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Marco nodded.
I headed for the stairs. The house had four floors, of which my room took up half of the third. My father’s rooms were on the top floor, and Dominic’s were down the hall from mine. The second floor housed more guest rooms, but we didn’t have any other overnight guests apart from Lucia tonight.
Before reaching the first-floor landing, I heard the loud voices of men talking. I followed the sound into the dining room, where a large group had gathered around the table, my father at its head. He looked at me, his gaze flat. I wondered what he thought of me right at that moment. If he was surprised to see me downstairs. Dominic, my younger brother, sat beside him with that stupid grin he always wore. The one that made me want to smack the living shit out of him.
I didn’t miss the fact he sat to my father’s right. My seat.
He didn’t make a move to rise. Instead, my uncle and family advisor, Roman, who sat to my father’s left, got up. He was my mother’s brother, and one of the few men my father trusted.
“Salvatore.”
He offered me his seat. I thanked him and sat down.
Dominic picked up his beer and leaned toward me. “Thought you’d be busy with your shiny new plaything.”
“She just buried her father, asshole.” I signaled for a beer, which the waiter brought a moment later. They were all jumpy, eager to serve. Probably more eager to get us the hell out of there. I hadn’t been back in a few years but knew when we were in town, the house became a target. The Benedetti family was a sort of legend here. We owned southern Italy and were moving in on the Sicilian territory. Another war brewed, one we’d win, like we’d won over the DeMarcos. Wherever we went, violence followed. The girl upstairs was testament to that.
Her words played back in my ears.
“I’m the one who pays when I didn’t have anything to do with anything.”
She was right. She was an innocent; her fate decided when she hadn’t been more than a child. Her sister’s pregnancy had placed Lucia at the heart of a decades-old war.
“She is a sweet little thing,” Dominic continued, sipping his beer. “Nice piece of—”
“Shut the fuck up, Dominic,” I said, my hands fisting.
“Salvatore’s right. Girl just buried her father,” my father admonished my brother, his gaze locked on me.
I didn’t trust this, didn’t trust him. My father had always been better at cutting me down. Certainly not defending me.
“You just make sure she knows who the boss is, son. I don’t ever want to see another incident like this afternoon again, you understand?”
Ah, there they were, my father’s true colors.
I nodded without looking at him, swallowing half of my drink.
“Good. Let’s eat.”3LuciaSalvatore surprised me. I expected violence. I’d prepared myself for it. But this, this kindness? His attempt to understand? Was that what it was? I didn’t like it. And I didn’t like how my body reacted to having him so close.
When I heard him leave, I went to the outer room. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten all day, and as appealing as a hunger strike seemed, when you were actually hungry, it lost some of its appeal.
I took the lid off one of the two dishes to find a thick steak, potatoes, and mixed grilled vegetables. I swallowed, salivating already, and sat down. Picking up the knife and fork, I glanced at the door before I dug in. If he returned, I’d be ashamed at having given in. Even if he kept his word and stayed away, when he saw I’d eaten, wouldn’t it just be a second victory to him?
I placed a piece of the meat in my mouth. So buttery and delicious, it melted on my tongue. God, that made me not care what he thought. I took a second bite, then tasted the grilled potatoes spiced with rosemary and more butter. A bottle of wine stood open on the table. I poured myself a glass, sipping it before returning to the meat. I finished nearly my entire plate and took the wine with me to my room, locking the door behind me even though I knew he had a key. Of course he had a key. It was his house.
I sat on the bed and poured myself another glass. That comment had gotten to him, just like what I’d said in the car had. I didn’t know much about Salvatore’s relationship with his father, Franco, but I had felt Salvatore tense when Franco approached us at the church. I’d been guessing when I taunted Salvatore with my comment about being his father’s puppet but didn’t realize I’d hit the nail on the head. When I’d said it was his father’s house, not his, I’d seen it again, that I’d gotten under his skin. I would learn more, watch their interactions, find and exploit their weaknesses. Maybe it was a matter of pitting son against father.
