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That I was declaring war on him.
The night went on for hours.
I enjoyed myself.
Admitting that was difficult. Really fucking difficult. I liked Vincentius and Sofia, despite who they were, despite what they knew. They were likeable. Engaging. But with an edge.
It was nothing like dinner with Pete’s parents which was always tense, argumentative, uncomfortable, despite his mother’s efforts. The only reason everyone didn’t kill each other was because of all of the booze they consumed.
If there was a table where murder was going to be committed then this would be it. But there wasn’t even a tense word. There was the elephant in the room, which was me being here against my will. A fact that I forgot about for most of the dinner.
I didn’t know what kind of conversation to expect from a current and previous mafia Don and a woman who was clearly a part of the family’s day to day dealings. Perhaps talk of bribes, murders, rival families trying to take what was theirs... Yet there was none of that. Sofia asked questions about my work, about my mother—though she quickly skirted off the topic when I said my mother was dead in a tone that communicated I did not wish to speak of it further. There was a softness to her eyes, an empathy that almost made me burst into tears. That made no sense. I hadn’t cried once over my mother. Not when she told me her prognosis, not as the hideous disease ate at everything she was, and not even when she was put in the ground. But here, in what I had considered to be a cold and inhospitable environment, my emotions felt safe enough to surface. Luckily, I swallowed them back down as conversation returned to the restaurant, the new chef, politics and literature.
I was not usually an engaging dinner guest with parents. I sucked at small talk and didn’t do well pretending I wanted to be somewhere. And in the past, I never wanted to attend dinners such as this. The fake smiles, empty conversation, me pretending to be something I wasn’t, I’d despised it.
But the smiles weren’t fake, the conversation wasn’t empty, and I wasn’t pretending to be anyone I wasn’t. It made no sense. A mafia Don’s fiancée. Was that who I was meant to be? The partner of a much older, ruthless criminal who matched me in the bedroom while terrifying me enough to make me feel alive?
Bu if that was my fate, I’d already set events in motion to destroy it by meeting with Detective Harris. He wasn’t going to just go away if I told him I’d changed my mind.
And I couldn’t change my mind. Not after one fucking dinner. I couldn’t trust myself. Couldn’t trust Cristian. And I knew I couldn’t trust Detective Harris, despite what he’d said.
All of these crises came to me after Vincentius and Sofia left, of course. After the staff had left, and it was just me and Cristian in the house. Well, and Felix. I assumed he was never far away. He was like a wraith, lurking around the mansion, haunting me, stalking me, making it clear he was just waiting for his moment to pounce. My mind went to him more than I wanted it to, definitely more than it should’ve.
But right now, Felix was a fleeting thought. Especially when Cristian was looking at me like that.
I’d been in the dining room, finishing off the remainder of my drink, unable or unwilling to ascend the stairs and hide in my room as would’ve been safest, would’ve been best for me. But I wasn’t really known for doing what was best for me, not when Cristian was involved.
He had been saying his goodbyes to Vincentius, in hushed tones that made me think they weren’t talking about menus or Bukowski. There was no way for me to eavesdrop without being completely obvious, hence me wandering back into the dining room in search of my drink. I’d gotten preoccupied, looking at the art on the walls, searching for some personality. I’d found it on a long side table running the length of the equally long dining table. The wood was smooth, dust free and likely custom made. Whisky tumblers and crystal glasses were arranged artfully on top. That didn’t interest me, the lavish, immaculately clean show of wealth. No, it was the photographs that were spaced evenly across the surface in gleaming silver frames, those were what interested me.
One of Vincentius and Sofia when they were younger, with a teenage boy. Unsmiling, with eyes that looked dead, peering into the camera. He was handsome, like Vincentius. My eyes narrowed as I tried to find a trace of Cristian in this boy. He and Vincentius had different last names, but I wondered if that was for legal purposes, so the Catalano name wasn’t on anything.
