Tonight’s eventis reserved for the highest-ranking among us only, no low-level criminals. No drug-runners. No sex traffickers. Of course, excluding myself, everyone in here is somehow involved in those activities.
Still, appearances matter. Most keep their hands clean enough to pass in polite society. Plausible deniability is survival if the law ever gets too close.
I step into the private dining room and spot my brother almost immediately. Ezra.
He’s in a tux, sharp and composed, and for a moment it takes me off guard at how much he looks like our father.
Elegant, polished, hair swept neatly back from his face. Wavy, glossy. The same poise, the same effortless command. His aquiline nose and dark eyes seal the resemblance, unmistakably Italian.
My father is a nice-looking man, for sure, but my brother has a little bit of my mother in him as well, his lips fuller than my father’s
“Sister,” he says, nodding as I approach. “Get you a drink?”
I nod. “A white wine, please.”
He turns to the bar and orders a house white, then turns back to me a moment later, handing me the drink.
“You look nice,” I say.
“You look…like you need to put on a coat.”
I give him a look.
“What?” he asks with a chuckle. “I now have the added duty of protecting your virtue all night. Thanks for that, asshole.”
I slap his arm. “My virtue is fine, intact.”
His eyes narrow at me. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
He sucks on his bottom lip, heavy brows knitting together in the middle of his forehead as he thinks. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“Vince has other theories.”
“Well, Vince can go jump off a bridge. He doesn’t know a thing about me, and I don’t want him to, so don’t tell him.”
An awkward silence follows, and I can’t handle my curiosity.
“What are his theories?” I ask.
He shakes his head, takes a sip of whatever amber-colored liquor he’s drinking. “It doesn’t matter.”
But there’s something in the set of his shoulders, something in the way he won’t meet my eyes. I look around to see where his gaze lands and find Vince across the room, looking like the psychopath he is.
It’s early in the night, and he should look poised and put together like Ezra.
But Vince… Vince has curly hair, inherited from Mom’s side, a head of wild curls that never quite obeys. Tonight, those curls are unruly, spilling every which way, like he didn’t even bother to tame them.
His tuxedo shirt is unbuttoned at the top, his tie hanging loose around his collar.
And that grin.
God, that grin makes my blood run cold.
He lifts his glass toward me, eyes glinting with mischief and challenge, and I can feel it all the way down to my core.
