Three of the men eventually look away and resume a conversation, but the gaze of one remains.
His mask is jet black, and though it is sleek and seemingly understated, it covers the entire top half of his face, leaving only his mouth and jaw visible. It stands out though, not for its elegant simplicity, but because unlike the other masks I see, the outer edges curl upward slightly, like horns.
I swallow, noting the black ink crawling from his fingers to the sleeves of his jacket as he lifts a burning cigarette.
Full lips close over the tip and he draws in a long, smooth pull of nicotine. Thick fingers close around the length, detaching the cigarette from his mouth, then lowering it to an ashtray where he taps the ash from the blazing cherry. He holds my gaze as he blows a cool, slow stream of smoke into the air between us.
MyGod.
As a nurse I’ve seen firsthand the damage smoking can do to the human body, but for the first time in my life I can see why people are drawn to it. Done the right way, by the right person, in the right place, it isintoxicatinglysexy.
He holds my gaze, even as the cloud of smoke plumes then fades away.
His body doesn’t move. Of the four men, he’s the most obviously relaxed. His suit jacket is undone showing shirt buttons straining over a tight chest and stomach. His legs parted wide below the table. His head cocked back as if he’s eyeing me lazily from beneath lowered lids.
Power radiates off him in a way that is impossible to ignore. And though he’s seated, he carries it like gravity.
Even at this distance, I know he’s mafia. It’s in his lazily alert, arrogant posture, the custom cut of his shirt, the Breitling on his wrist.
The gun on the table.
My breath stutters and my lips dry out. I’ve never seen one like that before. It’s matt black, sleek and looks violently efficient.
Wetting my lips, I lift my lids to see him still watching me.
Heat curls in my lower belly, the pain in my calves fading to nothing. I don’t even notice the blood draining from my fingers as they grip too tightly to the podium.
“Sorry about that.” Hallie’s voice warms my side. “I got side-tracked on the way to the bathroom.”
When I don’t respond she follows my gaze to the corner of the room.
“I wouldn’t stare if I were you.”
The suggestion I was staring snaps my face back to her.
“I didn’t mean t?—”
“Il Diavolo doesn’t like when people stare,” she says in hushed tones.
“That’s…him?” I frown, feeling the heat of his gaze on the side of my face. “He’s the boss?”
She flicks her lashes timidly in his direction.
“Yes—the one with the horned mask. And those are his brothers. It’s a family-owned business, but he’s the main man. The others have… well… other occupations.”
“Like what?” I ask, my voice breathy, as if the last few seconds have lapped up all the moisture from my throat.
She tips her head and smiles sympathetically. “Honey, there’s a lot you need to learn about this place. I suggest you take it one day at a time.”
My gaze drifts again in that direction but I fix it on the wings.
“That’s an unusual piece of art,” I say, quietly.
“The angel wings?” she clarifies and I nod. “Yeah, rumor has it there’s a feather for each person who ever crossed Il Diavolo and didn’t live to tell the tale.”
I glance back at the installation, my mouth falling open. “But… there must behundredsof feathers up there.”
She breathes in heavily. “Like I said, it’s a rumor. But then again, you know what they say… No smoke without fire.”
