When She Loves (The Fallen, #4)(57)

“Rafaele,” he says in a rumbling voice. “Welcome.”

He and Rafaele shake hands. “Thank you for inviting us into your home.”

“It’s my pleasure. And this must be your lovely new wife.” He pins his perceptive gaze on me. When I offer him my hand, he lifts it to his lips, and the coarse hairs of his white beard brush against my skin.

“I’m glad we could make this happen. Let me introduce you to my boys.”

His sons are standing in the corner by the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Central Park like three dark sentinels, their black suits in stark contrast against the beige crane-patterned wallpaper.

Whatever serenity the decor of this place managed to create is immediately erased. I don’t think there’s anyone who’d ever feel at peace in the presence of these men.

One after the other, they turn toward us. Each one deadly. Each one undeniably handsome. Beautiful monsters. This world is filled with them.

Gino leads Rafaele and me toward his sons, and the collective force of their attention makes my throat go dry.

“This is my eldest, Cosimo,” Gino says, gesturing at the tallest man in the group.

Cosimo Ferraro could have been a movie star if he wasn’t a mobster. Not that he had much of a choice, which makes it even more of a tragedy. Men who look like him, with flowing hazel hair and piercing blue eyes that rival those of my husband’s, don’t belong amongst us mere mortals. They’re meant to be idolized by the fawning masses.

He sizes up Rafaele, his eyes lingering on the exact spots where my husband is hiding his weapons beneath his suit. The fact that no one asked Rafaele to disarm when we first walked in likely means they’re all carrying.

A nervous shiver runs down my spine. This is a friendly dinner. Let’s hope it doesn’t end the way our dinner at Il Caminetto did.

Cosimo coolly greets Rafaele and barely spares me a look before Gino steers us to the next man. “This is Alessio.”

The Ferraro’s famed enforcer. His long hair is tied back, showing off the scar that runs across his temple. A smaller one cuts through his left brow. Tattoos cover his hands and his neck, and when he shakes my hand after Rafaele’s, I make out the letters on his knuckles. MORE. My gaze drops to his other hand. It completes the phrase. MORE PAIN.

My blood cools. Jesus. Is that what he promises the men he tortures if they don’t give up their secrets?

“And this is my youngest son. Romolo.”

I tear my gaze away from those tattooed letters and turn to the last brother.

He’s the only one who smiles at me, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Call me Rom.” By the time he turns to Rafaele, the smile is gone. “Messero,” he says, a bite to his tone. “I have to admit, I didn’t think we’d ever see you walk through these doors.”

Everyone knows about Rom Ferraro.

A long time ago, when I was scheming how to ensure I would be eliminated from the marriage circuit, I considered arranging a meeting with Rom. His reputation as a womanizer is unmatched by anyone in our circles. Just being seen in the same room as him while unsupervised used to be enough to start a scandal.

Rumor is he’s grown up in the past few years, but tales of his conquests still filter through the mouths of my father’s men.

Rafaele gives Rom his signature icy stare. “Likewise. But times change.”

Rom’s lips tighten. “Yeah, they sure fucking do.”

“Language! You know better than to speak like that when you’re in this house, Rom.”

Everyone turns in the direction of the voice. It belongs to a statuesque, silver-haired woman who must be their mom. She walks over, her perfectly straight locks swishing back and forth with each step, and she gives me a smile that wraps around me like a warm, cozy blanket.

Some tension in my shoulders disappears. Somehow, I just know this woman will make sure no blood is spilled tonight. She hugs me, pulling me tightly against her chest, as I catch a whiff of her refined perfume.

“Cleo Messero.” Her eyes sparkle with warmth. “I’m Vita. How are you, my dear? I hope they didn’t bore you with their manhood-measuring contest. That’s how these boys always are. What are you drinking? Wine? Whiskey? A strong martini? Alcohol is always the answer on nights like these.” She places a hand on my back and steers me toward the bar.

Gino clears his throat. “Vita.”

She glances back at him. “Yes, my love?”

“There’s one more guest,” Gino says, giving his wife an indulgent smile.

She tsks. “Ah, that’s right.”

“Hello, daughter.”

Ice pours into my veins. Slowly, I turn toward my father.

“What are you doing here?”

“I invited him,” Gino says, coming to stand by Papà’s side. He’s wearing an is-there-a-problem-here smile as he gives Rafaele a pointed look. “After all, you’ve joined your families, so I thought it would be best if we all sit down at the table.”

“Good to see you, Garzolo,” Rafaele says, seeming unfazed by this turn of events, but I can’t say the same for myself. Is Papà seeking an ally in Ferraro to take down Rafaele? I doubt Ferraro would work with someone whose word clearly means nothing, but what do I know?

My father stops before me and leans down to press a kiss to my cheek. “We need to talk,” he whispers in my ear.