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“But I shared a look with him,” I insisted. “And that was all I needed to see to know he wouldn’t be good for Adriana.”
She rolled her eyes. “Ridicolo.”
A glare and a look were the same things . . . right? It was an accident, really. It was as I was walking down the church steps that my gaze caught on the meeting I was supposed to be attending. Papà and Mamma stood on either side of Adriana and across from Nicolas Russo—and that was usually how a bride and groom met in this life. Arranged marriages were par for the course in the Cosa Nostra.
In annoyance at the entire situation, my eyes had narrowed slightly before glancing at my future brother-in-law, only to find he was already looking at me. That was how the glaring occurred—an accident, you see. But I could hardly convey that to the man, and if I had smiled it would’ve come off condescending, so I just . . . went with the glare and hoped it wouldn’t get me killed.
Nicolas’s gaze had hardened a flicker to show he didn’t like it, but after a second of heavy eye contact, he returned his attention to my papà like I was nothing but a leaf blowing by. I’d let out the breath I was holding and went to hide in the car. There was no way I was meeting him after that exchange. I’d just avoid him until the end of my days.
“Stop worrying and trust your papà.”
I made a hmm noise because I’d overheard from my cousin Benito that the alliance was for collaboration on some weapons deal, nothing more. My sister was a pawn in some large-scale trafficking agreement. How romantic. Even so, we knew this day would come. I held no expectations for a marriage of love, and neither did Adriana.
The problem was, my sister believed she was already in love.
With the gardener.
“Elena, go see if Adriana is ready for lunch.”
“She told me last night she wasn’t coming.”
“She’s coming!” Mamma snapped, followed by muttering in Italian.
With reluctance, I pushed off the counter and headed out of the kitchen. The newscaster’s voice trailed me out the swinging door, and, like a warning, that word murder spilled from red lips once more.
On an Evening in Roma played from the antique record player as I headed toward the staircase and took in the guests in the foyer. My papà’s sister and husband, a few male cousins, and my brother Tony, who was shooting an intense glare in Nicolas’s direction. Tony leaned against the wall with his hands in his black suit pockets, alone. His girlfriend wasn’t Italian and was rarely invited over. My mamma disliked her just because she was dating her son.
I loved my brother, but he was reckless, impulsive, and lived by the code, “If I don’t like it then I’ll fucking shoot it.” And it looked like he wanted to shoot Nicolas Russo. There was some history between the two, and it wasn’t the good kind.
My gaze caught on a striking woman with . . . interesting style. She stood next to a man who I assumed to be her grandfather, but then he slid a hand onto her ass. She only pursed her lips like it was an annoyance.
She wore a mink shawl in July, over a thin olive-green dress, and thigh-high boots. Long dark hair fell in smooth waves, and with her fake eyelashes and large hoop earrings she was like an ad to the seventies era. And, as if she wasn’t doing her job well enough, she blew a pink bubble and popped it, her eyes narrowing on me like I was the one whose style was four decades too late. If polar opposites were ever in the same room, it was her and me, undoubtedly.
Almost home free with one hand on the banister, my father’s voice sounded behind me. “Elena, come here.”
My stomach dipped and I closed my eyes in defeat, but I only hesitated for a second because that voice was non-negotiable.
My hands grew clammy as I made my way to where my papà stood next to Nicolas. When I reached my father’s side, he took my arm and gave me a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Papà looked ten years younger than his fifty-five, with small streaks of silver through his black hair. He was always in a suit, and you’d never find a wrinkle in it, but that gentleman look was just a façade. I’d first seen how he’d gotten his reputation when I was seven, through a crack in his office door.
“Elena, this is Nicolas Russo. Nico, this is Elena, my eldest daughter.”
I’d done this dance a hundred times, just a different day, a different man. However, this time my breath was cut short, as though I was about to be pushed off a plank and into shark-infested water if I looked up at him. He’s just a man, I reminded myself. A man with the worst reputation in New York State, easily.
Why did I glare?
Inhaling for courage, I tipped my head, not being able to see him under the brim of my hat. A warm rush of recognition ran down my spine as I met his heavy gaze. Light brown eyes, the color of whiskey on ice, and thick, dark lashes. It gave him a brooding expression, almost as if he was looking into the sun, yet he was looking at me as though he was being introduced to one of the servants and not someone he would call “sister-in-law.”
I stood a few inches taller than Adriana, and even in my heels the top of my head wouldn’t hit his chin. I had the strong urge to avert my gaze and focus it eye-level on his black tie, but it felt like he’d be winning something if I looked away, so I held his stare. My tone was as polite as it always was in company. “It’s a pleasure—”
“We’ve already met.”
We what?
His indifferent voice ran down my spine, with a strange thrill following in its wake. He’d hardly said anything, but it now felt like I was standing on Russo turf instead of Abelli. As if a six-foot diameter around him was claimed as Russo no matter where he stood.
Papà frowned. “When did you two have the chance to meet?”
I swallowed.
