At first, I thought whoever nicknamed her had never even met her, but as I spent a little more time observing her it started to make sense. She looked tense when she stood up to me, like it was new for her, like she expected me to wrap my hand around her throat and squeeze. A thought I’d had, though probably in a different context.
The Sweet Abelli was trying to grow some wings.
Thank fuck.
Something in my chest rattled with satisfaction when she listened to me without hesitation. The hot-blooded male in me wondered how obedient she really was. And the Russo wanted to know how much she would let me get away with.
I had already touched her more than I should. Had only shared my cigarette with her just so I could see her lips where mine had been. I’d imagined those little pink fingernails around a specific part of my body, rather than holding a smoke.
I’d only touched the girl’s waist, and the warmth and softness of it was still burned into my palm.
The whole goddamn situation was fucking annoying.
The blond prick grabbed Elena by the arm as she walked past, pulling her in to say something in her ear. Animosity crawled through me. Leaning back in my chair, I rested my forearm on the table and away from my gun, because I had the sudden urge to shoot another man in the Abellis’ backyard. Elena’s papà glanced at the exchange, though hardly seemed concerned.
My tongue ran across my teeth, a deep, unsettling ache unfurling in my ribs.
Elena nodded tightly before the prick dropped his hand and let her go. She disappeared inside.
“What’s his name?” I asked Adriana, nodding toward the blond whose mere presence had become tiresome.
“Oscar Perry—no, Pretzel.” Her brows knitted. “No, that doesn’t sound right either. Oscar something. God, I’m hungry for pretzels now.”
“What does he do for your papà?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. Kind of a creep, though. He’s always all over Elena.”
I let out a dry breath. “Who isn’t?” They greeted her at church like she was Mother Mary.
“True, but she doesn’t care about any of them. My sister is in love.”
My gaze narrowed. “She’s what?”
“In love.”
Something dark and unwanted slithered through my veins.
Adriana’s wide eyes came to me like she just realized she’d said too much. She tipped her entire glass of wine back. I hadn’t even noticed her acquire another.
I shook my head, agitated. “You puke tonight, I’m not holding your hair. I don’t do that shit.”
“My sister will,” she said, like she was planning on throwing up. “Are we done getting to know each other then?”
“For now.”
“Thank God,” she muttered, getting to her feet and drunkenly drifting away to join one of her loud cousins. The girl had already introduced herself to me. Well, she’d come up and said, “Mamma was right. David don’t got a thing on you,” before winking and then disappearing. Strange fucking family.
I accepted another glass of whiskey from a server’s tray, ignoring my cousin Lorenzo who came to sit next to me. He pushed his jacket open and shoved his hands in his pockets. Who the hell knew where he’d been, but I’d rather he be anywhere but staring at Elena Abelli. Just the idea itched beneath my skin.
In a moment of silence, Lorenzo’s gaze followed some Abelli jailbait’s ass as she walked across the lawn. “What’d he do to you?” He nodded toward the blond prick I guessed I hadn’t been secretive about wanting to put a bullet in.
“Pissed me off,” was all I said, swirling my glass of whiskey.
“Must have been bad, then. Takes a lot to piss you off. Let me guess, he insulted your mamma?”
“No.”
“Papà?”
“No.”
“Your most handsome cousin? Six-two, dark-haired, big cock—”
“Lorenzo?” I said dryly.
“Yeah?”
“Fuck off.”
Lorenzo laughed, slapped my shoulder hard enough to slosh some whiskey over the rim of my glass, and then left.
Told you, fucking idiot cousins.
“Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust, like diamonds we are cut with our own dust.”
—John Webster
IT WAS SILVER, TINY, AND reflective. I could almost see my face in it. Gianna’s dress, of course. Long feather earrings, green heels, with her hair piled on the top of her head and no makeup but red lipstick made up her ensemble tonight.
“ . . . If you’re going to do it, do it with a male stripper. Trust me on this one.” She was talking to my fifteen-year-old cousin Emma, who sat at the kitchen island sipping punch through a straw while looking bored.