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I’ve never been a fan of cocktail parties. I almost missed my own sixteenth birthday party because I hate these gatherings so much. Come to think of it, if I hadn’t been late, I wouldn’t have run into Angelo at the service entrance. He wouldn’t have manipulated my mom into letting me keep my stray cat, Pirate, and I wouldn’t have fallen so hard for him that night.
If only I’d been more like Mattie, I would’ve been dressed in the gown Mom had chosen, and I would’ve been mingling with the guests by the time he arrived. My introduction to my future husband would’ve been very different. Although, I doubt I would’ve been unaffected. Angelo’s presence is too huge to leave anyone untouched. I’d like to think I would’ve been repelled, but deep down, I know that’s not true. I would’ve been curious about him regardless. I would’ve let my heart rule my mind ten times over. If I’d met him in a hundred different scenarios, I would’ve left my heart right there at his feet every single time. It’s what happened afterward that changed everything.
Absent-mindedly, I place a hand over my stomach and slide it down to rest over the mark Angelo burned into my skin. He steps in front of me, his gaze trained on the action, and brushes my hand away to trace the mark with his thumb. The touch is too intimate for a public gathering, but I can’t bring myself to push him off me because underneath his fingertip, my skin tingles. I need his hand there for reasons I can’t explain.
As he looks over my head, he pulls away and sets his features in a polite expression. I turn sideways. A man in his late fifties with an attractive woman on his arm makes his way to the bar.
Angelo offers me a hand. “Come.”
He intertwines our fingers and pulls me across the busy floor. The woman veers off toward the ladies’ room while the man heads straight for the liquor table.
“Mr. Powell,” my husband says as he almost bumps into the man, pretending not to have seen him. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.”
He’s lying so smoothly, it’s hard not to believe him.
“Mr. Russo,” the man says, pulling up his nose. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He makes to walk away, but Angelo stops him with a hand on his arm. “Have you met my wife, Sabella Edwards–Russo?”
“Oh. Yes.” The man turns to me with renewed interest. “Mrs. Russo.” He shakes my hand. “What a pleasure to meet you. I was a big admirer of your father. My condolences for your loss. I do miss his company.”
Tension creeps into my shoulders at the mention of my dad’s death, of his murder that was staged as a suicide. Angelo places a hand on my lower back as if sensing my turmoil. Does he think I’ll take comfort from the gesture?
“Thank you,” I say, fighting the urge to shove Angelo away. “I miss him too.”
The pressure of my husband’s palm increases on my flesh, but the smile he offers Mr. Powell doesn’t waver.
“I have no doubt he would’ve been here tonight if he was alive,” Mr. Powell says.
“My dad was always a big supporter of marine life conservation. I’m sure he would’ve donated handsomely.” I give Angelo a sweet smile. “But my husband will match your donation.”
Mr. Powell raises a brow. “Is that so?” He glances in Angelo’s direction.
“Of course,” Angelo says, meeting my smile with a tightlipped one.
“That business with the second family came as a shock.” Mr. Powell shakes his head. “Who would’ve thought?”
I stiffen to the point of feeling as if my spine is about to snap. Angelo rubs his palm over my back.
“Say, aren’t you studying marine biology?” Mr. Powell asks. “Your father was boasting about it the last time I saw him.”
“I was,” I say, trying hard not to let my smile falter.
“Was?” he exclaims. “Why on earth did you drop out? You should never be a quitter. Always finish what you start, no matter what it is.”
“Things changed when Sabella and I got married.” Angelo brushes his hand up my arm and over my shoulder to cup my nape in a possessive hold. “First of all, she moved to Corsica. Secondly, we’re hoping to start a family soon.”
I look at my husband quickly, heat pushing up in my neck. He has no right to flat out lie about something like that.
“Ah.” Mr. Powell frowns. “Well, it’s a pity. You’re still young. There’s plenty of time for a family. Then again, I suppose a good education doesn’t carry the same importance with everyone.”
Angelo’s fingers tighten on my neck. I clear my throat. The conversation isn’t going how it should. Instead of getting my husband in Mr. Powell’s good books, I’m only making the business tycoon’s opinion of Angelo worse.
“There you are,” a woman says, walking toward us with a big smile.
“This is my wife.” Mr. Powell looks at her adoringly. “Letitia, let me introduce you to Sabella and Angelo Russo. You remember Benjamin Edwards, don’t you?”
“Ben’s daughter,” she cries out, taking my hand. “I’m so happy to meet you.”
