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His all-black, custom-tailored suit clings to his muscles, shoulders straining against the expensive fabric, and something quick and punishing tears through my gut, resonating between my thighs.
A feeling I’ve never felt before and can’t quite place.
One that makes my bones ache.
From the corner of my eye, I can see my family making their way from the altar, giving their last stoic regards to the golden casket parked there. My nonnino, the barely retired Don Ricci, murdered in cold blood before he had much of a chance to enjoy civilian life.
That’s the problem with the mafia, though. Once you’re in, there’s no getting out. The reach of Riccifamigliabusiness stretches and refuses release, tightening its grip on its members until they eat, sleep, andbreatheomertà.
Papà stops and shakes the hands of every passerby, doing his political duty to remain professional and reserved, even in times of duress.
When we were kids, he’d tell my sisters and me not to let emotional attachments surface in our everyday lives, because once something you love can be located, it can be used against you.
Which is likely how my grandfather ended up hanging from the rafters in his old barn earlier this week, while his favorite horse ran loose through downtown Grafton.
Reaching out, I tentatively take the piece of paper from the man at my side; a chill runs up my arm as our fingers brush. His skin is as icy as the December Boston air, and a soft gasp falls from my mouth before I’m able to stifle it.
I don’t miss the way one corner of his dark pink lips tugs up, though the rest of his expression remains unchanged. The impossible, unflappable Doctor Kal Anderson, regarding me in the flesh for the first time in two years.
Of course, I’ve been working on my English teaching degree with clinic hours at my alma mater, the Fontbonne Academy, and he’s been…distant.
Stuffing the scrap of paper into my coat pocket, I force my gaze ahead and try to calm my racing heart. I don’t need to unwrap the paper to know it’s got his chicken scratch handwriting on it, or to remember one of the dozens of lines of poetry that have been etched into my heart over the years.
Poems he left as birthday gifts during his rare visits.
Mateo de Luca seems to appear out of thin air, dragging crooked fingers through his light brown, cropped hair as he searches the church for me.
My betrothed since birth, Papà’s attempt at securing an impenetrable alliance between Ricci Inc. and Bollente Media. And though I go along with it for Papà’s sake, I’d kill to be out from beneath the scope of that man’s dirty little thumb.
There’s an evil presence inside Mateo unlike what I usually see in my father’s men. It’s cruel, wicked, and seeking a vessel to mold and possess and pour himself into.
The kind of monster that develops out of boredom and a false sense of superiority, not because he truly enjoys the darkness.
“Elena, my darling,” he exclaims, his voice bouncing off the columns and murals inside as if we’re not at a wake. Bending once he reaches me, he scoops me roughly into his arms, nearly pulling me into his lap in front of the entire church. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Your mother said you got in last night. I was surprised that I didn’t hear from you.”
Kal averts his eyes, but I don’t miss the way his jaw clenches, nor do I miss the way my body heats at his reaction.
But I try not to read into it, because that’s what he wants.
Gripping the hem of my black, cashmere dress to keep from flashing my father’s oldest friend, I clear my throat and try to wrench away from Mateo. “Holiday traffic was kind of a drag, so I went to bed as soon as I got home.”
Mateo pinches one of my cheeks, and I wince as the pressure hits a sore inside my mouth. I’m still healing from a fight yesterday afternoon—at a diner a few miles from the Academy while I waited for Enzo, our family driver, to pick me up for winter break.
The bruises on my knees and ribs and the cut on the inside of my left thigh are why I’m wearing a sweater dress and thigh-high leather boots, despite the fact that St. Leonard’s is notoriously warm inside.
“Want me to give you a ride to the reception?” Mateo asks, finally releasing me. “We could stop for some of that pomegranate frozen yogurt you like.”
Idolike the frozen yogurt, but the idea of being stuck alone in a car with this man for any length of time makes me nauseous. “Sorry, but I think Papà wants me home to help set up for tomorrow.”
He pouts, his dark skin shimmering in the bright, fluorescent lighting. “Come on, E. I haven’t seen you in months; spend some fucking time with me.”
Beside us, a throat clears, and then a large hand is wrapping around my bicep and yanking me from my seat into a standing position.
“I’ve been asked to make sure she gets home in one piece.” Kal drags me into his side, my body on fire everywhere we connect.
“Oh, come on,” Mateo scoffs, pushing to his feet. “Like they trust you with her more than me. You’re liable to murder her and dump her body in the Charles.”
“Sure that’s the hill you want to die on, Mateo? You may be too stupid to be afraid of me, but that doesn’t change what I’m capable of.”
