“What the hell is going on, Issy?” My brother’s voice crackles in my ear.
I hide my grimace with a dazzling smile, pretending to be absorbed in the conversation across the table. The Californianmafioso is regaling everyone in earshot about his thirteen-hour flight to Brooklyn because “he wouldn’t miss this wedding for the world”.
The fact that the Morettis deemed him important enough to sit at table thirty-five doesn’t seem to be putting a damper on his theatrics.
I tap my finger against the small device in my ear. Dot, dot, dot. Dash, dash, dash. Dot, dot, dot.
S.O.S.
This is not how tonight was supposed to go.
The Prince’s Hand has known a seventeen-year alliance with the Guild. It’s one that so very rarely demands something from the other. It’s more of an agreement to stay out of each other's way, really.
But it’s an alliance nonetheless.
One that my brother desperately needs for his mafioso to feel secure in their operations. But one that was brutally severed the second Giuliano Moretti drew his last breath.
I glance over to the head table at my once-target. Cassandra Bellini, now Moretti, I suppose. The sweet little songbird who captured Giuliano’s son’s heart. As green as they come, new to the underworld, and in desperate need of some powerful friends.
I’d dug up everything I could about her, even visited her hometown in Ohio to establish a connection with her past. I know her favorite coffee shop, her favorite clothing store. I even dug up her high school records.
Average, average, average. The perfect target to befriend and manipulate.
Do I feel shame for taking advantage of a pregnant woman? No, not really. My family needs this. Which means I would have secured the alliance by the time they returned from their honeymoon.
Not that it matters now.
“Pick up in ten minutes, Issy. Hang tight.”
I let out a breath of relief at my brother’s words and sit back in my chair.
It’s one thing to convince someone you don’t know to give you something you want.
It’s another thing entirely to confront your sworn enemy when he now holds all the playing cards.
“What about you, Meribeth? You said you traveled from South Africa?”
It takes me a second to realize the Californian mafioso is talking to me. Right. I thumb the place card in front of me. Unfortunately, the real Meribeth was detained at JFK this morning.
I shoot the Californian a sweet smile. “The journey wasn’t so bad. Like you said, I wouldn’t miss this wedding for the world.”
This seems to appease him enough to begin talking about himself again.
I subtly look down at my Cartierwatch—eight minutes until pick-up. I should really excuse myself and get going.
“Meribeth!”
My smile is plastered on my face before I turn around to see a man approaching our table. I noted him earlier, he’s one of Rocco’s groomsmen—dark features, quiet demeanor, went with the vegan option.
“Hi,” I reply lightly, trying to remember his name.
“Dante,” he helpfully supplies as he gestures somewhat goofily to his chest. “We worked on the shipment a few months ago? I called you a few times?”
I lightly smack my forehead. “Of course!”
“How have you been?”
I glance down at my watch again—five minutes. “You know, actually, not so great. The flight over was a bit rough, so I’m probably going to go lie down for a bit.”
