Chapter 2 #2
My heart flutters uncomfortably as a flicker of self-doubt settles inside my chest, and I trap my lower lip between my teeth as my anxiety spikes. Is he saying that because he doesn’t want to go through with the wedding? Have I failed to capture Sandro’s interest so thoroughly already?
“Is that what you want? To walk away?” My breath remains trapped in my throat as I wait for his answer, praying he won’t call the whole thing off right here and now.
And for one heart-stopping moment, I’m sure he will.
“My brother needs your family’s support if we’re going to win the war that’s coming,” he says flatly, breaking eye contact with me.
My heart sinks like a rock, and though I know I shouldn’t be trying to talk him out of this, I can’t seem to stop the words that fall from my mouth. “That doesn’t mean you have to marry someone you don’t want to marry,” I say softly, drawing his hematite gaze once more.
He gives a humorless laugh that somehow manages to send a thrill through me and at the same time turns my blood cold.
“You don’t know me,” he says.
And yet, I desperately find myself wanting to. “Then tell me,” I practically whisper.
He looks almost shocked by my response, and the silence that stretches between us is charged with tension. When he finally decides to break it, his words slice straight to my heart.
“I’m not a good man,” he states darkly.
Heart hammering an unsteady beat, I tilt my head as I consider the meaning beneath his words. Is that a fact, or something he’s been told? And how does one determine what makes a good man? I’m suddenly dying to know what Sandro’s done to brand himself unworthy of the title.
“Who decides that?” I ask.
“I do,” he practically growls, his broad, muscular shoulders tensing as a thunderstorm builds behind his eyes.
For the breadth of a moment, I can almost taste the danger that surrounds Sandro, the dark, near-palpable fury and violence that roll off him in waves.
But his temper seems to flow right past me, cresting harmlessly before washing away, and not an ounce seems focused in my direction.
He might be a dangerous man—from the looks of it, he’s probably far more lethal than any of my brothers combined—but for some reason, I don’t get the feeling that he’s a threat to me. I feel… safe, even in the wake of his tumultuous emotions.
And a man who can be filled with such fury and yet leave me feeling so perfectly safe can’t be as bad as he thinks.
“Maybe you’re wrong,” I breathe softly.
The words hang between us, light and yet somehow heavy all at once as Sandro looks at me as if he’s only now seeing me for the first time.
But before he can say anything, my mother calls from the garden door. “Evi, dinner’s ready. Why don’t you show our guest to the powder room so he can… freshen up?”
I cringe at the not-so-subtle hint that my parents find Sandro’s appearance less than acceptable for our meal, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he just doesn’t care. Instead, he gestures for me to lead the way, and I turn without a word.
It wouldn’t take a genius to realize Sandro’s not much of a talker as we sit at the dinner table fifteen minutes later.
Settled in the chair between me and his twin, Rafael, Sandro keeps his fork in his left hand, his steak knife in his right as he single-mindedly devours his plate of food, allowing my brothers across the table and my parents at either end to carry the conversation with Rafael alone.
They cover menial topics like the weather, sports teams, and market trends, carefully avoiding the main reason the Chiaroscuro twins are here tonight.
A tension vibrates in the air as my parents put on their most gracious airs to impress our guests despite their clear distaste for the man I’m supposed to marry.
I, on the other hand, can’t help sneaking peeks of my husband-to-be, fascinated by the way he chooses to disregard proper dinner etiquette.
The moment he had me safely tucked against the table, he turned his attention to the food.
From the way he eats, one would think he’s starving—but no man with his physique could be short on food. Sure, he’s probably somewhere around ten percent body fat—if not less—but there must be nearly two hundred pounds of pure muscle on his six-foot-something frame.
He finishes his steak in record time, accepting and eating a full second helping before the rest of us are done with the first. Then he tosses his napkin down on top of his plate as if to signify the end of the meal and promptly rises from the table.
“Sandro,” Rafael growls, the warning so low only I can hear it.
“What?” Sandro says, not bothering to keep his voice down.
“The Lombardis clearly want this alliance. We want it. So it’s going to happen whether I’m here or not.
I’m sure you can sort out the details. I’ve already forfeited half the fights I signed up for to be here tonight, and clearly, my presence isn’t helping anything.
So, either I leave now, or I’ll be picking my next opponent from the options available. ”
He gestures to my brothers across the table, and my heart skips a beat as several of them pale visibly. I don’t even want to imagine what it would look like to watch one of my brothers face off against Sandro.
Tendon ticking in his jaw, Rafael rises to stand beside his brother and turns to give my father a polite nod. “You’ll have to excuse us, Signor Lombardi,” he says, his tone smooth despite the irritation on his face that he’s clearly working hard to rein in.
“Of course,” my father agrees, and I can’t tell if his relief is because Rafael has decided a boxing match in our house isn’t the best idea or if he’s just grateful to be rid of Sandro’s company.
Either way, I find I might be the only one at the table who’s disappointed by the abrupt end to the evening.
Shoulders stiff in his fine Italian suit, Rafael says, “My brother and I will see ourselves out. Please, enjoy the rest of your meal.” Then, his back ramrod straight, he heads toward the dining room door.
Face warm, I try to mask my chagrin at my failed attempt to capture Sandro’s interest, and I lower my gaze, too embarrassed to watch him walk out.
Then, my breath catches as callused fingers slip beneath my palm. My chin jerks up in surprise as electricity zings through my veins. And when my eyes meet Sandro’s, something in the way he looks at me makes my heart skip a beat.
“Evelina,” he rasps, his gaze holding mine as he bends over my hand to brush his lips across my knuckles.
My heart comes to a full stop as heat floods my cheeks, and butterflies erupt in my stomach at the sound of my name on his lips. Stunned into silence at the unexpected display, I stare wide-eyed as he releases me and departs without another word.
My family seems just as shocked, and in the wake of their departure, I could hear a pin drop. Only after the front door slams closed with a reverberating clang does the table come to life once more.
“Did you see the state he was in?” my mother gasps, her face openly appalled now that the twins aren’t here to see it.
“With all the upheaval in their family, I’d hoped Sandro might become the new Don, but after tonight, I’d say that’s clearly not going to happen,” my father growls, his salt-and-pepper brows furrowing.
“I should hope not. If we’re throwing all our eggs in that basket, I’d at least like to know our fate’s in the best hands. I’d rather take the smart twin over having our future brother-in-law since Leonardo’s abdicated his crown,” my brother Romeo says.
“The smart twin?” I challenge softly, my pulse fluttering uncomfortably as my family’s tirade of negativity threatens to pull me under.
“I’ve heard rumors that Sandro Chiaroscuro isn’t, you know…
quite right in the head,” he explains, his voice dropping and his eyes flicking toward the door, like he’s afraid Sandro might overhear and knock his teeth in.
“I’d thought they were just that, rumors, since he hardly ever speaks in public. But now I’m starting to see why.”
“Something must be wrong with him to have the gall to show up to dinner in that state,” my mother agrees.
Emotions on a roller coaster, I swallow down the lump forming in my throat and turn to my father. “Does that mean you’re going to call off the wedding?”
I hate the tremble in my voice—and even worse the look of sympathy in my father’s eyes, like he already regrets the answer he has to give me.
“No, figlia,” he says, his hand extending across the table as if to reach for me, but I’m too far away, both Rafael’s and Sandro’s empty seats separating us. “You will marry Sandro Chiaroscuro. For the family.”
A heavy silence falls across the table, several forks hitting plates as my brothers seem to have lost their appetites. And despite their open disapproval, I can’t help the glimmer of relief that warms my belly. What is it about Sandro that I find so compelling?
“Are you sure it’s worth the risk?” Cassio asks, his attention laser focused on my father now.
“Risk?” my father asks, his face calmer now as he takes up his fork and knife and meticulously returns to cutting his steak.
“You know his reputation as well as I do,” Cassio says. “Before tonight, I’d hoped it was an exaggeration used to strengthen the Chiaroscuros’ image and make them more intimidating. But now… I’m not so sure.”
I’m already confident I’m going to regret asking, but something in the way Cassio says it makes the hair lift on the nape of my neck, and the first sliver of unease needles its way into my stomach.
“What reputation?” I ask, and as Cassio turns to look at me, I can see the genuine concern in his eyes. Why must I always be the last to know?
“Sandro Chiaroscuro is supposed to be something of a loose cannon—the family’s ‘mad dog’, people call him, because he’s known for losing his temper and getting violent.”
“He’s a regular in the Murrays’ fighting pits,” Marco confirms grimly. “And he’s perfectly capable of killing a man with his bare hands.”
“You’re joking,” my youngest brother, Enzo, insists.
But the haunted look in Marco’s eyes is deadly serious, and it turns my blood to ice.
He shakes his head, almost as if to rid it of a bad image. “I witnessed firsthand a few years back. Some guy pissed him off one night at one of their clubs. He punched the guy so hard it broke his neck.”
Cold fear trickles through my veins as Sandro’s words echo in my head. “I’m not a good man.”
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I should be scared of the man I’m supposed to marry.
But then why can’t I stop thinking about his eyes—the way he seemed to peer into the very depths of my soul when he looked at me?
Just the memory of it makes my spine tingle.