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No one seems to note our arrival, too caught up in food, drink and conversation. I hover awkwardly just inside the doors, totally out of place. I glance self consciously down at my faded jeans, worn Chuck Taylors and Gray University graphic tee. The other women in their designer gowns and stiletto heels have more bling just in their jewelry than my entire tuition. Their gazes crawl over me, noting and dismissing me just as quickly. Heat crawls up my neck.
Then Dante clears his throat loudly and heads turn our way. Conversations trail off as he approaches a table of men in tailored suits occupying seats of honor near an ornate marble fireplace. The heavyset man at the center looks up with a genial smile. He's probably in his late sixties, with sleek silver hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. Diamond cufflinks glitter at his wrists. Recognition shoots through me. Vittorio Ricci, head of the Ricci crime family. Terrifyingly affable, with a rumored penchant for creative cruelty. My mouth goes dry.
"Ah, Dante," Don Ricci greets warmly. "What news?"
Dante gives a shallow bow. "The situation with our...guest...has been handled. May I present Miss Clara Thomas." He steps back and gestures to me.
Over a hundred sets of eyes swivel my direction in unison. Awkwardly, I raise my hand in a small wave. "Um, hi," I offer weakly.
A curious murmur ripples through the room. Don Ricci surveys me with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes before beckoning me forward. "Come, my dear. Let me have a look at you."
I glance uncertainly at Dante, but he just gestures for me to approach the Don. Keeping my back straight, I weave between the tables until I stand before him. Up close, the aura of power and danger surrounding him is even more palpable. He looks every inch the mafia ruler, freezing me in place with those calculating dark eyes. I clench my clammy hands to hide their trembling.
"So you are William's daughter," Don Ricci muses thoughtfully. I give a tight nod. His genial smile doesn't waver, but his eyes remain cold, assessing. "You have your mother's features, I think."
I blink in surprise. "You knew my mother?"
He gestured with a wave of his hand. "We had some encounters in the past. She was quite the art aficionado; many of the pieces here were acquired by her. I was sorry to hear of her passing."
"Thank you," I murmur reflexively. My mind whirls. I can't imagine my mother ever mingling with mobsters. She was cautious to a fault. It makes me wonder now how much she knew about Dad's shadowy activities. Things I was oblivious to.
Don Ricci regards me thoughtfully. "Well, Clara, I'm sure you know why you're here. Your father owes the Ricci family a substantial sum. More than can likely be repaid in his lifetime." His eyes bore into me. "You will remain our guest until such time as he honors his commitments."
I swallow hard but force myself to meet his gaze directly. "That is my understanding."
He nods approvingly. "Good. I would hate for us to have any...misunderstandings." The implied threat beneath the mild words sends a shiver down my spine. "You'll be kept comfortable here. Much better than languishing in one of our less hospitable locations, I assure you."
The blood drains from my face at the mention of less savory options. God only knows what would have happened if they'd decided to stash me in some damp warehouse or derelict apartment building instead of this mansion. The thought makes my knees weaken.
Don Ricci snaps his fingers and a server appears instantly at his elbow. "Fetch Miss Thomas a drink. Wine?" He lifts his brows inquiringly.
"Oh, um, just water please," I stammer. I need to keep my wits about me right now. The server hurries off. An awkward silence settles over our group as I stand there, acutely aware of the eyes tracing my every move.
After an endless minute, the server returns and presses a chilled glass of water into my hand with a deferential bow. I clutch it like a lifeline, pretending to busy myself with a sip. The condensation helps anchor me. Focus on the cold smoothness of the glass, the faint citrus tang of lemon. My racing thoughts start to slow a bit.
Until a sudden hush ripples through the room. I glance up and freeze. All eyes are fixed on a figure hovering in the doorway, having just entered the grand hall. Antonio Ricci. Eldest son and heir apparent of the Ricci dynasty, next in line to rule the far-reaching crime syndicate. The most ruthless and cunning of the brothers, if rumors are true.
Seeing him in person, I understand how he's become almost legendary. Danger and power roll off him in palpable waves. He moves with lethal grace, comfortable in his dominance. This is a man used to being feared and obeyed without question.
Antonio surveys the room before stepping forward. "Friends," he begins, "I have news." He pauses for dramatic effect, brown eyes glinting.
"As of this morning, the Brooklyn Waterfront Development now belongs to the Ricci Family."
Excited murmurs ripple through the room at this announcement. I know enough from the news to understand the significance of this move. The waterfront has been the territory of the Ferraro family for decades. Seizing it is akin to throwing down the gauntlet before their biggest rivals. This isn't just business - it's a personal blow intended to challenge the Ferraros' standing in the underworld hierarchy.
My mind reels with the implications of this deal, and I am just a college student. How much further must the implications for this go?
Antonio allows himself a small smug smile at the reaction. Glasses are lifted in a toast to the Ricci family and Antonio accepts the praise impassively. Then his gaze settles on me with laser-like focus. Our eyes meet and an electric jolt travels down my spine. He starts forward, the crowd melting away before him like butter. My lungs seize up in my chest as he nears.
He comes to stand directly in front of me, so close I must tilt my chin to maintain eye contact. His cologne engulfs me, something spicy and sophisticated. He's tall, with artfully tousled black hair and sharp, patrician features. Lean muscle shifts beneath his tailored shirt and trousers as he surveys the scene, an unhurried predator. His hazelnut eyes scan over me, hooded and assessing. I'm reminded of paintings I've seen in museums depicting powerful Renaissance warlords. Beautiful, but touched with darkness. "So you're Clara Thomas," he remarks without preamble, voice smooth and low.
I struggle to find my voice. "Y-yes. And you're Antonio Ricci."
One corner of his mouth ticks up. "I see my reputation precedes me." He holds my gaze, assessing. Waiting to see if I'll quail or challenge him.
I grip my water glass tighter to keep my hand from trembling. "Only what I've read in the papers," I reply, pleased when my voice remains even. I'm rewarded with another flicker of a smile.
"Well, since we both know who the other is, let's get down to business." He steps closer, well into my personal space now. Reflexively, I lean back until the edge of the table presses into my lower back, keeping us apart. Antonio's eyes glint with dark amusement at my obvious discomfort.
