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“Now, go out to our fucking party,” he snarls. “Smile at our fucking guests, and try not to fucking black out. Think you can handle that?”
I don’t say anything. Eventually, Massimo’s grip drops from my neck.
“Let’s go.”
He ushers me out of the office and down the hall to the waiting guests mingling in the large living area of the gaudy penthouse. Massimo instantly turns on the charm, going into “king greeting his subjects” mode as he grabs a drink from a passing waiter’s tray.
I grab a flute of Champagne from another passed tray, slugging back half of it before slinking back into the shadows, out of the spotlight.
Originally I had no idea why Massimo was throwing this party. But the reason becomes more and more obvious the longer I take in the guests mingling around.
Massimo’s rise to the top of the Carveli family wasn’t exactly a smooth one. I don’t know all the details, and I never actually knew Luca Carveli. But I do know that Massimo and his father weren’t exactly on good terms when Luca died. The cause of death is still debatable, depending on who you ask.
Obviously, this sparked more than a few questions about Massimo’s involvement with his father’s demise. From what I’ve heard, any such questions from inside the Carveli organization were squashed—violently—once Massimo became king. But that hasn’t stopped the murmurings about his legitimacy that come from outside.
The five biggest Italian mafia families in the United States, including the Carveli organization, form “The Commission”: a round table forum for those families to have open communication and keep the peace between themselves. A rising tide lifts all ships, and all that.
From what I understand, that’s where some of the whispers about Massimo and the legitimacy of his claim to the Carveli throne are coming from—specifically, from the older heads of the families, who did business with Luca.
I glance around the party, mentally ticking off who I see. There’s Michael Genovisi, the Don of the Scaliami family. I also spot Carmine and Nico Barone, the two sons of Don Vito Barone. I don’t see Luciano Amato or Cesare Marchetti. A lightbulb goes on in my head.
The Amato and Marchetti families have, I’ve heard, been the loudest voicing their suspicions of Massimo’s claim to the empire. The Barone and Scaliami families, however, have been a bit more…receptive.
He’s shoring up his allies.
It makes even more sense as I watch Massimo the asshole utterly oiling his way around the room, especially when he gets to the Barone brothers and Don Genovisi.
Slowly, I slip back down the dim hallway, away from the party. For one, because I have zero interest in being a part of Massimo’s Game of Thrones: The Mafia Edition. But also, because he’s so firmly occupied with glad-handing his guests…
…He’s not watching me.
Quickly, I slip down the hallway, around the corner, and back into Massimo’s office. Closing the door behind me, I move to his desk and pull out the file folder full of all the papers I’ve stolen from Crown and Black, paging through my guilt.
“Do you have a death wish?”
I jolt, gasping sharply as I whirl, white-faced. Alistair’s brow is deeply furrowed as he shuts the door silently behind him and leans against it.
Goddammit, he looks good. I mean Alistair always looks good in a suit. In the tuxedo he’s wearing, given that this party is black tie?
Pure. Sin.
I don’t realize I’m staring at him like a tiger staring at meat until he clears his throat pointedly. I drag my gaze up to his piercing blue eyes.
Alistair’s frown deepens. “What the fuck are you doing, Eloise?”
My face scrunches up. “What? I’m allowed to get away from a party I have no interest in?—”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
My heart sinks.
Fuck. This is it.
I’ve pictured this scenario before, almost every time I was in some filing cabinet I wasn’t supposed to be in at Crown and Black. Every time I photographed a confidential legal document for Massimo.
What if you get caught?
That’s kept me up more nights than I care to admit. And now, here I am, living the nightmare, caught red-handed with?—
