A dry chuckle leaves Papà’s mouth. “Damiano De Rossi. You’re a handsome guy, huh? I can see now why my daughter is so partial to you. You know women, they’re drawn to pretty things.”
Damiano’s smile is a sharp, crooked line. “I wonder what drew your wife to you then, Garzolo.”
Papà barks a laugh, but it’s forced. Back in New York, this is how made men talk to each other—all jokes and underhanded barbs. It’s all fun and games until you press the wrong button and guns are pulled out.
“Let me look at you,” Vale says, nudging me away. “Has your hair gotten longer?”
I take a step back and let my shoulder-length hair fall over my face as if I’m showing her my haircut. “A little. My bladder is about to explode. Can I run inside?”
“Oh, sure. You know where the bathroom is.”
Brushing past her, I jog inside the house and shut the door behind me.
It’s cool inside, the AC on full blast. It feels nice against my burning cheek and my overheated body.
I rush through the airy, light-filled rooms toward the powder room I remember from my last visit.
A relieved sigh leaves my lungs as soon I peer into the round mirror hanging over the vanity. There’s just a slight pink mark above my right cheek bone. I already have a half dozen excuses ready in case anyone asks. It’ll bruise though. I bruise so damn easily, like a peach.
At least I brought my best full coverage concealer. I pull it out and dab some onto the mark. Cleo said it would be too heavy for this climate, but I packed it anyway. Actually, I can’t recall the last time I didn’t have it with me, just in case.
The backs of my eyes begin to prickle…and fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t cry.
I can’t cry because my eyes will get all red, and everyone will know.
Everyone will know that I’m not okay.
Why did Papà have to do it now? Why couldn’t he at least wait until after we got to the guesthouse?
Cleo and I are sharing a room here. I’ll have to wear my sleep mask when we go to bed so that she won’t see the bruise.
Frustration rises inside of me. I should hate Papà the way Cleo and Vale do, but even though I’m the only one he hits, I still love him.
Despite his many flaws, he’s my father. The man who taught me how to read and always let me sit on his knee when I cried at church, terrified by the sermon. If he was all violence and anger, it would be easy to despise him, but he’s not. Sometimes, he’ll look at me, and softness will creep into his gaze. “You’ve always been so clever, Gem. My little girl. You’re the one daughter I can count on.”
When he says things like that to me, I melt. I can’t help it. His approval feels like a warm hug. It makes me feel safe, and loved, and wanted. It makes me feel like everything that’s broken can be fixed.
I finish applying the makeup and wash my hands at the sink. There’s a ball in my throat that won’t ease.
That won’t do.
I have to keep it together this week, no matter what.
So I brace my palms on the sink and start counting my breaths, forcing my thoughts away from Papà.
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three—
The door to the bathroom springs open.
My first thought is that it’s Mamma, coming to see what’s taking me so long.
But it’s not.
It’s worse.
My eyes narrow on the intruder and the muscular bulk he’s managed to pour into a pair of slacks and a gray button-up shirt. His beard’s freshly trimmed, his hair’s pulled back and tied at the nape, and his small silver earring glints in the light.
A cold shiver runs down my spine. I remember staring at that earring and thinking I was about to die.
I straighten and remind myself that despite the grin on his face, this is a dangerous man.
A bad man.
And I might be the only one here that knows it.
“Do you ever knock, Ras?”
CHAPTER 2
RAS
My ma raised me to be a gentleman, but I’ve always thought that I’m the perfect example of nature winning over nurture. No matter how hard she tried to stomp out my wild streak, she never quite managed to do it.
When I was a kid, I made her want to pull her hair out. She’d say go left, and so I’d go right. At school, I was always getting into trouble. She’d punish me, but the calls from the principal never stopped. And I absolutely hated wearing the neat little suits she’d force me into for every special occasion. I always got them filthy. Ma would drag me away by my ear and demand to know why I looked like I’d rolled in the mud.
I’ve gotten better at tolerating suits since then, but that urge to introduce a bit of chaos into something orderly has never quite left. When I became older, I learned that manufactured chaos is a powerful tool, especially in my current position as underboss of the Casalesi. It’s saved my ass, and Dem’s, more than a few times.
When thrown into chaos, people do things they never would under normal circumstances. The animal brain takes over. The filters come off. People reveal their true desires, and sometimes those desires have a lot to do with seeing Dem or me dead.
The way Gemma Garzolo is looking at me right now… I’d put her squarely into that category.
Narrowed gray eyes.
Pursed lips.
An angry pink blush across her cheeks that might be my new favorite color.
“Do you ever knock, Ras?” She places her fists on her hips and spears me with an irritated gaze. I’ve become deeply acquainted with that gaze from our two previous encounters.
The first was when I was tasked with finding her in New York so that I could give her a burner phone to talk to her sister. What should have been a straightforward task had turned into a whole Thing because Gemma had assumed I was waiting for her in the changing room of her Pilates studio to kill her.
She saw me and opened her mouth to scream. I lunged at her, stuffed her into a closet, and held my palm against her mouth just long enough to explain that I was here on Valentina’s orders. When she went still, I thought we were past our misunderstanding, but I was terribly wrong.
As soon as I removed my hand, she sank her surprisingly sharp teeth into my forearm. I remember staring into those stormy-gray eyes as she drew blood and thinking, “Fuck, this woman is beautiful.”
A scuffle followed. I may have been rougher with her than I intended because I really hadn’t been expecting this sort of resistance, and I was jet-lagged. Nothing makes me feel more like a zombie than hopping through half a dozen time zones.
Long story short, I wasn’t feeling myself.
Yet even after we straightened everything out, and Gemma calmed down enough to speak to Vale over the phone that I brought to her, her opinion of me didn’t seem to change.
This woman deeply dislikes me.
It feels a bit unfair, to be frank.
But it’s for the best.
After all, Gemma’s engaged to marry an American stronzo, who also happens to be our new business partner, and if our relationship ever progressed past highly acerbic banter into something more civil, I might actually get upset over the fact that she’s taken.
No, I’ve been burned before. Third degree. And I’ve spent nearly a decade getting really fucking good at keeping women, no matter how alluring, at arm’s length.