Chapter Six
Lily
Six Weeks Later
The day of the gala feels like my last on earth, like a final walk to the gallows.
Not even Chiara’s bubbling excitement can shake the dark cloud hanging over me.
She is stunning in her dress—gold silk that hugs her curves perfectly, her skin glowing like it’s been kissed by the sun itself.
Daria watches her like a hawk, her eyes sharp, ready to swoop in and reprimand her at the slightest misstep.
Chiara’s every move must be flawless. After all, she’s the perfect mafia princess in the making. Poor Chiara.
But at least she won’t be the one dying tonight.
I’d wanted to wear a black dress, maybe a black veil as a dramatic effect for my funeral tonight, but Daria had, of course, ignored my protests and insisted on this halter dress instead.
The dress is beautiful, undeniably so, and the rich burgundy color probably makes my eyes stand out and my hair shine in all the right ways.
The bodice clings to my body, hugging every curve before flowing effortlessly to the floor, ending at the strappy Jimmy Choo heels Chiara lent me.
The only problem? The scandalously high slit up my right thigh, so daring that I can hardly move without drawing too much attention to it.
Clearly Daria is in a hurry to get me out of her house.
I can almost hear her thoughts—The faster she’s gone, the better.
Let some poor unsuspecting man swipe her away from my house.
I can’t help but ponder sourly that if only she knew how little time I have left, she wouldn’t put in that much effort.
As we walk in, Chiara elbows me and asks in a hushed whisper, “Are you all right? You are weirdly subdued.”
I shrug and tell her that I don’t feel comfortable at this kind of event, which isn’t a lie, and she knows it.
“Just go. Have fun. Why are you still standing here with us? You never do.”
Shit, she noticed. I usually scurry off the moment we arrive to find a quiet corner in the library, an empty office, a suspiciously overgrown hedge in the gardens… Anywhere I can hide and pretend I’m deeply fascinated by the wallpaper or an invisible book. Socializing isn’t exactly my forte.
But today I’ve decided that since I had no choice than to show up, I would at least stay close to them. Maybe hiding behind Father’s tall form will keep me out of sight. And hopefully out of trouble.
I am looking around, pretending to sip my champagne and trying my best not to look too conspicuous when a deep voice yanks me back to the present.
“Francesco, thank you and your family for joining this modest event.”
There he is.
The devil.
Tall, dark, handsome—nope, Lily!—shaking hands with Father. His eyes find mine, and for a moment, the air thickens. I try to force my gaze to the ground, to look anywhere but at him, but I can feel the weight of his stare searing through me, burning my skin with its intensity.
“I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves. If there’s anything you need, ask the waitstaff. They’ll gladly see to it. And you ladies look absolutely lovely, by the way.”
Father preens, clearly pleased, judging from his wide smile.
Daria blushes and giggles like a schoolgirl.
Gag.
“Mr. Santaluccia, thank you for the invitation,” Daria coos, her voice dripping with practiced sweetness. “The gala is certainly a success, as always.”
Before Father can launch into the usual business talk, Damiano cuts him off. “I was hoping I could ask your daughter for a dance.”
My eyes snap up as dread creeps up my spine.
Father looks confused “A dance? Why of course, I mean…”
Daria pushes Chiara forward so hard she almost trips and falls into Damiano’s arms. But he merely sidesteps everyone, his eyes still on me.
Then he holds his hand out to me and I want to sink into the ground.
I am dimly aware that every eye in the room is on me, and with no other choice, I thrust my champagne flute into someone’s—anyone’s—hand.
His fingers close around mine and I let him guide me, my steps mechanical, toward whatever guillotine or executioner’s block he has waiting for me. I can do this.
Surprisingly or not, we are dancing a few moments later.
Huh. Maybe I am going to live after all.
I am tense, trying to look anywhere but at him. His body radiates heat and power and I am overwhelmed and confused.
“Relax, little flower,” he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that slinks down my spine, brushing every nerve ending. “No one is going to hurt you.”
I risk a glance up at him and let out a breathless, awkward laugh. Not quite mirthless, more nervous mouse under a hawk’s gaze.
“You’re not ‘no one’.”
His smile is all teeth and trouble. Predatory and unfairly sexy, it sends traitorous signals to parts of me that really should know better.
“Are you afraid of me?”
Yes. Definitely yes. I swallow hard. “Should I be?”
He laughs, low and warm, and it wraps around me like silk and smoke, making my skin tingle.
“I haven’t told anyone about…you know, the other night.” I clear my throat to stop my rambling.
There are crinkles at the corners of his eyes and a dimple appears on his left cheek.
A dimple! How dare he!
“I know. I told you I trusted you and I do.”
I frown. “Trust doesn’t seem compatible with…your line of work.”
Again, the wretched dimple appears.
“It usually isn’t, but somehow I know I can trust you.”
“Gee, thanks?”
The snarky remark is out before my brain can filter the words. I want to slap my hand over my mouth. He chuckles. At least it’s a good sign, isn’t it? You wouldn’t kill someone who makes you laugh, would you?
“Speaking of work,” he says smoothly, like we’ve been chatting about the weather instead of dancing on a knife’s edge of tension, “I heard things have been busy at the vet clinic lately.”
Unease coils in my stomach. He knows where I work.
Of course he knows!
Silly me. There’s probably nothing he doesn’t know about his flock.
“Who told you that?” I ask, a little too sharply.
He shrugs, maddeningly casual. “People talk.”
“Well, you shouldn’t listen to people so much.”
“Oh?” One brow arches in amusement. “And why’s that?”
“Because most of what people say is absolute nonsense,” I say, my voice gaining confidence, “If I believed every word, you’d be drinking newborn blood and sacrificing virgins between business meetings.”
He laughs and I freeze. Not because it’s terrifying, but because it’s…normal. Warm, rumbling. It rolls over me like honey poured slow and sweet across my skin.
“Who says I don’t?” He grins, wicked and boyish all at once. For a moment he looks ten years younger, and the glimpse of this unexpected side of him hits me so hard my brain quietly nopes out of service for a few seconds.
“That sounds like a serious scheduling challenge,” I say, playing along despite myself. “Do you at least use a color-coded planner for all that dark lord multitasking?”
His grin widens. “I prefer to keep it all in my head. More mysterious that way.”
I huff a laugh, a real one this time. “Of course you do.”
He studies me then, something flickering behind his eyes. Not solely amusement now, but curiosity. Like he’s seeing me. Really seeing me.
I squint up at him, thrown off balance. The dangerous devil I’ve feared suddenly seems…almost human. Almost. Because he looks otherworldly—his beauty feels like something no mortal man should possess.
Can a man even be considered beautiful?
He is impeccably handsome, dressed entirely in black—black tux, black shirt, black silk tie, black shoes.
It’s the sort of look that would make any other man appear drab, but not him.
What really pulls me in, though, is the air of authority and danger that clings to him like a second skin.
It is intoxicating, seductive, like he is a God of ancient times expecting worship and sacrifices from us mere mortals, or the devil himself descending to tempt the innocent.
And his eyes… God, they are smoldering, blazing with an intensity that could burn through steel. The amber ring around his pupils flickers like fire, casting an almost hypnotic glow in his otherwise dark, unrelenting gaze.
I dimly register that we have been dancing for a while now. How many songs have played? The last song has just ended and a new one is starting to play softly. But Damiano takes my arm and leads me to a set of double doors and a few moments later we are standing outside on a large terrace.
The moon is casting a soft light on the gardens and the fresh air makes me inhale more deeply. His scent overwhelms me.
He smells of citrus and cedarwood, and I love it.
Shit.
The guards who were stationed outside have ushered the other guests back into the ballroom. Now they stand by the door, their backs turned to us, like silent sentinels.
We are alone on the terrace. My heart begins to pound in my chest, the rhythmic thud echoing in my ears as I gaze out into the moonlit garden. I try to steady my breath, to calm my racing heart, but it’s impossible. Every inch of me is on high alert.
Is this fear, or…something else?
Suddenly he covers my shoulders with his jacket, the scent of citrus and cedarwood encompassing me. His hands linger on my upper arms and he gently turns me to face him.
His gaze is intense, searching for something in my face. My skin prickles and goosebumps rise.
“Are you afraid of me, little flower?” His voice is a deep murmur, the roughness like a caress on my skin.
“Should I be?” I ask again breathlessly.
He remains silent, staring into my eyes as if probing my soul.
My lips feel dry and I wet them. His gaze darts down to my mouth to track the movement of my tongue, his eyes burning.
Shit, shit, shit, he is going to kiss m—
His lips descend on mine and my mind flies out the window.
I gasp in shock and, before I can process it, his tongue sweeps in, claiming every inch of my mouth and every fiber of my being.
I’m frozen in place, my mind scrambling, lost in the storm of sensation.
His kiss shifts, becoming demanding and he pulls at my hair, angling my head back to give him better access, fully taking control.
My head spins, the onslaught of his lips and tongue muddling my thoughts. My body surrenders to his dominance. I am spiraling, lost in the heat of it.
Without thinking, I tangle my fingers in his silky hair, pulling him closer, my body aching for more. His lips devour me, claiming me, owning me. I’m about to combust, my entire being igniting under the pressure of him.
A low growl rumbles from deep within his chest, vibrating through me.
But then, lucidity strikes. The haze clears for a brief second, and I manage to push him away.
I am a panting mess, frantically trying to get my wits together. His eyes are wild, his chest heaves and his jaw is clenched.
“I…I need to go.” I shrug off his jacket and bolt from the terrace, back inside to the relative safety of the crowd.
This time I don’t even seek out Father to tell him that I am leaving. I run out of the mansion to the driveway, cursing myself for leaving my phone at home, wondering how I will escape this mess.
A kind voice stops me. “Miss, do you need a drive home? Mr. Santaluccia has arranged for drivers to take any guest safely home in case they didn’t drive here tonight.
” Several other drivers standing there gesture toward the line of waiting cars.
I can only nod in silent thanks, my hands trembling slightly as I slide into the backseat of the first car in line.
I press myself into the cool leather, my heart hammering in my chest, and I silently pray to God that tonight the Devil won’t claim my soul.