She had a point; Matteo was the most terrifying man I had ever seen with his huge, tattooed frame of pure muscle. I had once been so certain that he would end my life when I’d caught him with Elena; just his appearance alone had reaffirmed what I knew men to be—awful, violent creatures—until he had begged me with tears in his eyes not to tell on his love, the woman he worshipped more than any man in theFamiglia.
Matt flopped onto my painting stool like he had no bones left in his body. “We’ll just live in the studio then. I could get used to that couchforever.”
“I’m sure you could.” I chuckled, stacking paint palettes and collecting murky water pots to avoid having to look at him as I continued, “Speaking of the studio…”
Elena froze. “You don’t want to close it, do you?”
“I feel a Sicily-level, crazy statement coming,” Matt supplied unhelpfully.
“I want to pay you back, that’s all.” I shrugged.
He raised his brows as he pulled Elena gently, so gently that I wondered if his hands were made of feathers, into his lap. “I told you,principessa,the studio was a thank you. It benefits us all.”
I sighed. The idea of taking anything from him without giving it back tied a knot in my stomach, but before I could argue with him, my phone buzzed in my back pocket and then again, eventually stopping after a third time. I frowned, fishing it instantly from the back of my jeans.
Three texts from my little sister appeared. Three texts that jumped from the phone and lodged themselves in my stomach like a rock.
Fiorella
There’s some guys here. Mom said the scary one was a Lucca, whoever the hell that is. He’s kind of hot. In a scary way. Okay, I didn’t say that.
Oh fuck, now they’re talking to Dad.
How fast can you get home?
I was already shoving keys, paintbrushes, and anything else on the table into my bag before I replied, telling her I’d be home in ten.
“You good?” Matteo asked, his eyes narrowing.
I paused. “Lucca… That’s like Hugo Lucca, the Don, right?”
“He died four days ago, Sicily. Cancer got the fucker. Lucca now meansMilanLucca. Equally as crazy a motherfucker.”
“Don’t say that about people, Teo,” Elena scolded with as much force as a kitten could muster. “He hasproblems.”
“Problems?” I echoed, clenching the handle of my creased handbag.
Matteo shrugged. “He doesn’t smile,ever.People say he’s fucked in the head, dangerous as hell, like in a clinically insane way. His mom and sister died on the same day, and he didn’t even shed a tear at the funeral. Sounds suspicious if you ask?—”
I was out of the door before he could say another word, everything that was unsaid in that sentence screaming at me to get back to my sister.
Had Milan Lucca killed his mother and sister? Just how dangerous was he, and why was he talking to my father?
Primo Bianchi’s tall,dark manor had never felt like home. It sat atop a hill, like a broken crown tilting from the head of a king, once a feature of society but now simply ahousewith black drapes over the windows and a rusted knocker. It had never felt like my home, but after flooring my car to get there, I burst the doors open as if I owned it.
In any other household, I wouldn’t have been alive after slamming a door, but my mother and father were long past caring for me and Fiore; they were too preoccupied with hating each other to worry about how we were behaving.
“What is going on here?” I yelled, the sound of the front door crashing closed behind me forcing a rift between whatever conversation was occurring in the sitting room.
All eyes focused on me as I stepped inside.
I noticed Fiorella first, how Mom had dolled her up to look like an older version of herself. Fiore’s youthful freckles had been tainted with layers of makeup, her natural golden curls hidden by an updo that forced her into a role that sickened my stomach. Her reckless outfit choices had been replaced with a white dress that paraded her purity around like it was a branding. She was clean. Dressed respectfully. Like a courting maiden.
Sat opposite her on the gray couch was a man I wasn’t entirely certain was real. He was stone, his posture stiff, his suit and perfectly gelled black hair well-groomed, but his hands were folding over one another constantly in his lap.
Perhaps he wasn’t stone but a cardboard cutout. Not real but not fake either.
“Sicily, this doesn’t concern you. Go upstairs. Now,” Dad ordered from one side of Fiore with his jaw tensed like he knew exactly what I’d think of this.
