Chapter 16
Frances
“Whoah!” Darius gushes beside me as we drive up to Lucky’s mansion. “This place is insane!”
“It’s something, all right.” I offer him a smile, grateful he’s here so I don’t have to face the Romano clan alone.
After meeting Lucky’s brother, Jude, a few days ago—and how awkward that whole ordeal was—I knew I needed a buffer. Thankfully, Sister Margaretta was all too happy to let Darius tag along, especially after Lucky’s mother suggested I stay the night.
“So your guy is loaded, huh?” Darius asks, his big brown eyes drinking in every inch of the massive house.
“He’s not my guy,” I retort automatically.
“You sure about that?” he teases just as Lucky bursts out the front door, hurrying down the steps as if he couldn’t get to us fast enough.
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand with a coppery-eyed grin that could melt glaciers.
“Hi,” I echo, cheeks flushing as he pulls me from the car and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist.
“Thanks… um… for sending a town car to pick us up,” I mumble.
“No problem,” he flashes me an endearing smile before turning his attention to Darius. “Hey, little man. Glad you could make it.”
Darius tips his chin up, trying his best to look intimidating, or at least as intimidating as a ten-year-old can.
“Still don’t like me, huh?” Lucky chuckles. “Maybe I’ll change your mind today.”
“Doubt it,” Darius quips, but the excitement in his eyes gives him away.
It’s this damn house. When you’ve lived your whole life scraping by, and then you pull up to a place like this—endless driveways, stone fountains, a front door big enough to need its own zip code—it’s hard not to feel a little dazzled.
Darius might be spellbound, but me? I still feel like we’re both fish out of water. Like we have no business being here.
“I don’t know,” Lucky says, his eyes twinkling at me with mischief. “I can be pretty charming when I want to be. Just ask your sister. She hated me too when we first met. Not so much now.” He has the audacity to wink.
“How about we head inside? It’s getting a little chilly,” I cut in, desperate to change the subject before he tells Darius the specifics of why I don’t hate him anymore. Because let’s face it, I don’t. Not even close. How could I, when his lips and fingers seem to have a direct line to all my nerve endings, knowing exactly how to toy with them until I see stars?
Not now, Frankie. Now is not the time to replay every orgasm Lucky Romano has ever given you.
An unwanted shiver runs through me, not from the cold but from the memory, and Lucky mistakes it instantly. His brows pinch together in concern, and before I can stop him, he’s draping his arm around my shoulders, shielding me from the breeze and steering me quickly toward the door.
Of course, the moment we step inside, I almost wish we’d stayed outside a little longer.
“I didn’t know this was a party,” I mumble under my breath, eyeing the living room packed with people as Lucky takes my coat and hands it off to one of the servants.
“It’s not. Just family and a few close friends,” he says casually, like it’s no big deal. But it is.
I was already nervous about spending Thanksgiving with his family. Being surrounded by so many strangers, all laughing, chatting, and dressed to the nines, only tightens the knot in my stomach.
I should’ve known something was up when the driver brought us here instead of Lucky’s family home. But then again, what did I expect? It’s become painfully obvious that the Romanos are extremely private. Their home is sacred ground and off-limits to anyone who doesn’t share their last name.
It’s just as Lucky said the first time I was here. This mansion is a decoy. A place where they entertain outsiders. Outsiders like me.
Walking into the Romano world feels like stepping onto a battlefield. Only this battlefield hides its knives behind champagne bubbles and glittering lights. And no matter how often Lucky smiles at me as if believing I belong here, I’m still unsure if I’m ready to be part of his world.
Just as my anxiety spikes through the roof, I feel Lucky’s hand graze lightly over my hip, his warm breath tickling my skin as he leans in close to my ear and murmurs, “You look beautiful tonight.”
I crane my neck back to look at him, my heart doing cartwheels at how his gaze smolders when he watches me.
“Thank you. Your sisters bought me the dress,” I say, feeling suddenly shy.
Lucky tilts my chin up, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes drink me in.
“It’s not the dress that’s stunning,” he says, his voice low, “it’s the woman wearing it.”
I swallow dryly, heat rushing up my neck as his eyes flash with an unspoken promise—one that includes stripping this dress right off me at the first chance he gets.
“Ew!” Darius groans dramatically, pretending to gag. “If you two are just going to make googly eyes all night, I’d rather go back to the orphanage.”
Lucky chuckles, licking his lips before dropping his hand from my chin and shifting into a more playful vibe.
“Are you sure about that?” he asks Darius. “Because me and my brothers have a gaming room in the house that I think you’ll want to check out. I’m talking about a ton of PlayStation and Xbox games, with a surround sound system and a TV screen so big that you practically feel like you’re inside the game.”
Darius’s eyes light up instantly. “I could play a little Grand Theft Auto before dinner,” he says, smirking.
“Nice try, D. You’re too young to play that game,” I scold with a grin.
“Who’s going to tell on me?” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows. “You?”
He’s got me there. I could never rat him out. Especially not tonight when he’s supposed to be my wingman and buffer.
“You okay here on your own while I show Darius around?” Lucky asks, brushing my arm with his fingers.
I want to say no, but I nod instead.
Lucky leans in and presses a soft kiss on my cheek before draping an arm over Darius’s shoulders and leading him away. The minute they’re out of sight, regret slams into me.
Maybe Darius was right. Maybe we’d be better off going back to the orphanage.
“Well, you look about as thrilled to be here as I am,” a smooth voice in a British accent says from beside me, cutting through the tense air surrounding me like a blade.
I jump slightly, turning to find a blond man standing way too close, almost as if he appeared out of thin air.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say stiffly, my guard going up.
“Oh, come now, love. You look like you’re seconds away from tossing your cookies all over your borrowed shoes,” he chuckles.
“Who says my shoes are borrowed?” I shoot him a glare, straightening my spine.
“I do,” he says with an infuriating smirk. “But if I’m wrong and they’re not, then someone must have gifted those Manolos to you.”
I face him head-on, annoyance bubbling up. “And how would you know that?” I snap.
“You wouldn’t like my answer, love. And I’m not sure our hosts would appreciate you punching one of their family members before dinner is even served.” He says it casually, but his blue eyes are dead, eerily similar to Marcello’s, but that’s where their similarities end.
This man, despite claiming to be family, looks nothing like the Romanos. Whereas the Romanos wear their Sicilian roots with pride—dark hair, deep-set eyes, sun-kissed skin—this guy is practically ghostly, all pale, blond hair, icy blue eyes, six-foot-four of arrogance, and a London accent polished enough to pass for royalty. And then it dawns on me that this asshole must somehow be related to Jude’s wife since she has the exact same accent.
When I met Mina a few days ago, she was warm, disarming, and effortlessly gracious. She is everything this man standing in front of me is not. He seems cold, calculating, and dangerous in a way that feels less physical and more psychological.
Still, if he says he’s family, he must be related to Mina. Which means I need to tread carefully. The last thing I want is to embarrass myself in front of Lucky’s family.
“What makes you think I’d hit you? I don’t even know you,” I quip, forcing a tight smile.
When his gaze drops to my clenched fists, my cheeks burn.
Damn it.
“Let me guess… you’re Lucky’s girl?” he asks slyly. “Yeah, you’re her alright. He told me how your go-to move is to hit first and ask questions second.”
My mouth drops open. “Lucky’s talked about me to you?” I ask, stunned.
“You look surprised,” he states with a shark-like grin similar to one that I’ve seen Lucky wear on occasion. “Though you shouldn’t be. He tells me everything. Your boyfriend idolizes the very ground I walk on. There’s no secrets between us.”
“First of all, he’s not my boyfriend.” I seethe, not exactly thrilled that Lucky’s been talking about me—about us —behind my back. “And secondly, he’s never once mentioned you.”
The last part is meant to sting, a not-so-subtle dig at how unimportant this man must be in Lucky’s life, considering he never mentioned him to me.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t land. If anything, his grin stretches wider as if delighted for bringing it up.
“Oh, I’m sure he hasn’t,” he says, his voice low and laced with something that makes my skin crawl. “I’m sure he’s kept more from you than you can even begin to imagine.” He leans in just slightly, eyes gleaming. “But I know all about the little nun he’s trying to corrupt. And from what I hear, he’s doing a mighty fine job of it.”
My nostrils flare, unable to hide my disdain, but that only seems to please him more.
Who is this guy? And who the hell is he to Lucky?
I’m just about to send this antagonizing asshole on his way when his arrogant grin slips momentarily off his face at the same time that I sense someone appears beside me.
“Remus,” Marcello says, his voice cold and unfeeling.
“Marcello,” Remus mimics, just as apathetic.
“Your presence is better suited elsewhere,” Marcello all but orders, his tone made of steel.
“Is it now?” Remus beams, looking absolutely giddy to have gotten under Marcello’s skin. “And where, exactly, would you prefer I go?”
“I couldn’t give a fuck. Just not here.”
Marcello’s gaze flicks briefly to me, and that’s when Remus’s cruel grin comes into full view.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Marcello. I was just curious to see if the new addition to the family had any claws,” Remus says, flashing me a mocking smile. “And from what I can tell, she does… though she’s trying awfully hard to play nice. Aren’t you, love?”
Before I can even blink, Marcello takes a step forward, coaxing Remus to instantly slip his hand inside his jacket, grabbing something I can’t quite make out.
“Tsk, tsk, Marcello. We wouldn’t want to make a scene, now would we? What would Jude think? Or better yet, your father?” Remus taunts.
Marcello doesn’t flinch. “Look at me, Remus. Do I look like I give a fuck what anyone thinks of my actions?”
Remus holds Marcello’s icy stare for a long, tense moment, making me sweat beneath the thin layers of the Gucci dress Stella bought me.
Marcello must have won the staring competition because Remus takes a step back, his hand dropping from inside his jacket.
“Careful, cousin. The monster’s starting to peek out,” Remus purrs. “Wouldn’t want to scare all your guests away with your… how should I put it… bad temper.” He then flicks a glance over Marcello’s shoulder and winks at me. “It was nice finally meeting you, Frances. I hope to get to know you better… real soon.”
And just like that, he spins on his heel, plucks a champagne flute off a passing tray, downs it in one gulp, and tosses the empty glass behind him. The flute shatters across the marble floor, but between the joyous laughter and loud piano music, no one seems to notice—or care.
“That psycho is your cousin? ” I ask, aghast, still watching Remus disappear into the crowd.
“By marriage only. If that,” Marcello mutters darkly. “Stay clear of him. And his twin brother, Rolo.”
“Wait? There’s two of them?!” I reply, wide-eyed, already making a mental note to stay the hell away from the Romano’s British side of the family for the rest of the night.
Marcello nods, his gaze still sharply focused on the crowd in front of us.
“Well, I guess I should thank you for scaring him off,” I say with a grateful smile once the villain is out of sight and Marcello’s shoulders relax. “He was a little… intense.”
“I didn’t scare Remus. Nothing scares Remus.”
“You did. Just now.” I giggle, feeling oddly comforted by how Marcello’s intimidating nature has shifted from scary to, oddly enough, protecting.
“No. That wasn’t fear,” he adds. “It was respect.”
“Is there a difference?” I arch a brow.
“Yes,” he says flatly, though he refuses to elaborate.
Are all the Romanos this secretive?
It always feels like I’m just getting half of the puzzle pieces whenever I talk to any of them. Well, except for Lucky. He’s always an open book.
“I’ll tell Lucky to keep the Crane twins in line,” Marcello says steadfastly. “Neither should bother you for the rest of the night.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he replies, but I don’t miss the tightness still clenching his jaw from the encounter.
Perhaps his tension has nothing to do with Remus and everything to do with having so many people in his house.
“Let me guess,” I say, smiling gently. “You don’t like parties, do you?” He shakes his head once. “But it’s Thanksgiving,” I tease, nudging him lightly in an attempt to lift his mood. “Everyone loves Thanksgiving.”
“Not if you don’t have anything to be thankful for.”
A frown tugs at my lips at his reply.
“What’s there not to be grateful for? You have a beautiful home, a loving, tight-knit family. You have so much, Marcello. Believe me when I say some people would kill for what you have.”
“That’s what worries me,” he mutters.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “I’ll go find Anna or Stella for you. Lucky shouldn’t have left you alone in the first place.”
“Marcello, wait.”
But it’s no use. Before I can say anything else, he’s gone.