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Trying my best to keep my face blank, I throw another look at the man standing with his hands behind his back. The stance emphasizes his broad frame as the muscles in his arms strain against the material of his black suit jacket. He’s probably the largest man I’ve ever met. My gaze travels up his wide chest and stops on his face. Sinister. That’s the first word that comes to mind. He’s cleanly shaven, with a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, but it’s not his face or his enormous bulk that makes me want to step back. It’s the things I see in his dark eyes. Hate. Loathing. And barely contained rage. I want to look away, but I can’t. It’s as if his eyes ensnare me and keep me prisoner. If looks could kill, I’m pretty sure I would be dead on the spot.
I make myself nod and finally glance away, focusing my eyes on the front entrance. As we pass through the door Alessandro is holding open for us, I can feel his eyes on me the entire time, all the way to my husband’s car. Only once I’ve slid onto the passenger seat and Rocco has closed the car door do I let myself exhale.
In the side-view mirror, I spot my new bodyguard walking to a black SUV, his steps slow and calculated. Just before he gets in, he looks up toward our car. There is no way he can tell I’m watching him, but somehow, I know he does. The vibe of hostility he’s giving off is like a living thing. I don’t remember the last time someone made such a strong impression on me at the first meeting, without even uttering a word. Is he angry about being assigned to this job? He’s probably heard the stories about how the last three of my bodyguards ended up—with a bullet hole from Rocco’s gun in their foreheads.
The driver’s door opens, and I quickly avert my eyes from the mirror.
“Well, it looks like I’ve found the perfect security detail for you,” Rocco says as he takes a seat behind the wheel. “This one won’t fall for your charms.”
I squeeze the clutch I’m holding in my hands and bite at the inside of my cheek, trying to subdue the need to look at him and yell in his face.
“Yes, Rocco,” I mumble, keeping my gaze fixed on my lap.
I lean back against the wall and regard the Pisano couple who are sitting on velvet-covered chairs a few feet in front of me. There are eight seats in this private balcony booth, but the others are empty.
Rocco seems bored. His left arm is resting on the back of his wife’s chair, and he has his phone in his free hand. He’s been fumbling with his device since the woman on the stage started wailing, so, clearly, he’s not an opera fan.
His wife is a hard one to read. Something feels off between these two. Mrs. Pisano sits ramrod straight and avoids looking at her husband. From the moment she took her seat, her gaze has been focused on the stage. She hasn’t moved a muscle for almost an hour, and I can’t determine if it’s because she’s immersed in the performance or if there’s another reason for her stoic posture.
When Rocco listed the parameters of my assignment earlier, I was surprised. The motherfucker had to be crazy in love with his wife, but I didn’t understand why a man in his position would be so insecure that he would resort to such controlling measures. When I saw Ravenna Pisano descending the stairs, however, I barely managed to keep my jaw from hitting the floor. I’ve seen several pictures of her, but they didn’t do her justice.
There are beautiful women. And then . . . there’s her.
The skintight red dress she’s wearing has a deep V-neck, showcasing her firm breasts. It’s also scandalously short, reaching just below her ass. The vibrant color contrasts with her raven-black hair, which she has tied into a tight bun at the top of her head. I don’t think I’ve ever laid my eyes on a more perfect face, despite the excess makeup she’s wearing. Heavy shading around her big green eyes. Blood-red lips, the same shade as her dress. Long, thick eyelashes, probably fake. It’s hard to guess her age with all that crap on her face, but I estimate she’s in her late twenties.
As she was descending the stairs at the house, I noticed her shiny sky-high black stiletto heels and how they complemented her hourglass figure. It was only when she came to a stop next to Rocco did I realize she was much shorter than I initially thought. Even in heels, the top of her head barely reached his nose. Standing barefoot, she would probably only come up to the middle of my chest.
Ravenna Pisano is a pixie of a woman, one who shouldn’t be too difficult to smudge out of existence. And I plan to do it right under her husband’s arrogant nose. Fitting, it seems.
The performer on the stage finally stops howling and a huge round of applause ensues. Rocco stands up from his chair and offers a hand to his wife. Mrs. Pisano rises slowly, the act so regal it’s like watching a queen appear before her subjects. An ice queen, to be more exact. As they pass by me, she holds her head high, looking straight ahead, ignoring my presence completely. I guess she feels I’m beneath her, as “help” usually is for their kind.
I follow the Pisanos down the wide hallway toward the open space at the end where refreshments are awaiting the privileged patrons. Rocco tilts his head to whisper something in his wife’s ear, then joins a group of men at the center of the room as they laugh boisterously while nursing their drinks. Mrs. Pisano moves off to the side, coming to stand in a relatively people-free spot. Her stance is even more stiff than it was inside the theater hall, and her eyes seem to focus on something on the opposite wall. I follow her gaze, wondering what has attracted her attention, but there is nothing there. Just a pristine white wall. Not even an art piece or a light fixture in view.
I take a couple of steps and position myself on Ravenna Pisano’s left. The moment she feels my presence, she freezes, every muscle pulled tight in recoil.
“Please, move back,” she says, and, for a second, I’m taken aback by how young she sounds. But then her words sink in and disgust overwhelms me. I take a step back. Of course, she can’t have her regal sight tainted by the likes of me. It’s pathetic how entitled people sometimes forget that they are not so different from the rest of us. Especially as they bleed.
I wonder if she’ll feel the same when her blood runs down her slender neck after I cut it open.
I take a deep breath and keep my eyes fixated on the wall across from me. It’s a technique I’ve adopted recently to keep my eyes from wandering and meeting a man’s stare by accident. I can see Rocco in my peripheral vision. He’s talking with another capo, Cosimo Longo, and pretending to be immersed in the conversation, but I know very well that he’s watching me. Waiting for me to slip. I won’t. I’ve had plenty of practice to prevail in this twisted game of his, and I’ve taken a slew of hits and sported enough bruises to motivate me to keep my gaze glued to that wall. But there is nothing I can do to prevent men from looking at me. Or worse, from approaching me. Rocco knows it and he finds great satisfaction in seeing it happen because it means he can punish me when we get home without his consciousness taking a blow.
My husband has a unique outlook on the world. In his mind, he is a good, just man who never does anything without a cause. If I’m on my best behavior, nothing will happen. Well, most of the time, at least. But if I do something wrong, like look at another male or do something to attract their eyes, he feels the need to punish me. Rocco likes to call it “martial education methods.” So, I stand apart, hoping that no one will pay any attention to me and that Rocco will get bored soon so we can head back to the mansion.
“Ravenna,” a male voice says from my right. “Why are you standing alone? Do you want me to bring you a drink?”
I squeeze the clutch purse in my hand harder. “I’m fine, Pietro. Thank you.”
Go away. Please, please, go away.I repeat the mantra in my head. Maybe if he leaves right away, Rocco won’t notice him.
“You sure you don’t want anything to drink?” He places his hand on my shoulder.
I close my eyes for a second, trying to suppress the panic rising inside me, and make myself smile. Pietro worked alongside my father for a couple of years and he even came to our house a few times. He was always nice to me, and at one point, I considered asking him for help, but I never worked up the courage.
“I’m fine, just deep in thought. Thank you.”
Pietro nods and heads toward the group of people on the other side of the room. When he’s out of sight, I chance a look over to where Rocco was standing and find him looking at me over the rim of his glass. He’s smiling. Shit. I take a step back, bumping into a wall of hard muscle. A huge male hand lands on the side of my waist, steadying me. My blood goes cold.
Since I married Rocco, three men have died because of me. The first one was barely twenty-six. Only two years older than me. I still have nightmares about that day. I’d just come home from my manicure appointment, and Gaetano reached out to help me with my coat, brushing my shoulder with his hand by accident. A minute later, Rocco stormed out of the library with a gun in his hand and shot my bodyguard in the head. At first, I didn’t realize what had happened and just stared at Gaetano’s body sprawled on the floor while blood oozed from the hole in the center of his forehead. Rocco started yelling, ordering me to go to my room, but I couldn’t make my legs move.
