Chapter 1 #2
“So you’ve said.” He finishes his whiskey, sets his glass down.
It’s my father’s glass. My father’s whiskey.
“A bit soon after Daddy’s death for a party, isn’t it?
” he says with an air of arrogant assholery.
I don’t like the way he says Daddy or the way he says Daddy’s death.
My gaze narrows and I look closer at this stranger who has invaded this private place.
“Who the hell are you?” How do you know us I want to ask but don’t. “What are you doing in here?”
One corner of his mouth curves upward into a smirk like this just got interesting. In three long strides, he crosses the room too fast for me to move, to give myself space. Room to breathe.
“Little Moth,” he says. “Let me see your eyes.”
Without waiting, and without my permission, he reaches to push the butterfly mask to the top of my head and when skin touches skin, there’s a spark. I gasp and he stops. Did he feel that? It was electric.
“Better,” he says casually, making me doubt whether he felt anything at all.
I have to crane my neck to look up at him.
In my ballet flats, the top of my head barely comes to his chin.
He’s maybe in his late twenties, but he speaks with the same authority my father used to.
The same confidence of a much older man.
He manages to pin me utterly to the spot with just his gaze.
His dark hair is pushed back from his face.
Stubble shadows the carved line of his jaw.
And those cobalt eyes, they don’t belong. They’re too beautiful. Too distracting.
Too deceptive.
This man is as brutal as he is beautiful. He’s dangerous. I have no doubt of that. Hell, I feel it in my bones.
As if reading my mind, his eyes narrow and he smiles. His gaze moves from my eyes to my lips, lower to the swell of my breasts and I’m very aware of how ragged my breaths are, how my heart is racing.
As if to show me he, too, knows, he brushes his knuckles over that racing pulse on my neck.
Again, I feel that electricity. A surge of it. My mouth goes dry as a desert and I want to move, to get away. To run out of this room. But I can’t. I don’t have command of my legs.
“Pretty Little Moth.”
“Butterfly,” I correct, my voice betraying my fear.
“Are you afraid of me, Little Moth?”
I shake my head slowly.
He smirks. He knows I’m lying. “Do you know who I am?” he asks, those knuckles moving along my collarbone, making me shudder.
Over his shoulder, I catch a glimpse of a photo of dad and I in the backyard standing in the snow barbecuing.
He never cared how cold it was. If my father were alive, this man would not be in here.
If my father were alive, he’d have this man dragged out of the house and beaten for daring to come so close to me. To touch me.
If my father were alive, he’d have his man brutally killed.
I remind myself of those things. I remind myself of who I am, and I steel my spine. I force my legs to move and step backward.
“I asked you a question. What the hell are you doing in here?” I ask with an authority that would make my father proud.
His mouth moves into a wide, satisfied smile now.
He checks his watch, then casually slides his hand into his pocket.
He’s so relaxed. So unconcerned. The movement pushes his jacket back and I glimpse the holster of a gun, the glint of metal.
I wonder if he did it to show me. To let me know he’s armed.
This man, this stranger, has come into our home armed.
If my father were here, my mind starts again, but I stop the narrative.
My father isn’t here. He will never be here again.
“Get out,” I command him.
Again, the raising of an eyebrow, this time in clear amusement. He has no intention of leaving.
“As enjoyable as you are, Little Moth, I have business with your brother.”
I’m about to ask what the hell he’s talking about but before I can say anything, the door opens, and I turn to find two men I don’t know walking inside. They, too, are big, but have a different air about them than my stranger. These two are soldiers. Men who do what they’re told.
The one with the cobalt eyes? He’s the man who does the telling.
Behind these two, my brother enters and my heart thuds when I see his face looking paler than usual, sweat lining his hairline. Two more soldiers follow him in, and before they close the door behind them, I see more in the corridor.
This man managed to get his soldiers past our guards. I’m not sure if that says more about him or us.
Michael glances over his shoulder at the closed door before facing the stranger who I know instantly is no stranger to him. When Michael’s eyes land on me, he appears confused, but he masks it quickly.
Someone flips the light switch, and the ceiling lamp comes on. The sudden brightness jolts me, making me jump.
“There you are,” the stranger says in that casual tone.
We all know there’s nothing casual about him, though.
His every word is calculated. Purposeful.
He only wants to appear casual. “I don’t like being made to wait.
Luckily your sister kept me entertained,” the stranger says, and I feel his eyes on the side of my face even as I refuse to look at him.
To look away from my brother who is calculating now. Taking in the two of us here together.
One of the soldiers shoves my brother hard and he stumbles forward, almost falling.
I go to him, instinct. “Michael!”
Michael’s gaze jumps to me. He looks caught and I realize that’s exactly it. He’s done something and he’s been caught. That’s why this man is here. Because my brother fucked up.
“What the fuck are you doing in here, Allegra?” he snaps, taking me roughly by the arm.
“Ow!” I try to tug free, but he doesn’t let go. I’m very aware the stranger is watching and when I glance his way, I see how his eyes are locked on my brother’s hand, which is clamped vice-like around my arm. I see how his eyes narrow, that electric blue darkening dangerously.
“Let go,” I say to Michael, trying not to struggle because something tells me this man seeing this is worse than the bruises Michael will leave. Those I can survive.
My brother ignores me, though. I’m not sure he realizes how tightly he’s gripping my arm. He addresses the stranger instead. “Trevino.”
Trevino? It’s familiar.
I look at the stranger as I work through all the names I’ve heard to place his.
Trevino. Samuel Trevino has had meetings with my father. He’s been in this house. They’re a mafia family but our territories are separated by a wide stretch of land. We never cross paths. At least we didn’t while Dad was alive.
But this isn’t Samuel Trevino. Samuel is an old man.
I recall my father talking about how he wouldn’t be around much longer.
How whether or not the next generation would keep to the truce or if something would need to be done, an example made, to set things straight before the old man died.
He never got the chance though because he died.
I look to the stranger again. This one, he’s not going anywhere. And I remember his name. I remember my father’s expression when he mentioned it.
This stranger is Cassian Trevino, heir to the Trevino family. Did his father die then? Has he assumed the throne? It hardly matters. He’s not here paying a social call. He said himself he has business with Michael.
Michael did something and whatever it is, it’s bad.
“What are you doing here? I don’t recall putting your name on the guest list.” Michael says. He’s trying to appear casual too, but his voice is an octave higher than usual.
“Oh, I’ve never let a lack of invitation stand in my way, Mikey,” Cassian says. The way he says Mikey is a clear taunt. A belittling.
Michael juts his chin upward, but he knows as well as I do that we’re outnumbered.
We have soldiers in the house, but if this man got in here with his own, he’s already taken care of that.
They’re of no use to us. What Michael said earlier about being at the top of the food chain?
The Moretti family hasn’t been at the top since my father’s death.
Cassian Trevino crosses the room and casually picks up the still open bottle of whiskey to pour himself another. “Whiskey?” he asks Michael. “No, never mind. You look like you’ve had enough.”
“You weren’t invited, you can’t barge in here,” my brother says sounding like a petulant little boy. I can imagine his heart is pounding. I know he’s terrified, which means Cassian Trevino is well aware and relishing the moment.
At twenty-eight, my brother is eight years older than me.
After our father’s death, he took his place as head of our family.
As the only son, he was always expected to take over, but he’s not a natural fit.
Michael enjoys the fruits of other people’s labor.
The glory. Not the work. His hands may be bloody, but he’ll only fight when the odds are in his favor or once soldiers have done the heavy lifting.
Ultimately, my brother is a coward.
I’ve wondered how long the fact that he’s our father’s son would serve him before his trusted consigliere took the reins. Before those who served my father decided blood or not, they would not serve his son. Turns out, not long.
Michael releases my arm and turns to the closed door. “Rami!” he barks. Rami was one of my father’s soldiers. He works for Michael now. He’s a mercenary. He won’t come. Even I know he won’t come.
“Michael, what the hell is going on?” I ask, very aware Cassian is watching our interaction closely.
Michael glances at me. “Nothing. Stay out of it.”
“No, Michael,” Cassian starts. “I think you should tell your sister what you did. It impacts her too, after all.”
Michael ignores him. He draws a deep breath in, and I see him straighten, steeling his spine. “Go get Rami and Malek, Allegra. Now.”