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We entered the dinette.
A handsome older man, dressed in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and a black tie, sat in an oversized armchair. He ran a hand through his short, black hair that had a slight wave and smiled as he gazed at my body.
He held out his hand, gesturing at the table filled with plates. The mixture of garlic, steak, and fish hit my nostrils at once, the smells so intense my stomach rumbled.
“Alexandrea,” he said in a deep tone, his accent thick and Italian. “Join me for lunch.”
Istared at the dark-haired man sitting across the table from me, sizing him up as he inspected every inch of my body. His intense gaze seared my skin, but not in the same way it did with my men. I felt like spiders were crawling up and down my arms.
Powerful men all had the same air about them. They sat with their shoulders squared, head held high, a look of determination in their eyes. The Salvatore brothers had the same look. Much like the man before me, they oozed confidence by the truckload.
We held each other’s gazes for a minute before he poured a glass of wine and slid it across the table.
“I can’t drink alcohol,” I told him, gulping down the nerves slithering up the back of my throat. “I need water.”
He eyed me with curiosity. “Can’t drink or don’t want to?”
I shrugged. “Does it matter?”
He sipped from his wineglass, eyes narrowed at me. Then he glanced to his right at one of his men and spoke in Italian.
The man poured me a glass of water from a pitcher. I gave him a thankful nod and drank all of it.
I set the glass on the table and looked at the man across from me. “Why am I here?”
A soul-stealing smirk tipped up the corner of his mouth. “That’s a long story.”
I leaned back in the chair, crossed my arms over my chest, and held my ground. “I have the time.”
He shoved a plate in front of me. Then he lifted two steak knives from the table and rubbed them together to intimidate me. “Eat, Alexandrea. You’ll need your strength for the wedding.”
I gripped my fork so hard it left an indent in my palm. “What wedding?”
He smiled with his eyes and chewed his steak. “Our wedding.”
My heart dropped into my stomach, and despite my hunger, I was no longer in the mood to eat. “I’m already engaged. I’m not marrying you.”
His evil laughter filled the silence between us. “Not like you have a choice.”
My entire body trembled from his confession. I wiped my sweaty palms on my lap and attempted to put on an expressionless mask. I kept the fork firmly gripped in my palm, just in case I needed to attack him.
“Who are you?”
He sliced into his steak and looked up from his plate. “Lorenzo Basile.”
My lips parted in surprise.
Fuck, no.
Now I understood why he had original Evangeline Franco paintings. Because she was his niece, and she painted them for him.
Which meant…
He wanted to marry me, so he could get his revenge. Marcello had mentioned the Basile family. They blamed the Salvatores for Evangeline’s death.
My guys could have turned my mother over to Lorenzo years ago. But because of the deal they made with my grandfather, they spared her. Pops had disowned her, but he didn’t want her dead. If he wasn’t so soft, he would have put that bitch out of her misery a long time ago.
Despite trying to hide my shock, Lorenzo saw right through my mask and flashed an evil grin. “I see you’ve heard of me.”
