But I smile back. "I'm so glad we understand each other."
"Me too." He raises his glass. "To the next forty days."
"To the next forty days," I echo, clinking my glass against his.
And to watching you beg for this to end.
Dinner is served in courses, each more elaborate than the last. A show of wealth, power, tradition. The Costa family has been doing this for generations.
I notice Santino barely touches his food. He's too busy talking. Networking. Working the room even while sitting down. He chats with my uncle about territory. He discusses shipping routes with one of our captains. He makes jokes with his crew, seated further down.
The man doesn't stop. Everything is strategic.
"You're not eating," I observe. “Is everything okay?”
"I'm not hungry." He glances at my plate. "You're not eating much either."
"I'm pacing myself. It's going to be a long dinner."
"You don't enjoy these things?" He sounds surprised. "I thought women loved formal dinners."
Women.
Like we're all the same.
"Some of us do," I say carefully. "But I prefer smaller settings."
"Good to know. I’ll make a mental note and file that away. We'll do more private dinners during the forty days. Get to know each other better."
The thought makes me want to fake my own death and run away.
"That sounds lovely," I say.
As dinner progresses, I watch him interact with others. He's charismatic. People lean in when he talks. They laugh at his jokes. He commands a room just by being in it.
It's attractive. Damn it, he’s attractive. But it doesn't change anything. He's still planning to take everything from me.
"Your mother." Santino's voice pulls me from my thoughts. "She seems very elegant. A traditional wife."
I glance down the table where my mother sits, the perfect mafia wife. Beautiful, gracious, silent unless spoken to. Everything I refuse to become.
"She is," I say carefully.
"You're not like her." He's watching me closely now. "Are you?"
The question catches me off guard. "What makes you say that?"
"Just an observation." He swirls his scotch. "She seems content to let your father handle everything. But you..." He pauses. "You ask questions. You want to be involved."
He’s more perceptive than I thought.
"I'm just curious," I say quickly. "About my future. Our future together. What will be expected of me."
"Curiosity is fine." His tone is as careful as mine. "As long as you understand where the boundaries are.”
Like I'm a child who needs to be told rules and limits.
"Of course," I say, my voice sweet. "I would never overstep."
