“Mariko is extraordinarily sweet,” Elie confirmed. “She’s married to Ricco, and she isn’t given to even minor rebellions. Giovanni and Sasha are seated beside them. Sasha would lead the charge right beside Francesca so I’m not certain the two of you can ever be great friends.”
Dario nodded approvingly. “At last. A take-charge man. Val, you need to take notes. It’s most likely too late. Emmanuelle’s wrapped you around her little finger, but you could try to rein that woman in.”
“I’m erasing that app if you keep it up, Dario,” Emmanuelle threatened. “Don’t you give Val any more ideas. He’s quite enough to deal with as it is. You used to be silent—as in never speaking. When did that change and why?”
“I thought annoying you would be more fun.”
“Sit your ass in a chair, Dario,” Stefano said, “before I have to put your name back at the top of the hit list.”
Emmanuelle tossed her hair over her shoulder and sank into a chair, her hand in the crook of her husband’s arm. “This is Valentino, my husband, Brielle. And Dario is actually quite nice, but he likes to pretend he’s a badass.”
“Thank you for your help today,” Brielle said. “Dario isn’t a badass?”
Her accent was adorable the way she said badass. Elie was born and raised in France. His mother was American, a distant relative of the Ferraro family, but his father had been an Archambault through and through. Elie, apparently, had an accent; at least that was what Emmanuelle told him. The years he’d spent in the service and with her family might have dulled it, but the accent was still there. That didn’t take away his joy of hearing Brielle speak with hers.
“No, he’s just a wannabe badass. He stands around looking mean and grim so everyone thinks he’s one,” Emme said. “That’s how he gets women to date him.”
Laughter went around the table. Food was being taken off plates from the middle of the table at an alarming rate. Elie had known the Ferraro family for years and they could eat a tremendous amount of food. He caught up Brielle’s plate and began to scoop the pasta dish he knew was really good onto it.
“Salad,” she whispered. “Or just the carrots and broccoli.”
“The pasta is amazing. Taviano’s specialty. He’d be hurt if you didn’t at least try a little, Brielle.” What had she done? Stopped eating so she could get thin? He wanted all of her curves back. They’d talk about that when they were alone—or with Stefano.
She looked down the table and Taviano raised his hand with a grin. “I hope you enjoy it, Brielle. Welcome to the famiglia. This is Nicoletta, my wife.” Taviano raised his voice. “Dario, the pasta is going fast. Francesca baked the bread herself. You don’t get your ass to the table, we aren’t saving anything for you.”
Dario heaved a huge sigh and made his way to the table, pushing his phone into his pocket. “Seriously, Taviano? Think before you take on the family from hell, Brielle. I was dragged into this through no fault of my own, but the food is delicious and they’re an endless source of amusement when I don’t have to save their lives.”
Brielle smiled at him. “Do you have to do that a lot, Dario? Save their lives, I mean?”
She took a cautious bite of the pasta. Elie watched as she took her time, savoring as she chewed. He hoped he would be able to persuade her to eat a lot of meals with the Ferraros.
“Yep. Sadly. They’re impossible, as you can tell from the crap they talk. I spend most of my time saving them from the enemies they make just by opening their mouths.”
Another burst of laughter went around the table.
CHAPTER THREE
You have a lovely family,” Brielle told Stefano. “You’re a very lucky man.”
“I am,” he agreed. “Are you still determined to break your agreement, Brielle?”
For a moment she hesitated, pressing her lips together. Elie’s breath caught in his lungs, hoping she would decide against going through with her protest. She inclined her head. “Yes. I feel I have no choice.”
Stefano waved her toward a chair in the office he’d taken the two of them up to in his private elevator. Instead of going to the chair, Brielle paced across the room, her movements flowing and fluid as befitting a shadow rider. She was both feminine and graceful in her elegant wedding gown. The veil was gone, revealing the wealth of blond hair she had pinned up in an intricate and stylish figure eight, taming the wild mass he had remembered vividly from when she’d sat so rigidly on Jean-Claude’s couch in the sitting room.