The club is a massive place, a stately Tudor Revival with wings upon wings stretching out across the property, with the requisite fountain in front and perfectly sculpted landscaping. “Can this shit be any more pretentious?” Dario asked, laughing a little.
“Yeah,” I said, “my great grandfather built it. I think he invented imperialism.” That just sets Dario off again. I have never met anyone who finds life as entertaining as my husband. So much for the bitter, world-weary mafioso stereotype.
One of the valets hurries over to open the door of Dario’s Maserati, selected, I’m sure, for its ‘fuck you’ styling and cost. I recognize the valet, it’s Gerald, he’s been here forever.
“Miss Thorne, it’s a real pleasure to see you again,” he said kindly.
“It’s Mrs. Toscano now,” Dario snakes his arm around my waist in a display of ownership. I should tell him to save it for all of my dad’s skeevy buddies inside.
“Of course,” Gerald bowed his head in respect.
“Regardless of the honorific, it’s really good to see you too, Gerald,” I said warmly, offering my hand. He shakes it with a quick glance at Dario to see if he’s going to shoot him for touching my hand, so I squeeze his fingers reassuringly.
From then, there’s a lot of bowing and scraping. “The Senator and Mrs. Thorne are in the Royal private dining room,” says the host greeting us. He is visibly sweating. I wonder if that’s due to Dario’s presence, my parent’s, or some arcane combination of both. I’m the least terrifying person here.
“This dining room is the farthest from the main area,” I murmured. “It means we’re less likely to be heard, but it’s also a good place for an ambush.”
“My clever bride,” he says admiringly, squeezing my waist, “not to worry, Carlo and Mattia will be right outside. They’ve already done a walk-through after having a look at the reservations earlier.”
“My clever husband,” I murmur, and he squeezes me again. We feel like a team, and for a moment, I allow myself to enjoy it.
Just for a moment.
The host opens the door and the instant I see my parents, my breathing feels too shallow, I can’t get enough air-
“Hey,” Dario whispers, “I’m right here. They can’t hurt you anymore.” And thenhe licks my neck.In full view of Senator and Mrs. Thorne, who look utterly appalled.
“Ah, there you are.” My mother has a way of indicating disapproval with every syllable.
“Hello, m-” I can’t say it. I don’t want to call them Mom and Dad, after nearly giving me away to Santos, they lost the right to be my parents. “This is my new husband Dario Toscano. Dario, this is Carlton and Claire Thorne.”
Dario’s grin stretches to feral proportions. “Ah! Mamma! Papà!” Within seconds he’s given robust kisses to my parents on both cheeks and if I start laughing, I’m going to wet myself, I know it. My mother gives a little squawk, like a startled pigeon. The Senator endures the embrace without a word. My husband spreads his arms wide, looking very happy.
“Such a pleasure to meet you after all this time,” he says, as if he’d been courting me for the last five years and not capturing me a couple of weeks ago with the aid of British law enforcement.
“Please,” said the Senator, “do have a seat.” His only visible indication of alarm is how he drains his Macallan in a single gulp, holding it out to the host without looking at the man.
“That looks good,” Dario says devilishly, “is that from the twenty-five-year-old bottle? I’ll have one, too.Bellissima,would you prefer a glass of wine?”
Maybe Evil Cora is taking over, too. Pressing my hand subtly against my stomach, I say, “Oh, just water please.” He drops his eye in the barest of winks. I hear Claire suck in a breath as I simpered up at my husband.
Dinner follows the usual tedious script, polite conversation about the Toscano family - as if my father hasn’t compiled a dossier as thick as the family Bible he uses during his swearing-in ceremonies - and some chatting about the Senator’s Brazilian charity.
“It’s such a shame you missed the last trip, Cora.” Carlton gives me a look of deep disappointment, “To see these women making their way out of poverty with the foundation’s grants… It's so inspiring.”
Dario leaps in with the enthusiasm of a tiger spotting a baby antelope. “Yes, that is a shame. Imagine how easy it would have been to hand your only child over to a Cartel fiend like Santos if she was right there in his country. No fuss, no mess, she’d be chained up at his country estate in no time!”
He says this in the same cheerful tone he’d used to order my fish and his steak.
Claire puffs up like a stuck turkey, “Well that is just-”
“We only want what is best for Cora,” Carlton interrupts smoothly. “This would have been an excellent match on both sides.”
Dario starts laughing so hard that he drops his fork, though I notice his steak knife is still in his grip. “An excellent match? Let’s rule out all the silly little things, like his drug pipeline and human trafficking, how he takes over entire towns and murders anyone who disagrees. Even setting those uncomfortable issues aside, he killed his first three wives. Oh, wait…” He casts his eyes up as if trying to remember all the details. “He actually gave his second wife to his men and she died a couple of weeks later in a brothel.”
My husband is not laughing anymore and Carlton is apoplectic. “How dare you come in here and-”
“Relax, you arrogant prick,” Dario says coldly.
