Dante and Armani are already seated when I walk into the room. There are fresh flowers on the table, carafes of what must be Bellanti wines, baskets of steaming crostini and garlic focaccia, and a few small plates of caponata and olive oil and balsamic vinegar sprinkled with dry herbs. I’m drooling at the spread, and these are only the appetizers. Whatever’s currently underway in the kitchen, it also smells incredible.
My heart flutters as Dante’s eyes sweep over me. He boldly tracks me as I move to the place setting across from him. I’m not sure if that setting is for me or Marco, but the youngest Bellanti brother is never on time—so I’m claiming it. I want to see my husband head-on, not from the side. It’s time I learn to read him a little better, and for that, I need an unobstructed view of his mannerisms. He doesn’t correct my choice of seats.
As I pour myself some wine to match the full glasses of my companions, I notice my husband’s dark hair is perfectly swept back, the way his powerful shoulders look in the tailored cut of his jacket. It drums up memories of the strength of his arms holding me in place against the Jag in the rain, how I’d clung to him. He looks away, scowling as if annoyed, and turns his attention to his phone.
Armani shoots him an eyebrow, then leans his forearms on the table and gives me a warm smile.“That is an amazing dress, Francesca. You look lovely.”
Armani is far and away my favorite Bellanti. “Thank you. That’s nice of you to say.”
Just then, Marco strides in and says, “Watch yourself, brother.I’msupposed to be the smooth one.”
I turn in my chair and do a double take. He’s got a woman on each arm, both of them in tight bodycon dresses, with matching high ponytails and quite a bit of makeup. He winks at me. “I’m going to need another arm just for you. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you lookmuchtoo good to be sitting across from that grumpy old man.”
The women with him smile stiffly, but I burst out laughing. “Thank you, Marco.”
When I turn back around, I see Dante glaring at me. I just smile wider.
Marco strolls over to Armani and claps him on the shoulder. “And you need to work on upping your compliment game if you’re ever going to win over Candi.”
“No idea what you’re talking about,” Armani says, but I catch the glint in his eye.
I perk up at this little tidbit of gossip. Armani and Candi?
Expecting Marco to announce that the three of them are skipping dinner for the club, I’m surprised when he maneuvers his dates toward the table and gestures for them to sit.
Dante’s voice makes everyone go still. “This is afamilydinner, Marco.”
He pointedly eyes the female duo that Marco just seated while wearing that intimidating, expressionless mask that I’ve come to know. It might not show anything, but it doesn’t mean he’s not going to blow at any moment. Don’t I know all too well how that side of him works.
Marco hitches a brow, a guarded, cocky expression working over his face. He juts his chin out at me. “She’shere.”
I sit up a little straighter. My interactions with Marco thus far have been limited, and I don’t know him well at all. His attempt to drag me into his argument with Dante isn’t cool.
“Sheis my wife,” Dante growls possessively.
Tingles shoot through me when he calls me that, at the way he’s claimed me with just one word—and in front of his brothers, too.
Marco just leans back in his chair, spreading his hands with an unperturbed grin. “Right. Your wife. Hell, after what these two just did for me, I’m probably going to marry them, too.”
Dante slams a fist on the table. The flatware vibrates against the china, my wine rippling in my glass. Swallowing hard, I swing my gaze to Dante. Tension rolls off him, palpable and stirring. There’s not a trace of impassivity left and my middle clenches. I don’t think I’ve even seen half the anger my husband is capable of. Nor do I want to.
Before he can reply, I clear my throat and smile.
“You know,” I say easily, turning to Armani. “I’ve actually known Candi for quite a while—we went to high school together. She’s a great person.”
There’s a flicker of something in Armani’s eyes, but I can’t quite tell what it is. I’m sure it’s obvious to him (and everyone else) that I’m trying to break up the fight.
Marco smirks and begins speaking to Dante in Italian, his tone hard and sarcastic. Apparently he’s unaware that I can understand every single word.
“Your new wife seems to be well trained,”he says.
Dante takes a leisurely sip of his wine, as if he’s got all day to respond. Or perhaps he’s considering if it’s worth his time to engage in this fight.
“You’re a reckless asshole,fratellino,”he shoots back in Italian, referring to Marco as ‘little brother,’ though his tone makes it sound more like an insult than a term of endearment.“One who neglects the family business in favor of fucking your way through the Bay Area and engaging in drunken fights that reflect poorly on us all.Sei un imbarazzo.”
That last comment has me looking down into my wineglass, wishing I really didn’t understand what they were saying. Dante just told Marco he’s an embarrassment.
Armani glances between his brothers but remains silent. His shoulders set hard, a little muscle bouncing in his jaw. I get the impression he’s used to sitting back while these two play out their irritations with each other. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to interrupt, but I get the feeling that he’s fully prepared to step up if the need arises.
