“Besides, Nico is a perfect gentleman. If you would’ve met him this morning after church like you were supposed to, you would know that.”
I’d strode right out of the church doors and to the car before I could be corralled to meet my future brother-in-law. I was practically a pariah to my papà, so I was surprised he’d even noticed my absence. Besides, I was sure Nicolas Russo’s gentleman act was nothing but smoke and mirrors.
Since Nicolas’s papà had died five years ago, the twenty-nine-year-old and youngest sitting don had become well-known in the underworld. Following his father’s footsteps, he was a cheat, had more blood on his hands than the entirety of the New York State Penitentiary, and was unremorseful about it all. At least I imagined he was unapologetic. The newscaster wouldn’t have reported a new victim with the name “Zanetti” every morning for a year—the family Nicolas had once feuded with for killing his papà—if he felt at all guilty. He was going straight to Hell with that attitude if you asked me.
“I did meet him, Mamma.”
She raised a brow. “You did?”
“Well, no.”
Her expression darkened.
“But I shared a look with him,” I insisted. “And that was all I needed to see to know he wouldn’t be good for Adriana.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ridicolo.”
A glare and a look were the same things . . . right? It was an accident, really. It was as I was walking down the church steps that my gaze caught on the meeting I was supposed to be attending. Papà and Mamma stood on either side of Adriana and across from Nicolas Russo—and that was usually how a bride and groom met in this life. Arranged marriages were par for the course in the Cosa Nostra.
In annoyance at the entire situation, my eyes had narrowed slightly before glancing at my future brother-in-law, only to find he was already looking at me. That was how the glaring occurred—an accident, you see. But I could hardly convey that to the man, and if I had smiled it would’ve come off condescending, so I just . . . went with the glare and hoped it wouldn’t get me killed.
Nicolas’s gaze had hardened a flicker to show he didn’t like it, but after a second of heavy eye contact, he returned his attention to my papà like I was nothing but a leaf blowing by. I’d let out the breath I was holding and went to hide in the car. There was no way I was meeting him after that exchange. I’d just avoid him until the end of my days.
“Stop worrying and trust your papà.”
I made a hmm noise because I’d overheard from my cousin Benito that the alliance was for collaboration on some weapons deal, nothing more. My sister was a pawn in some large-scale trafficking agreement. How romantic. Even so, we knew this day would come. I held no expectations for a marriage of love, and neither did Adriana.
The problem was, my sister believed she was already in love.
With the gardener.
“Elena, go see if Adriana is ready for lunch.”
“She told me last night she wasn’t coming.”
“She’s coming!” Mamma snapped, followed by muttering in Italian.
With reluctance, I pushed off the counter and headed out of the kitchen. The newscaster’s voice trailed me out the swinging door, and, like a warning, that word murder spilled from red lips once more.
On an Evening in Roma played from the antique record player as I headed toward the staircase and took in the guests in the foyer. My papà’s sister and husband, a few male cousins, and my brother Tony, who was shooting an intense glare in Nicolas’s direction. Tony leaned against the wall with his hands in his black suit pockets, alone. His girlfriend wasn’t Italian and was rarely invited over. My mamma disliked her just because she was dating her son.
I loved my brother, but he was reckless, impulsive, and lived by the code, “If I don’t like it then I’ll fucking shoot it.” And it looked like he wanted to shoot Nicolas Russo. There was some history between the two, and it wasn’t the good kind.
My gaze caught on a striking woman with . . . interesting style. She stood next to a man who I assumed to be her grandfather, but then he slid a hand onto her ass. She only pursed her lips like it was an annoyance.
She wore a mink shawl in July, over a thin olive-green dress, and thigh-high boots. Long dark hair fell in smooth waves, and with her fake eyelashes and large hoop earrings she was like an ad to the seventies era. And, as if she wasn’t doing her job well enough, she blew a pink bubble and popped it, her eyes narrowing on me like I was the one whose style was four decades too late. If polar opposites were ever in the same room, it was her and me, undoubtedly.