitement bubbling through me at finally being with my cousins again. In my determination to run away from everything I knew, I'd forgotten how much I loved being with family. "This wine is divine, by the way."
"Sofia's been handling some cleanup work while you were gone," Marco says, cutting into his perfectly prepared steak, reminding me viscerally of watching Van work. "Three Torrino associates who thought our cousin's absence meant we'd gone soft."
My blood turns to ice, the taste of expensive wine suddenly turning bitter on my tongue. I sneak a glance at Van to see how he's taking this offhand comment, but his face remains impassive. "Cleanup work?" I squeak.
Van goes very still beside me, and I feel tension coil through his body like a loaded spring. I never should have brought him to meet my family. He'll probably run a mile after he sees what they're capable of and learns that we aren't, necessarily, the good guys.
Sofia's smile is beautiful and utterly terrifying, like watching a rose bloom over a grave. "I took care of them personally. Messily." She dabs at her lips with her napkin, the gesture so refined it makes my stomach turn. This elegant woman who used to play fashion models with me as mama's floor-length gowns draped out behind us just described torture with the same tone someone might use to discuss the weather. "One of them actually begged, if you can believe it. A grown man, crying for his mother while I worked."
Holy hell. While I was busy being the youngest sister of five older and over-protective brothers who shielded me from every violent element, apparently Sofia, with similar family structure, got a very different memo. She is describing her kills like I might discuss my skincare routine. I reach for Van's hand under the table and am relieved when he returns my squeeze.
"You're not just the little sister," I manage, my voice barely steady but somehow not breaking entirely. My words barely make sense, but I'm trying to figure out how my giggling cousin became a sword.
"Darling Carmela," Sofia says, her smile never wavering as she reaches for her wine, the gesture so fluid and controlled it's almost hypnotic, "none of us are just anything."
Van's thumb brushes against my knuckles under the table.
I should be horrified. The Carmela who got excited about choosing pasta sauce should be running from this table. Instead, I find myself leaning forward slightly, like Sofia's describing a particularly interesting brushstroke technique. What is wrong with me? The thought flickers through my mind, but it's drowned out by genuine curiosity about how someone who used to braid my hair became someone who makes grown men cry.
The rest of the meal passes in lighter conversations and a gradual easing of tension. Even Sofia seems to warm to me, which makes my heart sing. I don't think I could have borne it if she hated me. Nobody knows better than me that family power can be a cage rather than a tool, but even so, I begin to relax.
Van remains mostly quiet, but I feel his approval in the way his fingers occasionally brush mine. His hypervigilance never stops; I catch him watching the servers' movements, noting which ones carry themselves like soldiers, but he trusts me to handle my own battle here.
Suddenly, the door to the private dining room slams open and a whirlwind strides in, wearing a dark suit.
"Sorry, sorry." My youngest cousin, Luca, strolls in like he owns the place, which technically he partly does. "Had to handle something. You know how it is—blood, screaming, the usual Tuesday afternoon activities."
Van goes very still beside me, his entire body coiling like a weapon ready to strike, and I realize with a start that my unflappable protector is genuinely nervous. Van, who faced down Isabella Torrino without flinching, who performs surgery under pressure that would break most people, is genuinely unsettled by whatever psychology lurks behind Luca's mask. I shouldn't have brought him here.
My skin prickles. Luca looks normal enough, handsome in that Rosetti way, designer clothes, perfect hair. He looks like he walked out of a GQ photoshoot, if GQ did a 'Stylish Psychopaths' issue. His smile doesn't reach his eyes, and there's something in the way he moves that makes my submission instincts scream danger, and not in a good way. He looks even more unhinged than when I last saw him.
When we were kids, Luca used to catch frogs and dissect them to see how they worked, but he also cried when his dog died. I've never figured him out.
Luca drops into his chair, and his gaze lands on me. That smile widens. "Baby Carmela. I heard you've been causing trouble. Good for you."
"I didn't mean to—"
"Of course you did." He leans back, studying me with eyes that see too much. "You ran away. That takes balls. Most of the family's too scared to even jaywalk."
"You're late," Marco says flatly.
