Chapter 7 #2
Damiano glances up, and our eyes meet for a split second. Recognition flickers across his face—surprise, then concern bordering on shock when he sees who I’m with. For a split second, I think he might stand up. Come over. Ask if I’m okay.
But this is the mafia. We don’t interfere in other families’ business, even when it’s Lucy’s best friend with the man whose family was slaughtered at her engagement party.
He gazes at me a moment longer, and then reluctantly returns his attention back to Jessica.
I realize with a jolt that this is Barone territory. Not neutral ground, and not Montoni streets where Dad’s word is law. If I kill Vincenzo here, this becomes Don Carlucci Barone’s problem, who will definitely make it Dad’s problem.
My stomach clenches as the implications crash over me.
So far, Dad’s kept the other families on his side by insisting that the Vicis attacked him first. He’s the victim, not the aggressor.
If I poison Vincenzo in this restaurant, completely unprovoked, the Barones will demand answers.
They’ll be caught between my father and whatever arrangements they have with the other families.
It could start a war. More people will die. More blood on my hands.
I look at Vincenzo across the table, and he’s watching me with that predatory stillness that makes my skin prickle.
“Something wrong, doe?” His voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it.
“Not at all.” I smooth my napkin across my lap, trying to calm my racing heart.
“You’re lying.” He leans back in his seat, completely at ease. “You’ve been tense since I picked you up.”
Vincenzo’s gaze is speculative as he watches me pick up my menu and pretend to study it. I can’t make a single word penetrate my brain.
“I make you nervous?” he asks, his eyes glinting.
“Of course you do.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “You’re a killer who hates me. Why wouldn’t I be nervous?”
Angry denial flickers in his expression, like the accusation stings, but it’s gone so quickly that I wonder if I imagined it.
The waiter appears, breaking the tension. Vincenzo orders wine for us, his Italian pronunciation smooth and confident. When the waiter leaves, the silence stretches between us like a blade.
My clutch is in my lap, and it feels as though it weighs a thousand pounds.
I need to use this chance to save myself from marriage with Vincenzo, but killing him on Barone territory will cause chaos that could ripple through all of Malus.
But I could use that chaos to disappear. Slip away while they’re all at each other’s throats. By the time they realized I was gone, I’d be on a plane to somewhere they’d never find me. I’ll run so far that no one will ever find me and drag me home.
My fingers brush against the clutch’s clasp.
Vincenzo is watching me with an intensity that makes me feel exposed. Like he can see straight through the black dress and the dark lipstick to the terrified girl underneath.
“Relax, doe,” he says, and there’s something almost gentle in his voice. “I’m not going to hurt you tonight.”
Tonight, I notice. Not ever. Just tonight.
The wine arrives, blood-red in crystal glasses, and I stare at them like they might bite me. If I put poison in his wine while he’s in the bathroom, will he notice the glass has moved? If I add it to his water, will he grimace at the taste and realize it’s poisoned?
I reach out to take a sip of my wine to steady my nerves, but I move too quickly, and I knock the glass over.
Time slows as the glass tips, crimson liquid arcing through the air. It splashes across the white tablecloth, spreading like a wound. Some of it hits Vincenzo’s shirt, staining the black fabric an even darker shade.
For a split second, I’m not in the restaurant anymore.
I’m thirteen, and I’ve just knocked over my juice at breakfast. Red cranberry juice spreads across Mom’s pristine white tablecloth.
Dad’s face transforms from neutral to furious in the space of a heartbeat.
His hand lifts to strike me while Mom screams.
I’m twenty, standing in a golden ballroom. Red is pooling on white marble. Mrs. Vici reaches for her daughter with bloodied hands.
“I’m so sorry.” The words burst out of me, high and panicked. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make a mess.”
I’m already moving, grabbing my napkin, scrambling around to Vincenzo’s side of the booth. My hands shake as I try to blot the wine from his shirt, from the table, from everywhere the red has spread.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
I’m waiting for it. The explosion. The hand across my face.
The cold promise that we’ll “discuss this later,” which means violence behind closed doors.
Dad would be on his feet by now making a scene.
Every eye in the restaurant would be on us while he told the staff how clumsy I am, how humiliating his daughter is.
“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning, I promise. I’m so sorry.”
My hands won’t stop shaking. The napkin is soaked through, but I keep dabbing at the wine, trying to make it disappear before the punishment comes.
“Adora.”
I barely hear him. I’m frantically looking around for more napkins, for water, for anything to fix this. I’m on his side of the booth, pressed close as I try to erase the mess.
“Adora.” The voice is firmer now. A hand closes around my wrist, stopping my frantic movements.
I freeze, my whole body going rigid. This is it.
“Stop.” His voice is low, calm. Not angry. “It’s okay.”
I look up at him, and his blue eyes are watching me with an expression I can’t read. Not fury. Not disgust. Confusion, maybe. And something else that looks almost like concern.
“It’s just wine,” he says quietly. “I’m not angry.”
The words don’t make sense. Dad would be angry.
Anyone would be angry. I ruined his shirt, made a scene, and embarrassed him in front of everyone.
I glance around wildly. Through the screen, I see that a few people have glanced our way, but most are already returning to their meals.
The whole restaurant hasn’t frozen. The world hasn’t ended.
“Did you think I was going to shout at you?” Vincenzo asks, and there’s something strange in his voice.
I don’t answer. But yes, that’s exactly what I thought. At the very least.
His hand is still wrapped around my wrist, but it’s not restraining me.
It’s anchoring me and keeping me from flying apart.
The gentleness of his grip makes warmth spread up my arm and through my chest, melting the panic into liquid desire.
My stomach flips and my thighs press together.
He’s looking at me with concern, and it’s so foreign and unexpected that I feel myself softening toward him.
My body wants to lean into him. The panic is still there, but underneath it is a pull so strong it makes me dizzy.
“Breathe, doe.” His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, over my racing pulse. “It’s okay.”
I try. One shaky breath. Then another.
The dark patch on his shirt is just wine. Not blood. Not death. Just wine.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, but this time it sounds different. Less frantic. More genuine.
“Don’t be.” He releases my wrist slowly. “Accidents happen.”
Such simple words. But in my house, accidents mean consequences and punishment.
I sink back onto the seat, but my hands are still trembling.
Vincenzo is watching me with that same intense focus, but it’s different now. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t see before. Is he happy that the Montoni princess has shown yet another weakness? I feel sick to my stomach. So much for being the femme fatale in the edgy black dress.
“About the photograph,” he says suddenly, and my eyes snap to his.
His jaw works like the words are difficult to get out. “Last night.” He stops. Starts again. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
It’s barely an apology. More like an admission of error. But his eyes are sincere, and I can see it’s hard for him to apologize to a Montoni.
“It was a lovely picture of you and your family,” he continues, voice rough. “I destroyed it because… Fuck, I don’t know why. I don’t know what came over me.”
The tears that have been threatening to fall finally spill over. “It was our last Christmas,” I hear myself say. “Before Nonna died. Before everything fell apart. Mom was so happy that day.”
I swipe my cheeks, angry at the tears but unable to stop them.
“Dad destroyed most of Mom’s things after she died. Threw them away or burned them before I could stop him. That photograph was one of the few things I had left. You took that from me.” The accusation hangs between us.
“I’m sorry. I can’t give it back,” he says, and there’s genuine anguish in his eyes. “I can’t undo what I did.” He reaches for my wrist again and his grip tightens, almost painful. “I took something precious from you, and I thought that would make me feel better.”
My breath catches. This is the truth, raw and ugly.
“But it turns out, I don’t want that.” The words are fierce, almost angry. “I don’t want you to hurt the way I’m hurting, Adora. And that’s the problem.”
His eyes meet mine, and what I see there makes my pulse spike.
Hunger.
“You’re supposed to be my enemy. I’m supposed to destroy you.” His hand slides up my arm, proprietary, possessive. “But every time I try, I just want you.”
His hand grips my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His eyes are dark and dangerous. “Tell me to stop.”
It’s not a request. It’s a warning.
There’s poison in my purse. I have my father’s orders. This is my only chance to be free.
But all I can think about is the way he’s looking at me. Like I’m something he wants to devour, and restraint is costing him everything.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
His control shatters.
He crushes his mouth to mine, and he isn’t soft or tentative or sweet. His fingers tangle in my hair, dislodging pins. My carefully constructed armor falls away strand by strand. He has me exactly where he wants me. I gasp and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding past my lips.
I fist my hands in his shirt and pull him closer.
I should be afraid. He’s a killer holding me close in a darkened booth, kissing me like he owns me. Heat floods through me, wild and reckless.
My teeth catch his lower lip, hard enough to sting. He groans, and the sound travels swiftly through me. His hand slides to my waist, dragging me across his thighs. I’m in his lap now, pressed against him, and I can feel every hard plane of his body through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Christ,” he breathes against my mouth. “What are you doing to me?”
My lips ache to be pressed against his, and so I kiss him again.
The metal lattice barely hides us, but I don’t care.
Let them see. Let Damiano report back to his father what his sister’s best friend is doing in public.
Let the whole restaurant watch. Nothing exists except Vincenzo’s mouth on mine and his hands gripping me like I might disappear if he lets go.
Two broken people clinging to each other in the wreckage of an engagement that was shattered before it could begin.
“Ahem.”
We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
The waiter stands beside our table, polite smile fixed in place, pretending he didn’t just see us making out.
“Are you ready to order?”
I can feel my face burning. My hair is half down, pins scattered across the table. We’re both breathing hard. Vincenzo’s eyes are wild, unfocused, and my lipstick is smeared across his mouth. Marking him.
We look thoroughly debauched.
“Yes,” Vincenzo says smoothly, helping me off his lap. “We’ll have…”
He glances at the menu he hasn’t looked at once since we sat down.
“The pasta,” I blurt out. “And whatever else you recommend.”
The waiter nods, professional to his core, and retreats.
The moment he’s gone, awkward silence descends.
I move back to my side of the booth, trying to restore some semblance of dignity. My hands shake as I attempt to fix my hair, shoving pins back in at random.
Vincenzo watches me, his expression unreadable as he dabs at the lipstick on his mouth.
We don’t speak. I scramble for something to say to break the tension, but words fail me.
The waiter changes our tablecloth and brings me a fresh glass of wine. Our food arrives, pasta with some kind of sauce. It could be sawdust for all I taste. I pick at it mechanically, stealing glances at Vincenzo across the table. He does the same, our eyes meeting and skittering away again.
My clutch sits beside me. The poison is still there.
But Vincenzo just apologized to me. He held me while I fell apart, and kissed me like I’m precious instead of disposable.
How am I supposed to kill a man who treats me like I’m worth something?
I don’t know which version of him is real, the monster who ripped apart my photograph and wants me dead, or the man who apologized for hurting me and kissed me like I’m someone to be cherished.
I stab at my pasta and avoid his eyes.
Vincenzo’s kiss burns on my lips.
I’m in deeper trouble than ever before.
When I get home, I’m barely through the front door when Dad appears in the hallway, still dressed despite the late hour. His cheeks are flushed a deep red. I’d guess he’s about five whiskies deep.
Drunk enough to be dangerous. I’ll have to be careful.
“Well?” His voice is sharp with expectation. “Did you do it?”
My mind flashes to Vincenzo’s mouth on mine, the way he looked at me across the table.
“Not yet.” I force my voice steady. “There were too many people around. Waiters, other diners. Someone would have seen.”
His eyes narrow. “You had the entire drive home. You could have invited him in for a nightcap.”
“He didn’t ask to come in.” Not a lie, technically. “And I can’t seem too eager. If I suddenly invite him up after being resistant, he’ll get suspicious.”
Dad studies me for a long moment. I hold my breath, terrified he can see the truth written on my face.
“Don’t take too long, Adora. The longer you wait, the more impatient I get. And that would be unfortunate for you.”
The threat is clear. Do it soon, or he’ll do something worse.