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I didn’t want Gianna to be involved with Christian because I needed him, but there was something compelling about the dressed-to-the-nines agent and the walking fashion disaster that was Gianna. They were so different, and yet . . . maybe not so different at all.
Gripping her chin, Christian looked into her eyes with scrutiny. He shook his head with a slight grimace, before shoving her face away. Gianna muttered something that looked to be stronzo—asshole—and then stomped away on her stilettos.
Christian must have noticed she was high, but it didn’t look like Gianna cared at all what he thought. So, what was their relationship? Maybe she was his stepmother, too. She was married to a man three times her age, though I noticed she never wore a ring.
Adriana’s gaze landed on Christian, before she announced, “Perfectionist.” She paused, tilted her head. “Straight as an arrow.”
Well, at least that was on my side.
“Judges, lawyers, and politicians have a license to steal. We don’t need one.”
—Carlo Gambino
I WAS POURING A COUPLE fingers of whiskey neat when Adriana came up beside me. I eyed her as she grabbed the vodka decanter and then filled a tumbler three-fourths full.
She glanced at me, looked away, and then flicked her gaze back to me when she noticed my attention. “What?”
“Maybe try to hide your alcoholism from me from now on.”
“Let me continue my classes and I will.”
“Would you rather be safe, or happy?”
She blinked as if it were a much more complicated question. “Both, I think.”
“Unfortunately, that isn’t a choice.”
Her sigh was put-out. “It’s not my fault a lot of men want to kill you.”
A lot was probably an understatement.
“And now you.”
Her brows knitted. “What?”
“They’ll want to kill my wife too,” I said, before adding, “Probably rape you a few times first.”
She frowned. “Like you’re going to do to me?”
Somehow, I knew she was going to say that. I stared at her, my expression impassive. She pushed a strand of caramel-colored hair behind her ear. She had golden specks in her brown eyes, like Elena’s. In a disturbing way, I hoped there were other similarities.
“You’re not even going to say you won’t rape me?” She sounded annoyed, bringing her drink to her lips while looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I admired the view with her. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Not very good at keeping promises.”
She choked on a sip of vodka, glancing at me with wide eyes. “I’m going to die,” she muttered before disappearing.
Dry amusement filled me, and I gave my head the tiniest shake. That meeting with my future wife went well. I hadn’t raped a woman in my life and wouldn’t start now, though, for some reason, I’d felt like sabotaging the conversation. Probably because I was already agitated, and the night had just started.
Elena stood in the kitchen talking to Lorenzo, with her complete attention on him. Her long hair was pin-straight and she wore a gold dress that hugged her every curve. It was way too fucking tight and receiving enough stares from my cousins to piss me off. Even Luca had glanced at her with a knowing smile and then tipped his beer to me in an obnoxious gesture.
Lorenzo was making a besotted idiot of himself. The man was a cold-blooded killer, yet he appeared to be a nervous mess talking to Elena Abelli. He was currently rubbing the back of his neck and fucking blushing—and just imagining Elena tied to Lorenzo’s bed in some kind of fucked-up BDSM scenario made that Russo blood burn me from the inside out.
“That went smoothly.” Gianna’s tone was dry, apparently having overheard my conversation with Adriana. “Why did you have to invite him?”
