Cosimo Ferraro could have been a movie star if he wasn’t a mobster. Not that he had much of a choice, which makes it even more of a tragedy. Men who look like him, with flowing hazel hair and piercing blue eyes that rival those of my husband’s, don’t belong amongst us mere mortals. They’re meant to be idolized by the fawning masses.
He sizes up Rafaele, his eyes lingering on the exact spots where my husband is hiding his weapons beneath his suit. The fact that no one asked Rafaele to disarm when we first walked in likely means they’re all carrying.
A nervous shiver runs down my spine. This is a friendly dinner. Let’s hope it doesn’t end the way our dinner at Il Caminetto did.
Cosimo coolly greets Rafaele and barely spares me a look before Gino steers us to the next man. “This is Alessio.”
The Ferraro’s famed enforcer. His long hair is tied back, showing off the scar that runs across his temple. A smaller one cuts through his left brow. Tattoos cover his hands and his neck, and when he shakes my hand after Rafaele’s, I make out the letters on his knuckles. MORE. My gaze drops to his other hand. It completes the phrase. MORE PAIN.
My blood cools. Jesus. Is that what he promises the men he tortures if they don’t give up their secrets?
“And this is my youngest son. Romolo.”
I tear my gaze away from those tattooed letters and turn to the last brother.
He’s the only one who smiles at me, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Call me Rom.” By the time he turns to Rafaele, the smile is gone. “Messero,” he says, a bite to his tone. “I have to admit, I didn’t think we’d ever see you walk through these doors.”
Everyone knows about Rom Ferraro.
A long time ago, when I was scheming how to ensure I would be eliminated from the marriage circuit, I considered arranging a meeting with Rom. His reputation as a womanizer is unmatched by anyone in our circles. Just being seen in the same room as him while unsupervised used to be enough to start a scandal.
Rumor is he’s grown up in the past few years, but tales of his conquests still filter through the mouths of my father’s men.
Rafaele gives Rom his signature icy stare. “Likewise. But times change.”
Rom’s lips tighten. “Yeah, they sure fucking do.”
“Language! You know better than to speak like that when you’re in this house, Rom.”
Everyone turns in the direction of the voice. It belongs to a statuesque, silver-haired woman who must be their mom. She walks over, her perfectly straight locks swishing back and forth with each step, and she gives me a smile that wraps around me like a warm, cozy blanket.
Some tension in my shoulders disappears. Somehow, I just know this woman will make sure no blood is spilled tonight. She hugs me, pulling me tightly against her chest, as I catch a whiff of her refined perfume.
“Cleo Messero.” Her eyes sparkle with warmth. “I’m Vita. How are you, my dear? I hope they didn’t bore you with their manhood-measuring contest. That’s how these boys always are. What are you drinking? Wine? Whiskey? A strong martini? Alcohol is always the answer on nights like these.” She places a hand on my back and steers me toward the bar.
Gino clears his throat. “Vita.”
She glances back at him. “Yes, my love?”
“There’s one more guest,” Gino says, giving his wife an indulgent smile.
She tsks. “Ah, that’s right.”
“Hello, daughter.”
Ice pours into my veins. Slowly, I turn toward my father.
“What are you doing here?”
“I invited him,” Gino says, coming to stand by Papà’s side. He’s wearing an is-there-a-problem-here smile as he gives Rafaele a pointed look. “After all, you’ve joined your families, so I thought it would be best if we all sit down at the table.”
“Good to see you, Garzolo,” Rafaele says, seeming unfazed by this turn of events, but I can’t say the same for myself. Is Papà seeking an ally in Ferraro to take down Rafaele? I doubt Ferraro would work with someone whose word clearly means nothing, but what do I know?
My father stops before me and leans down to press a kiss to my cheek. “We need to talk,” he whispers in my ear.
I know what he wants to talk about, and he won’t like what he hears.
We sit down at the oval dining table, and Rafaele brings up the issue with the contract before we’ve even finished the first course.
Gino waves his hand dismissively. “Done. My cousin Ricardo has always been a stickler on issues like this, but I’ll take care of it.”
“I appreciate it,” I say automatically. Rafaele squeezes my hand under the table, but I’m too tense to feel relieved.
The dinner proceeds without a hiccup, and the conversation flows easily with the help of Vita’s friendly presence.
The Ferraro matriarch is very different from my mother. She seems so kind and lovely, and there’s no mistaking the adoration in Gino’s eyes whenever he looks at her. She tells us the story of how she and Gino met. She was a fashion model, and he sat in the front row for one of the shows she walked. He asked her manager for her number and proposed a week later.
“It was a whirlwind romance,” she exclaims. “Took a while for his family to warm up to me, given that I’m not Italian.
“But she eventually won them over,” Gino says. “Very few can resist my wife’s charms.”
God, they’re cute together. And here I thought all mafia marriages were miserable. The way they’re looking at each other, I get the sense they still fuck like bunnies.
“Rafaele, I’d like to have a word in private,” Gino says once we finish our dessert. “Why don’t you join me for a drink on the terrace?”
Rafaele nods before turning to me and lowering his voice. “You okay on your own for a while?”
“Of course.” I nudge his thigh. “Go.”
Rafaele and Gino leave. Vita offers to show me some of their Japanese artwork, and we look at the paintings for a while before I have to excuse myself to use the bathroom.
“It’s just down that hall,” Vita explains.
I do my business, wash my hands, and dab some cold water on my neck. Anxiety crawls over my skin. And it’s justified, because my father corners me as soon as I come out.
He backs me against a wall. “Have you thought about my offer?”
I wince. His breath reeks even worse than his desperation.
“Give me some space,” I say, pushing at his chest.
He backs away slightly, his beady eyes narrowed and his forehead shiny. Nervous? He’s right to be worried. He won’t find an ally in me, or anyone else who possesses an ounce of sense.
“We don’t have a lot of time, Cleo,” he growls. “I’m waiting on your answer.”
My fists clench. “I won’t help you.”
His reaction is immediate. A hiss comes out of his mouth, and then his forearm is against my neck, and my back is being slammed against the wall.
I gasp from the sudden pain, my veins blazing with shock. I expected him to be angry, but I didn’t think he’d turn aggressive.
“Did you tell him I asked, you stupid slut?”
I claw at his arm. I can’t get enough air. Just when dark spots start to appear in front of my eyes, he lets go of me.
“Did you?”