“Hmm. That random-ass smile is both pretty and scary as fuck.”
Looking up from my plate of glazed salmon and asparagus with gorgonzola butter, I meet Kareem’s amused smile. I shrug, then slide the fork loaded with fish between my lips. He smirks and then turns to a Cross soldier beside him.
“Ember, is it?” Don Amato’s smooth voice that bears a light hint of a New York accent carries over the several different conversations at the table, the clatter of cutlery meeting plates, and the soft melody of classical music.
I set my fork down next to my half-filled dish and shift my attention toward the middle of the table where the head of the Accardi crime family, one of the United States Costa Nostra’s four families, sits. His piercing brown scrutiny rests on me, and I steadily meet it, not looking away even as a server appears next to me, refilling my glass. The distinguished, elegant man, who appears to be in his midforties and wears power as easily as his obviously custom-made and gorgeous black suit, probably intimidates many people.
I’m not one of them.
“Yes.”
He pauses, as if waiting for me to say more, but “yes” is a whole sentence, last time I checked.
“We weren’t formally introduced earlier. I’m Julian Amato, and this is my wife, Chelsea.” He nods toward the beautiful, thickly curved brunette seated next to him—the one eye fucking the Russian pakhan earlier.
“A pleasure.” I nod.
He picks up his whiskey glass and sips, and though his gaze is heavy on me, it doesn’t feel sexual or inappropriate. More… speculative. More as if he’s trying to figure out how I fit into the present company.
“I apologize for my forwardness, but you seem familiar to me. Are you certain we haven’t met before? Maybe I’ve had previous business with your husband?”
“No.”
Across from me, Kareem lets out a low groan, and I blink. What? The man asked me a question and I answered. Just like “yes,” “no” is also a complete sentence. And it’s better than asking why he assumes I have a husband or a man simply because I’m a woman. Now that would’ve been as rude as his assumption.
Julian chuckles, and though it’s dark and a little menacing, it also contains humor, as does the glint in his eyes.
“I think I like you, Ember…” He trails off, inviting me to supply my last name.
Even I, with my disdain for social situations and people, know it would be a direct insult to ignore him, and stuck, I glance down the length of the table toward Asad.
He lowers his knife and fork to the plate in front of him, his stare shifting from me to Julian, then back to me. My belly trembles, bottoming out, and I mimic his actions. Because I can read in the slight narrowing of his eyes, the minute firming of his lips, that he’s about to—
“A toast.” Michelle’s chair shoots backward, sounding like nails scratching down a chalkboard as she damn near leaps to her feet, wineglass in hand. A broad smile stretches across her face, but the corners of her mouth are pulled taut, making her resemble Pennywise the Clown rather than a gracious hostess. Her gaze flickers over me, and the malice there warms my heart. Even as fire flickers in my chest at her interruption. At her aversion to any of these guests discovering my true identity. Discovering I’m a Cross. “First, please let me thank you all for joiningmy sons and I here tonight. This has been a season of loss with the passing of the great Marcus Cross. He was a strong leader, a wonderful husband, and a loving father to Prince and Kareem. He is and always will be greatly missed.”
She takes a dramatic pause, and allows beat of silence to draw out where, once again, her eyes briefly connect with mine. Silently letting me know her omission of me in her little speech wasn’t a mistake; it was deliberate. An intentional reminder that my father belonged to them, not me.
She wins this round.
I force myself not to look away from her, refuse to allow her see she scored a direct hit, and my heart, my pride, sullenly bleed from the wound.
I despise her and myself for that scarring. That victory, too.
Clearing her throat, she waves a hand. “I apologize,” she continues as fraud-ass grief thickens her voice. Michelle very well might miss Marcus, but those billions he left her are a hell of a comforter. “Tonight, we not only remember a great man but celebrate the passing of his bright torch to his heir, our son, Asad Prince.”
She dips her head and peers down at Asad, and I do, too. Surprise whispers through me, and I battle back the frown wanting to take residence on my face. He’s never been an emotive man—colder than a witch’s tit would be more of an apt description. But this is something different. Maybe his mother, his girlfriend, or his guests don’t notice the tension pulling him so tight a nudge would make this man snap. See the storm darkening his eyes to soot. Or the tic of a muscle not fully concealed by his thick beard.
His mother is in full nauseating praise mode. What did she say…?
“Marcus placed full trust and confidence in Prince to carry the House of Cross and the Cross family into the future. And with you, our allies, friends, and family, I am excited for that future under his rule and direction. Please, lift your glasses and join mein toasting a new, prosperous, and even stronger era in the Cross organization.”
Everyone rises to their feet, and I do as well, though slower, more reluctant. And when they hold their glasses up in the air, I sip from mine. My tolerance for hypocrisy will only stretch so far tonight.
When I set my whiskey glass on the table, my gaze collides with Asad’s. The residue of that anger shadows his eyes, tautens his mouth and body, but the barest hint of a smirk twists his mouth, and he dips his chin to me before lifting his own glass and drinking deeply.
My skin tingles with awareness, and I look next to him and find Aryn’s contemplative scrutiny on me as well. She glances back and forth between me and her man, eyes narrowing before landing back on me again. Shrugging a shoulder, I sink back down in my chair and resume eating. If she needs answers, she needs to take that up with her boyfriend. He’s the one who owes her loyalty, not me.
“So, Prince, now that you’ve stepped into position as head of the Cross organization, how close are you to fulfilling the terms of the other conditions set by Marcus?” Dimitri Petrov asks, leaning back in his chair, allowing the pretty server to pick up his dinner plate.
