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“You should get professional help for your anger issues, lady,” Arturo replies in an even tone.
“Oh, yeah? I’ll give you a professional.”
Several people take a hurried step back, exposing my sister-in-law in the middle of the crowd as she reaches for a platter of canapes on the nearby buffet table.
“Tara! Don’t," I yell as I follow Drago at a run across the lawn.
I’m not sure if she hasn’t heard me or simply decided to ignore my warning, because she launches the huge round serving tray toward my brother as if it’s an oversized freesbee. Dozens of bite-sizedhors d'oeuvresfly off the silver projectile, hitting the bodies and faces of people gathered around the scene while a makeshift weapon slices the air toward my brother’s head. Arturo ducks at the last moment, and the platter ends up in the rose bushes behind him.
“Goddamned crazy woman!” he roars and lunges toward Tara who’s already reaching for something else to throw. “Were you raised in a fucking jungle?”
Everyone around seems to be frozen in place, simply gawking at the commotion unfolding before their eyes. Even the music has died down, and I spot the band members leaving the raised platform stage and creeping closer to have a better look.
“Tara!” Drago howlers, closing in on her.
An evil smirk breaks across Tara’s lips as she grabs an enormous jug filled with punch off the table. In an incredibly elegant move, my sister-in-law turns on her heel, the sides of her long pale-blue wrap dress flutter with the spin and reveal her long legs clad in lacy stockings that are held up by a set of garters in the same azure shade. Pink liquid splashes all over my brother’s face and chest. Pieces of lemon cling to the lapels of his jacket and shirtfront.
Too late, but Drago finally reaches his sister. He throws her over his shoulder as she drops the glass jug and screams for him to put her down. Ignoring her outbursts, my husband proceeds to carry Tara toward the house. Meanwhile, I come up to Arturo, stopping before him. His hands are fisted at his sides, and he’s fuming. I can almost imagine steam rising off his dampened clothes and skin.
“That nutcase needs to be locked away in a fucking asylum,” he growls through his teeth.
I bite at my bottom lip to avoid bursting into a laugh and reach to swipe a lemon slice from his shoulder. “She’s just a little protective. You’re overstating.”
“Overstating?” Arturo snaps as he passes his palm down the front of his designer-cut jacket that’s dripping punch into a puddle at his feet. “Believe me, I’m not. Dear God, I pity the man who chooses to get married to that banshee.”
I sigh. Family gatherings and holidays are definitely going to be interesting.
* * *
Several days later, New York.
Salvatore Ajello’s penthouse
I take a sip of my lemonade, watching my husband over the rim of my glass. The TV is on, but he's been absently massaging my feet for the past ten minutes, not really paying any attention to the game. He’s plotting, and based on the smug look on his face, it's nothing good.
“What are you up to, Salvatore?”
He tilts his head to the side, then lifts my foot to his mouth and drops a kiss on the tips of my toes. “Why do you ask?”
“You had that same look on your face when you decided to marry Arturo’s sister off, planting her into the Serbian organization to spy for you.”
“It was a clever plan.” He nods and moves his hands to my other foot. “Too bad it hadn’t worked out like I expected.”
I barely contain the laugh that’s threatening to burst out of me. He was so mad when Sienna kept feeding him random nonsense during her check-ins. Broken fridge and truck’s carburetor issues my ass! “Yeah. Arturo is still pissed at you about that.”
“He is. He’s also become extremely brooding these past few months. Snapping at his subordinates at littlest of provocations.”
“Maybe he’s just lonely and doesn’t know how to deal with it.” I shrug.
“You think?”
“Definitely.” I nod. “He’s been taking care of his sisters for so long, and now, with both of them married, he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Maybe you should arrange a marriage for him, too,” I say, only half-joking.
“That makes sense.”
“What?” I nearly choke on my drink. “I was kidding.”
“It would need to be someone who can handle him and all the shit he’s been through. Not a meek Cosa Nostra princess who would look at him as if he’s some kind of God. Arturo requires a challenge. Someone who won’t dance to his tune.”
