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He was, essentially, nothing to me.

Yet the sight of him so obviously going out on a date with another woman made me feel as if I’d been struck through with a sword, my blood spilling out all over the mosaic marble floor.

For one blinding, excruciating second, I was ravaged with humiliation and that familiar bone-chewing loneliness that threatened to turn me to dust.

And then I remembered that I did not even like Dario Ferretti.

He had taken me from everything I had ever known without ceremony when my family was dying around me and had refused me access to anyone left connected to me in Sicily.

He had ignored me, the kind of neglect that was cruel and almost vicious, as if he refused to believe that I even existed with him under his roof.

So no.

I wouldn’t waste a moment longer on anything resembling sadness over the obviousness of Dario’s affair.

Rage was the only thing that tasted right in my mouth, and I swallowed it down like the finest Italian wine.

“No,” I said succinctly, jerking my chin out of Bryson’s hold to thrust my hands onto my hips. “I’m entirely too sober, and I haven’t had the chance to win at tombola yet. Bonnie, you’ll take over as game master so I can show these rookies how it’s done.”

My motley crew laughed as they were meant to, the tension dispelled by my obvious disregard of what had happened, and everyone obediently started filing down the hall again.

But not Bryson.

He stood in front of me, arms crossed, scowling down into my face.

“Yes?” I asked coolly, my gaze just over his shoulder because I couldn’t bear to see that tangible worry in his eyes.

“The sadness,” he murmured. “You think it’s easier to mask it as rage, but I see it, Fia. And if you want a shoulder to cry on, I hope you know mine is always available.”

My laugh emerged bitter and cracked at the edges. I patted him on the shoulder as I brushed past.

“I learned a long time ago tears are a waste of time.”

Hours later, the only guests left in Edgemont House were Bryson, Booker, Hank, Akira, and Alessia. We had all had too much to drink, largely due to a shot-taking contest instigated by Booker, but none of us was too inebriated to play poker at the little round table off the kitchen. Bonnie had protested when we set up camp there before she went to bed, but the kitchen was one of the only warm and friendly places in the mansion I called my home, and I wanted to share the early-morning hours with my closest friends in that space. So she’d capitulated to me with a kiss to the top of my head and a platter of snacks she arranged before heading to her bed.

No one said anything about staying with me until my errant husband came home, but I knew that was why this crew remained long past our normal bedtimes. They were looking out for me the way my family once had when they were alive, and it left a warmth around my heart that had nothing to do with the whiskey burning down my throat as I imbibed some of Dario’s most expensive booze.

“Damn it, Fia, if we were playing for real money, I’d be broke,” Hank complained as I bluffed my way to another victory and collected the Baci chocolates we were using as chips into the large pile in front of me.

I smiled slyly at him, swallowing a laugh at his fierce glower. “You should never play poker with a Sicilian, Hanky Panky.”

“Clearly,” Akira muttered, staring dismally at his own dwindled pile of chocolates.

Alessia and I laughed.

“I never would have taken you for such a good bluffer,” Bryson admitted, leaning into my side so that our shoulders were pressed together and his breath was on the side of my face. “You’re such a good, honest girl.”

I blinked at him for a moment, caught off guard by what I was certain he thought was praise.

Good, honest girl.

I shouldn’t have taken umbrage to the comment, but it made me bristle. After spending the last year crafting myself into someone with a backbone, someone with community and knowledge, it irked me to be described the same way I had been back in Sicily.

Maybe that was why, when I heard the front door unlock, I got to my feet without thinking, motivated only by the warmth of booze in my belly and the heat of indignation in my heart.

“Should I?” Bryson started to say, but Lily cut him off.

“I think not, darling.”