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I don’t care who it is. I can’t face them, not compromised like this. I half lie there, panting with unfulfilled need, my cheeks so hot I imagine they must be flushed dark, and keep my gaze pinned to the small vee at the base of Rio’s throat.
On the surface, he seems unmoved as usual, but this close I note the faster-than-normal tick of his carotid pulse moving the skin of his neck, and I know he is more affected than he’s letting on.
He steps back, allowing me room to close my legs and climb down off the table. I bend my head and fuss at my clothing, straightening it for as long as I can, before finally lifting my gaze.
Francine, her eyes still wide, stands in a puddle of something wet, broken glass around her feet. “I was just…” She clears her throat. “They forgot to refill the whiskey, Gregorio. I know you’ll want it later…”
Rio waves a dismissive hand. “Get this cleaned up. We will meet our guests in my office, Aunt.” His gaze drops briefly to the floor. “With a fresh decanter of whiskey. And cigars. You know Carlos Rossi is partial to a good cigar.”
Carlos Rossi? Even I’ve heard of him. He has been in the news on and off for many years, arrested multiple times on a range of offenses, but somehow never convicted.
A shiver runs down my spine.That’sthe business meeting I’m expected to attend? As Rio’s fiancée? I don’t want to be here at all, but I particularly do not want to end up on the radar of someone like Carlos Rossi.
But you already are, a little inner voice reminds me.Rio Agosti is just like him.
* * *
Rio leadsthe way to his office and, not knowing what else to do, I follow like a meek little lamb.
Everywhere in this house, the space is enormous, and his study is no exception. Not only is there a huge desk and executive chair, from where I assume Rio runs his cartel business when he’s here, but the walls are lined with shelves full of books intermingled with expensive-looking art pieces, and over to one side is a set of Chesterfield sofas in front of an oversized gas log fireplace.
The marble surround of the fireplace is shiny black, contrasting with the blue-gold flames visible in the hearth. Above the mantel is a painting—a portrait of a couple who bear such a striking resemblance to Rio that I figure they must be his parents.
His dead parents.
His mother had the same dark hair and chiseled bone structure as Rio, though her eyes dance with mischief and her wide mouth lifts in a smile. Is that what Rio would look like if he allowed some emotion in?
His father… I shiver at the flat, cold look in that man’s gaze, evident even in the slightly stylized nature of the painting. The artist has captured what I instinctively know must have been very close to real life.
What would it have been like growing up as the eldest son of a man such as that one? Did his mother have much influence or sway in Rio’s life, or was he groomed from the beginning to be emotionless and calculating, for that moment when the inevitable happened and the older Agosti lost his grip on power?
I take a seat in the corner of the nearest sofa, while Rio stands with his back to the fireplace, studying me. The leather is cold against my bare skin when I lay my arm along the rolled side, but it soon warms up.
When Francine arrives with liquor and cigars, she asks Rio if he needs me to change into something more formal.
I try not to roll my eyes. I feel so sorry for all the women in this strange Mafia world—it seems as if there is an automatic assumption that none of them can think for themselves. Must the man make all the decisions, even down to what the woman can or can’t wear?
I’m tempted to pipe up and say something along those lines until Rio shakes his head. “She is perfect as is. Even with that black eye. Her innocence shines through, which will rile him up more.”
I close my mouth on the words I was about to say. I can’t decide which shocks me more. His comment about myinnocence, or the fact that he said I’m perfect. Neither term is accurate.
After his aunt leaves us alone, I clear my throat. I don’t want to admit anything, but I need him to know the facts before his business associates arrive. “I’m not a virgin, Rio, if that’s what this is about?”
He grates out a laugh, but there is no humor evident in the sound. “Pity. I would have liked to be your first. But no matter. Your sexual experience is not relevant.”
I suppress a shudder at the thought of someone like Rio Agosti taking my virginity. I can’t imagine he would ever be gentle enough for that without leaving huge emotional scars, and I’m suddenly grateful for the fumbling encounter with a fellow student in my first year of college. It may not have set my world on fire, but at least the guy was gentle.
“Can you explain to me what this is about, then, please, and what you expect me to say or do?”
“Yes.” He sits forward. “Your disappearance all those years ago sparked a series of events, Bianca, that started with a race to secure your family business, and was followed by my parents’ untimely murder. Now that I have confirmed your identity, the final piece is about to play out, and our family will have its vengeance.”
My gaze automatically lifts to the portrait, and then back to Rio. He studies me without any hint of emotion on his face, despite the gut-wrenching topic. Is he truly incapable of feeling?
“How?”
“Carlos Rossi and my father made a bet. Whoever found the missing Carlotti princess first would bring her into their family and raise her as their own, formally taking the Carlotti business in the process and winning the race to control Boston and beyond.”
A race to control Boston? “So, this is about a bet between two crime lords…for control of acity?”
