She smiles glowing. “My heart chose Calum. Being a mobster’s woman… that simply came with him.”
My voice wavers. “I-I don’t know what I feel. But the man who, without ever meeting my grandmother, thought of her needs. Also, the man I saw at breakfast, the one who teased his brothers, who made you laugh—him? I… I think maybe I’ll like to know him.”
Rosa’s eyes warm. “That’s all I ask. Get to know him, not the Capo. Give it time. Let him sort out the danger circling our family, and if afterward you don’t want him, don’t want this life… I’ll help you escape it.”
Escape.The word wraps around me like a lifeline. Because escaping Cyan isn’t the real problem. It’s escaping the part of myself that doesn’t want to.
I hesitate, then say, “Alright.” Not to Rosa, but to myself. Setting a fragile truce between my mind and my heart.
Rosa nods, then turns to the cupboard. The gentle clink of glass fills the air. “This kitchen is getting way too dreary. We need wine.”
She retrieves a bottle, dark glass gleaming like garnet. With practiced ease, she draws the cork free with a soft pop echoing between us. The scent of rich red wine unfurls in the air as she pours. “Here,” she says, handing me a glass. “Let’s have a drink while we finish cooking. I want you back in that good mood of yours.”
I lift the glass, watching the ruby surface ripple. Rosa is impossible to resist. Her story is one of survival, of love found in unexpected places. But I’m not Rosa and Cyan… he’s not Calum. A single thought flickers through me, unbidden.
He can’t be. Can he?
Thirty-Four
“I laugh with them, eat with them, forget, for a second, who they are. Who I am. That’s how it starts, doesn’t it?” – Aria Boschett.
An hour later, I stand before the mirror, staring at a version of myself I don’t recognize. The deep wine-red bohemian dress clings to my frame, black lace trimming the neckline and sleeves in a way that feels almost foreign against my skin. The velvet is indulgent, far too extravagant for what should be a simple dinner. Yet I can’t look away. The rich color sets off my doe-brown eyes, making my skin glow warm and golden, and highlighting the features I’ve long tried to downplay. My curls fall loosely around my shoulders, freer than they’ve been in a long time.
My makeup is light, except for my lips, which are painted in a deep red that feels bold and dangerous, like Cyan. I tell myself it’s just a color, just a dress, just another evening. But my stomach twists as a treacherous thought slithers in.Cyan is going to see me like this.Heat blooms at the base of my neck. I sigh. This is just dinner. I might not enjoy it, and I sure as hell don’t have to let him pull me deeper despite his gift today. Turning away from the mirror before I can second-guess myself further, I head for the dining room. I see Rosa standing at the table, adjusting the cutlery. When she sees me, she smiles. “Such beauty.” Sadness flickers through her eyes. “If my daughter had lived, she’d be about your age.”The words land soft and heavy between us, like a ghost taking a seat at the table. Rosa’s eyes flick to mine, and our silence fills with things we both refuse to say.
At 6:45 p.m. sharp,the front door bursts open, and I can’t help laughing as Cyan and his brothers flood the foyer like a pack of wolves who know damn well what happens when they’re late.
“Anyone not sitting at this table by 7 p.m. on the dot gets nothing to eat,” Rosa calls out in a no-nonsense tone. I watch, amused, as Boston’s most feared men scramble like schoolboys to the washrooms to clean up. Sure enough, five minutes later, every one of them is at the table—except one. Thomas enters last, carrying a little girl in his arms. Beside him walks a stunning woman I don’t recognize. This must be his wife. She’s impeccably dressed, her every step graceful, with delicate bone structure, smooth porcelain skin, and sleek dark hair twisted into a perfect ponytail streaming down her back. Her wide hazel eyes are almost feline, luminous under the chandelier’s glow. She curls her fingers around Thomas’s arm as they approach, the touch light but possessive, and looks up at him with a soft, almost reverent smile—like he’s the only person in the room who matters.
Thomas doesn’t so much as acknowledge her. His gaze stays forward, steady, already fixed on the table. My brows furrow as I bite the inside of my cheek. I have little time to process Thomas as Rosa hands me a serving plate overflowing with pasta. I take it, stepping forward. As I set the food down on the long, dining table, I look up. Cyan’s gaze hits me like a slow burn, dragging over every inch of my body before settling on my face. “Aria, go sit. I’ll be there shortly,” Rosa says, pulling my gaze away from his and gesturing for me to take my place.
I take the basket filled with freshly baked bread from her hands. The men are already seated around the table. Cyan sits at its head, the seat to his right is empty, so I make my way there. His intenseglaszeyes–blue-green like sea glass–lock with mine as his lip curls into a smile that starts at the corners of his mouth and spreads to his eyes. He stands up, pulling out my chair. Placing the breadbasket down on the table and I take the seat. “Thank you, Cyan.”
“You do not know what you’re doing to me right now,” he whispers in my ear, his voice rough at the edges. A traitorous pulse beats low in my stomach. “Just so you know, this will be the only time I’ll pull out.” Heat slams into my face so fast I’m surprised the room doesn’t feel it. I curl my fingers in my lap and pretend I didn’t hear him. If I acknowledge that line, I’ll combust on the spot.
“Hey, Col–lin,” I manage, my voice absolutely betraying me.
Collin pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth, narrowing his eyes at me, then at Cyan. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across his face. “Hey, yourself,” he drawls, stabbing at his pasta. “Cyan’s been watching you like you’re the first meal he’s had all day. You sure you wanna sit next to him?” I glare at Collin as my face flames hotter. Cyan, the bastard, chuckles.
As Rosa settles into her chair, the warm hum of conversation fills the space. Cyan rises, the room falling into silence with nothing more than the weight of his presence dragging every eye to him. “Before we eat,” he says, his gaze sweeping the table, “I want to take a moment to acknowledge what we have in this room. Loyalty, trust, strength, and the sacrifices we make…without hesitation…for one another.”
Cyan tips his glass to Troy. “Lads, ladies… we’re not family because of blood. We’re family because we choose it. Every damn day.”
Then his eyes cut to me. Heat crawls up my neck under the force of those glasz irises.
“Tonight we welcome Aria into the fold. She’s not mine by law. Not yet.” A faint, dangerous grin plays at his mouth. “But she sits at my table. Under my roof. Under my protection.”
He pauses long enough for his words to sink in. “That makes herteaghlach.Anyone who has an issue with that can bring it to me.”
A ripple of low laughter travels around the table. I see their respect, amusement, and acceptance. Cyan lifts his glass higher. “To those who aren’t with us.”
The men answer in unison, a practiced vow: “May God have mercy on our enemies, ’cause we won’t.”
Cyan nods once. “To Chester. To the blood we’ve lost.” Then his gaze returns to me. “ And to the ones worth fighting for.”
The room echoes him as he takes his seat, never once breaking eye contact with me.
Collin grabs a roll out of the basket. “Damn, bro, and here I thought I was the dramatic one.”
