Too soon, he breaks the kiss and steps away from me. There’s something distinctly unrestrained in his expression, but he manages to blink it away. “We should leave in fifteen.” His voice is hoarse. “Will you be ready?”
Tell him.
No, I can’t tell him now. Not when I have the convenient excuse of being in a hurry.
I force a smile. “Yes.”
I choose a shimmery white dress off the rack and disappear into the bathroom to change.
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the car with Sandro. He drives us to Manhattan, straight to a building in Billionaires’ Row.
When the private elevator opens, Rafaele and I step inside a palatial lobby with a glittering chandelier and an intricate mosaic floor that depicts swirling fish. Straight across from the elevator is a magnificent water feature—a large slab of stone with water cascading down its surface.
A man in a butler’s uniform greets us and takes our jackets before leading us behind the water feature and into the living area.
My eyes widen. The home spans two entire floors. My father’s condo a few streets over, which I’ve always thought of as the height of luxury, suddenly feels incredibly small.
The design of the space has an obvious Asian influence. It’s serene and sophisticated, with clean lines, natural colors, and dark furniture.
I catch a glimpse of what might be the best view in the city before my attention is drawn to the man walking over to greet us.
Gino Ferraro, the don of the family. He doesn’t look like one of the most dangerous men in New York. With his handsome grin and thick silver hair, he’d fit right in at Bloomingdale’s on Christmas, dressed in a red Santa suit, sans the gut. But he’s not the first monster I’ve met in our world who hides his monstrous nature beneath layers of deception.
“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.”