Chapter 4 #2
I grip her hand for support.
“Some may say that a funeral—especially the funeral of someone as loved and well-respected as my father—is an unconventional place to announce an engagement. But who knows when I’ll have all those closest to me together in one room again?”
“And alive . . .” I mutter under my breath.
“As many of you know, my father enjoyed a successful business partnership with the Castellanos, and the port has played a fundamental role in some of our import and export operations. With Father’s passing, I believe we can only strengthen that partnership.
So, not only will we be co-owners of Castellano Shipping from this day forth, but I’m also delighted to introduce my new fiancée, Trilby Castellano. ”
“Holy hell,” Sera mutters under her breath.
“Smile,” Allegra says, discreetly jabbing me with her elbow.
A hundred eyes turn toward me, but there’s only one pair I can feel. My gaze is drawn to Cristiano, and the weight of his glare almost pulls me under.
I gasp for air as the room spins around me.
“Trilby . . .” Sera grips my arm. “Are you okay?”
“Mm-hmm,” I manage through short, panting breaths. “Just give me a moment.”
Pull yourself together, Trilby.
I think I’m having a mild panic attack, but I can’t let it show on my face.
The last thing a Mafia don needs—especially one as unhinged as Savero—is a wife who can barely stand unaided at her own engagement announcement.
This marriage means everything to Papa; his entire life’s work and our family’s livelihood—hell, even our lives— is at stake.
I can’t give Savero any reason to call it off.
Up ahead, my fiancé receives slaps on the back and raised glasses. I may as well not exist for all the congratulations I receive.
On the few occasions I glance across the room with the hope of a returned smile, at least, from the vast collection of brassy blondes, I get anything but. If a look could cause a thousand cuts, I’d be bleeding out on the function-room floor.
I lock eyes with the matriarch of the female entourage—the wife of one of the capos—and regret it instantly.
She sits on a floral club chair, her hair tinged yellow and voluminous, her weathered tan compressed into a too-shiny black bandeau dress.
Her head is pulled back, her chin slightly raised, allowing her a view of me through lowered lids.
She’s flanked on either side by two lookalikes who make a show of swiveling their bodies fully toward her and then back in my direction.
They’re gossiping about me and not making any attempt to hide it.
For what it’s worth, I agree with them. I’m not the right woman for their don.
But it’s not like I have any say in the matter.
My heart cracks a little at the reminder I’m not the reason he’s marrying me.
The man I’m set to spend the rest of my life with only wants me because of what my father can offer him.
Sera does her best to put me at ease, but I can’t focus. “Have you eaten anything yet?” she asks.
My eyes round. “You think I can stomach food right now? I can barely stomach life.”
“It might help.” She nods encouragingly. “Just a little bite. Come on—the food is right over there. I’ll go with you.”
I huff out a tense breath. “Fine. I’ll give it my best shot.”
I follow her through crowded bodies, feeling the heaviness of judgment as people watch me pass. Just as we reach the table, Sera stops short.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Sorry, Tril, I just need the restroom real quick.”
I swing my head toward the buffet and then back to the chasm now lying between us and the rest of our family. “Now? You can’t hold on a couple minutes?”
She stares at me pleadingly.
“Fine. Go. I’ll meet you back here.”
“I’m sorry,” she squeaks. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”
I grit my teeth and walk up to the table of food.
Stretching across the back of the room, it would be piled high with Italian antipasti and other delicacies had the rest of the guests not already devoured half of it.
I slide a thin porcelain plate from the top of a pile and eye what’s left of the cold meats and marinated vegetables.
It’s as I’m spooning some limp salad onto my plate that I feel a hot breath across my neck. It’s so hot, in fact, it feels angry.
My cheeks warm as I stare at my plate. I can almost taste his presence behind me. My heart races, and I have to force my hands to move mechanically from one dish to another.
The hot breath continues to graze my ear and warm my left side. I step to the right, training my eyes on a dish of pasta salad. As I lift the serving spoon, his voice chafes against my ear.
“You’re marrying my brother?”
My heart clatters against my rib cage. I dare not look up. Instead I focus on scooping another spoon of salad and lowering it onto my plate.
The hot breath continues to burn, searing the side of my face.
“Answer me, Castellano.”
Hearing my family name sound so bitter against his lips makes me startle. When I look up, I’m swallowed whole by his eyes. They’re larger than Savero’s and a richer brown, almost burgundy.
I take a breath. “It seems so, yes.”
Shame leaches into my veins as images of the night at Joe’s Bar flash blurrily across my lids.
I was intoxicated.
So intoxicated I don’t remember much about our encounter at all.
I wouldn’t have kissed him—I know that much. I’ve kissed boys before from my school and was so underwhelmed by the experience I simply don’t see the point in it. But something about the way he held my hand in the church earlier today . . . it felt familiar.
God, please say I didn’t touch him.
Blood rushes into my cheeks as I gaze up at the man who is to become my brother-in-law. “I’m sorry if I was . . . inappropriate. I’d had a difficult day . . .”
“And a bucketload to drink.” His voice is sharp, and no smile accompanies his words, only judgment. He also isn’t denying I was inappropriate, which means . . .
Oh God.
My face burns. “Did we . . .? Um, did I . . .?” I don’t even know what I’m asking. I wouldn’t know how to be forward with a man.
I crane my neck to look up at him. His shoulders are as broad as his height is foreboding. It would take nothing for him to snap me in two—and from the way he’s glaring at me, I think he might want to.
“We talked,” he says. “That’s it.”
Relief floods through me, softening my bones to the point I have to steady myself by gripping the table. But something in his expression seems . . . resentful.
“Okay.” I force a smile, but it falls quickly when he takes a step toward me.
He bends his neck until his lips skim the comb at the side of my head. A cool shiver coasts down my spine. His whisper is soft, in stark contrast to the sharpness of his words.
“If you hate violence so much, why are you marrying the most violent man in New York?”
I stagger back a step and stare at him. Then I do something completely out of character.
I laugh.
His eyes narrow.
When I speak, my voice is low and thick with bitterness. “You think I have a choice?”
I don’t know what has possessed me to be so brutally honest with the one person closer to my fiancé than perhaps anyone else in the world, but instead of feeling terrified—which would be the most logical emotion right now—I feel . . . liberated.
His forehead softens, and a corner of his mouth twitches into a smile that he erases with a swipe of his thumb. “And there I was, thinking you were going to be just like the rest of them.”
My heart pounds against my rib cage. What is that supposed to mean?
“Did you get home all right?”
The change in topic almost gives me whiplash. “Yes. I did, thanks.”
Several seconds pass, and he doesn’t move. The heat of his glare is close to unbearable. His jacket bunches where his hands are shoved deep into his pockets, and a glimmer of steel shines through a fold. He’s armed, but it doesn’t turn my stomach as much as it should.
“When did you and my brother meet?”
I straighten my shoulders. “Today. In the church, after the service.”
His eyes widen a fraction. “You only met him today?”
“Just seconds before he introduced me to you, in fact.”
His jaw works from side to side. The pause drags out uncomfortably, until I have to look away. But when he leans into my space and whispers hoarsely, I can’t mistake his words.
“So you met me first.”
I turn my head to see him staring at me, his eyes almost black. My lips part as a raw thrill skitters down my spine.
Sera bursts into the space between us. “Ugh, I’m sorry about that, Tril.” Oblivious to the tension she just cut like a knife, she coasts her gaze across the buffet table. “Where’s all the food?”
Cristiano clears his throat. “Apologies. It appears my family has eaten most of it.”
Sera jumps as if she’s only just noticed he’s there, then she backs up into me. “Oh gosh, I wasn’t implying anything. It’s food, isn’t it? I mean, that’s what it’s there for.”
Ignoring her, his attention rests on me like a heavy weight. “Congratulations, Miss Castellano. I wish you and my brother all the happiness in the world.”
My heart pounds as he walks away. I can’t believe what I just said.
I basically admitted I’m only marrying his brother because it’s what others want, not my own choice.
Worse, he didn’t give me any clue my secret was safe with him.
If I was anxious before, I’m positively incapacitated with nerves now.
“Jeez, it’s eat or be eaten in this place. Do you think Papa will let us grab a pizza on the way home?” Sera says as Cristiano disappears into the crowd.
I push my plate toward her. “Have mine. I’m not hungry.”
She looks up eagerly. “Are you sure? The bride-to-be has to eat.”
“I’m sure Allegra would prefer that I don’t between now and the wedding.” And I don’t think that will be a problem given that all I need to do is close my eyes and picture the scene from the church to put me off food forever.