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She used to bring me down to the fire the night before Christmas. There were bells strung along the mantle and a single present waiting for me, far enough from the merry flames to be safe, but close enough to fill me with a sense of wonderment.
One present before tomorrow morning.
I shove the memories aside, focusing on the click of my heels along the pristine black and white marble floor.
All the pretty words in the world aren’t enough for me to feel comfortable about tonight. Marco offered several possible outcomes on the drive over, his hand resting possessively on my knee, the slit of the emerald-green wrap dress leaving most of my muscled leg bare, accessible for him to touch whenever or however he pleases.
This outfit is a pointed departure from the demure-yet-sexy lines of the velvet gown I wore to the ball yesterday. Marco wanted to make a statement, and I liked the maneuverability of the skirt, even though the material leaves me bare enough to have a chill. My coat might as well not exist.
There are also very few places to hide a gun, but I manage.
“Remember the plan,” Marco mouths.
I know the plan. We’ve gone over it enough times to have every step memorized.
Stefan stands alone in the formal dining room, waiting for us. He straightens further at the sight of his brother and me making our grand entrance, and although there is no more slow clapping—thankfully, because it got right under my fucking skin—there is definitely a sleezy air oozing out of his every pore.
“Good of you to actually listen this time.” Stefan directs the comment at his younger brother, and despite no outward reaction, Marco tenses beside me.
He inclines his head forward, a lock of stark black hair obscuring his features, his perfect lips pressed tightly together. “I’m your servant, as always.”
Stefan laughs, but the sound is somehow restrained. “Come now, brother. You’re going to embarrass me in front of our lovely guest. The business is shared equally between us, as our father intended. Natasha.”
I hold back my scoff. We both know the Zicari Syndicate is run solely by Stefan, who holds every inch of the reins in his hands.
I let Marco lead me closer to the table, let him slip the coat off my shoulders, let Stefan press a wet kiss to my cheek and linger way too long. His fingers drop to the small of my back and lower.
“Natasha.” He says my name again, the way a lover would. Possession lingers in every touch. “You’re even more beautiful today than you were last night.”
I shoot him a rattlesnake’s smile. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Zicari.”
“Please.Stefan.”
Absolutely not.
“The others will be arriving shortly.” He’s back to all business. “Please help yourself to drinks. We’ll eat once everyone arrives.”
Marco has stood by, saying nothing through his brother’s obvious display of power over us, over his little kingdom. Clearly, whatever is broken inside of him only reinforces his need to dominate. How much of a price has Marco had to pay for his brother’s actions?
From everything I researched about him, Marco has done his best to keep his nose clean. He deals in illegal weapons but hasn’t stepped off whatever path he set for himself. There’s goodness in him.
Marco practically vibrates with unrestrained anger, which won’t help us once the others arrive. I shoot him a silent look laden with warning to get his shit together. We’re too close to ending this for him to lose focus now, to allow Stefan to bait him into childish arguments.
I’ve got Wes waiting just down the road from the mansion, and although the earpiece is shot, he’s keeping a watch on things from afar, ready to move if necessary.
Let’s hope it won’t be necessary.
It takes no time at all for the guests of this dinner from hell to arrive. The cartel leader—only one, I realize, not the multiple I’d been hoping to lasso into this takedown—refuses to sit at the table, his men standing around him in a protective array. The tension in the room thickens with each heartbeat and makes breathing difficult.
Ermilo, also known as the Viper. He’s the third largest cocaine and heroin dealer in Kingstead. I manage to keep the surprise off my face long enough to accept the kiss he presses to my cheek.
Small talk is strained, the conversation relegated to the weather and the holiday. No one wants to look too closely at anyone else, and I wonder what’s going on in Ermilo’s head. Does he want to gut Stefan Zicari the same way I do, or does he have more colorful punishments planned if this dinner does not go his way?
Stefan lost a lot of product Ermilo expected to have. It’s actually a miracle he’s not dead already, that he’s been granted this opportunity to make things right.
I steel myself for what will come and sit at Marco’s side, close enough to leave no one with room to doubt that we’re an item. Yet, Stefan’s gaze is a physical touch the entire time.
Brandingme.
