Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty Nine
Adrian
I am seated at Caterina’s dining room table.
It should not feel as strange as it does.
It is a dinner. A family dinner. I have been in private homes during dinners before. I have stood near walls while people ate, laughed, argued, drank too much wine, pretended not to hate each other, pretended to like each other, pretended the security presence was not there.
That is familiar.
This is not.
Because Caterina insisted I sit.
Not stand near the wall. Not take a plate in the kitchen. Not hover in the doorway where I can see entrances, exits, windows, and every person in the room without becoming part of the room.
Sit.
At the table.
Which is a problem for reasons no one else in this room fully understands.
Sure, we have been sleeping together for a month.
That is not public information. As far as most of the people at this table know, I am her bodyguard.
Fine, not only that.
I am also Teresa’s cousin, so I am not a complete stranger to the family. That’s probably how Caterina justified it to herself when she looked at me five minutes before everyone sat down and said, in that calm voice that means she has already decided the outcome, “You’re eating with us.”
I told her no.
She said yes.
I looked at Teresa for help.
Teresa smiled into her wineglass like the traitor she is.
So now I am at the table.
Caterina is on my left. Lucia sits across from her, with Nick Dixon beside her. Vito is farther down with Teresa, Cristiano asleep in a portable seat near Teresa’s chair because, apparently, a six-month-old can sleep through anything.
Nico and Erica are on the other side, Emma in a high chair beside them, happily destroying a piece of bread with the focus of a tiny demolition expert.
Lucia’s daughters, Sofia and Charlotte, are seated together near their mother, and the first thing they noticed when they came in was the yellow roses.
That had done something to Caterina.
She tried to hide it, but I saw it. The slight softening around her mouth when Sofia gasped over them. Charlotte had gone right up to the dining room arrangement, careful not to touch, and asked Caterina if they were “the same kind from Nonno’s garden.”
Caterina smiled and said yes.
That smile stayed with me.
Lucia Dixon looks like the Conti she is.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. The Conti stamp is there, even with the years away, even with the billionaire husband beside her and the life she built outside this world.
She is beautiful in a composed, guarded way, the kind of woman who learned young that softness could be used against her and then had to relearn later how to let it exist.
I see it often in veterans. Those who have hardened themselves for war, then have to relearn how to enter society once it’s over.
She may not have gone to war in a conventional sense, but she has gone through it.
There is tension in her still.
Not with Caterina. Not exactly.
But in the way she holds herself. In the way her gaze sometimes moves to Vito, then away. In the way Vito answers her with more care than I’d have expected from him. There is history at this table. Old damage covered by new manners.
Nick Dixon is easier to read and harder to dismiss.
Casino magnate. Billionaire. Husband. Father. He is not mafia, but he is not soft. Wealth at his level creates its own kind of danger and its own kind of protection. His security people proved that. They are efficient, disciplined. Still too unknown for my liking, but not sloppy.
He watches his family often.
Lucia, the girls, and the baby.
Gabriel is seven months old, heavy-eyed, and calm in a way that makes me suspect all the energy was used up by his older sisters.
He has Lucia’s dark hair and Nick’s blue eyes, and he is currently sitting on Nick’s lap, chewing on the edge of a soft toy while Nick keeps one steady hand around his middle.
Sofia is about six, old enough to ask direct questions without tact, not understanding that they might be considered rude. Charlotte is about four, still small enough to swing her feet under the chair and chatter mindlessly about anything and everything.
They both watch Caterina like she is something glamorous and magical.
I can tell it means a lot to her.
Vito is the second oldest after Lucia. That fact sits heavily in this room, even when no one says it. He is Lucia’s younger brother and the oldest son, who became even more than that when she left.
He is also Teresa’s husband now, Cristiano’s father, and a man who looks different with a baby in his arms than he does with a gun in his hand.
He is dressed simply tonight, but there is nothing simple about him.
Dark hair, dark eyes, broad shoulders. I notice the same Conti stillness in him as Luca, but I suspect that can easily change.
When I spoke with him that first night at his house, the anger practically vibrated off of him and warned me that this man could turn violent in the blink of an eye.
Nico comes third in the line-up and seems to be easier with people than Vito, but no less dangerous. He has his arm along the back of Erica’s chair while she wipes bread crumbs from Emma’s little red-cheeked face. I can tell that his vigilance hasn’t wavered where they’re concerned. Good.
Caterina is the youngest of the four. The one who arranged this whole thing because she wanted a night with her siblings and had spent the past week agonizing over every decision, including a spur-of-the-moment one to add on flowers for the girls.
Somehow, they all perfectly embody the positions they hold within the family.
Lucia, the oldest daughter, the type A who had to make the hard choices and the sacrifice that came with it.
Vito, the first son, the heir who had to step up and prove himself.
Nico, the middle child his parents never had to worry about, so he pretty much got to choose his path in life without intervention.
And Caterina, the youngest, is at once carefree, yet carrying the weight of all her older siblings.
I try not to spend too much time analyzing them. I’ll never be the type of person to just sit back and enjoy the dinner, but I can try, for Caterina’s sake.
The food is good.
Caterina may not have let Bianca take over, but she chose well.
The table is filled with platters passed family-style because she wanted the evening to feel relaxed.
Warm bread. Olive oil with herbs. Roasted vegetables.
A rich pasta in tomato and basil that Sofia declares “fancy macaroni” and Charlotte immediately claims as her favorite food ever.
Braised meat so tender it falls apart under a fork. A salad with citrus and fennel.
Wine moves around the table.
I stick to water.
Partly because I am working.
Partly because I am still recovering.
Mostly because I need my head clear.
I am aware of security at all times.
I track the front entrance through the camera feed on the slim device near my plate.
I keep one ear on the faint movement outside the dining room.
I know where Caterina’s staff are. I know which of my people are positioned at the gates, the rear access, the garage, and the kitchen corridor.
I know where Nick’s security is supposed to be and where the overlap points are.
I know the children are seated where they can be moved quickly through the service hall if needed.
As I am keenly aware, children can change a situation entirely, and I don’t plan on that being the case here.
I also maintain conversation because Caterina expects it and because refusing would draw more attention than participating.
Nick asks a reasonable question about casino security infrastructure. I answer without giving him more than he needs, then that sets him and Caterina off on a conversation about casinos, to my relief.
Then Vito asks whether my side is healed. I tell him yes. Teresa snorts softly into her glass. I ignore that. At some point, Lucia asks if my parents are still in San Antonio. I answer that my mother is. My father died when I was seventeen.
That pulls a brief silence across the table.
Teresa’s gaze softens.
Caterina’s hand brushes my thigh under the table.
A light touch. There and gone.
No one sees it.
I feel it everywhere.
Conversation resumes.
The children help. Children always do, even when they complicate every evacuation plan in existence. Sofia wants to know whether Caterina’s house has secret passages because “all big houses should.”
Charlotte asks if Adrian is a soldier. Caterina chokes on her water. Vito looks amused. Nick says, very calmly, “Charlotte.”
“What?” Charlotte asks. “He looks like one.”
“She’s not wrong,” Lucia says.
Caterina hides her smile behind her napkin.
I say, “Not anymore.”
Now Sofia studies me. “But you were?”
“Yes.”
“Did you fight bad guys?”
“Sofia,” Lucia says, her tone gentle but firm.
Sofia’s mouth closes, but her curiosity remains.
Caterina leans forward. “He defended our country against people who want to hurt it.”
I turn my head toward her.
That was a very good answer.
The truth is, most people you fight in war aren’t “bad guys.” Everyone is just fighting for their country.
She looks at me, eyes bright with amusement and something else.
“That’s right,” I confirm.
That sets the girls off on a whole new tangent of questions, much to my dismay.
Teresa laughs.
And Caterina smiles, a bit wickedly.
It catches me in the chest so hard I forget, for one second, to monitor the room.
That is dangerous.
I know that.
But I still look at her.
She laughs at something Lucia says next, head tilted slightly, dark hair sliding over one shoulder, candlelight catching the gold at her ears. So warm and alive.
And the truth catches me in the gut. The truth I have known for a while now and still have not said out loud.
I am in love with her.
It caught me off guard when I realized it.