Leo is the worst of all, running hot and cold, changing temperatures in an instant. I never know what to expect around him. During the day, he fluctuates between pretending I don’t exist to exchanging polite communications that make me feel more like a secretary than his wife. But at night, when the lights are off—or sometimes unexpectedly if he catches me in the shower or tub—it’s like he can’t keep his hands off me.
It’s nothing like our first night together. On our wedding night, he was patient and intimate, almost like a teacher educating me on the heights my pleasure could reach. Now, when he takes me to bed, it’s with a ravenous passion that borders on angry. That soft edge from the night he took my virginity is gone, replaced with a blazing heat that threatens to consume me. Still, I can’t deny I like it. Even the simplest touch makes me want him, and when he’s done with me for the night, I’m always satisfied. But our lack of a deeper emotional connection has left a hollow pit in my stomach.
Sighing, I slump against the back of my chair in the library, staring down at the spreadsheet I’ve drawn up for Leo’s succession party. The plans are nearly all in place, which means I’ll need to find another way to occupy my time. I like planning events. It’s a creative challenge I’ve always excelled at—incorporating the politics of whom to invite with the hosting details of food, drinks, decor, and entertainment that might appeal to the specific guest list. This one was a bit trickier, since I’m less familiar with Italian traditions, but Leo gave me enough groundwork that I’m at least confident I won’t make any massive blunders, and I’ve included all the necessary traditions. I just need to figure out a centerpiece for the meal that will be well received.
The library door swings open unexpectedly, making me jump as it hits the wall behind it. It lands with enough force to bounce back, which is impressive, considering the weight of the solid oak.
To my surprise, Leo’s brother Giovanni steps into the room, his brow furrowed as he glowers at the heavy-looking book that’s open in one hand. It’s a thick tome, probably something to do with tax law, if I had to guess, based on its leather binding, thegold print on the spine, and my very basic understanding of what Gio does for the Chiaroscuro family.
He’s halfway across the room before he seems to realize he’s not alone, and when his eyes lift to meet mine, his footsteps slow. My cheeks warm as I realize I’ve been watching him for longer than would be polite, but it’s the first time I’ve had a chance to take a good look at the middle Chiaroscuro brother.
In a lot of ways, Gio looks enough like Leo to be his twin. They’re both tall, dark-haired, and muscular, with proud Roman noses. Gio wears the same kind of perfectly tailored Italian suits that make him look both professional and stylish.
But unlike Leo’s dark-chocolate eyes, Gio’s are a light, almost golden hazel. He wears his hair just a bit longer and more haphazard, like he lets it pick how it wants to fall for the day and doesn’t use product to tame it. While not quite as wild as Miko’s curls, it’s not styled to perfection like Leo’s—it’s natural and makes him seem a bit softer.
Actually, everything about Gio looks just a bit softer than his older brothers. Not weaker, by any means, just… gentler. His gaze, the set of his jaw, the way he holds his shoulders—he’s by far the least intimidating of Leo’s brothers. I might even go so far as to call him welcoming, though he keeps to himself a lot. Even his lips seem to maintain a hint of a smile, like he doesn’t know they’re doing it.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize anyone was in here.” He glances around, as if to see if he’s missed anyone else.
“It’s fine. I was just finishing up some details for the dinner announcing Leo’s succession,” I assure him, closing my laptop.
Gio gives a knowing nod. “How’s it going?”
The question catches me off guard, since none of the brothers have shown any interest in getting to know me this past week. “Oh, um. Good, actually. I think I have it pretty well put together. Just trying to decide on a centerpiece for the dinner. To be perfectly honest, I’m not entirely familiar with Italian cooking or what thecapo dei capimight consider acceptable for a nice meal.”
“Leg of lamb,” he says without hesitation. “Don Parelli is a sucker for them, and Aldo cooks some mean lamb medallions.”
After the week I’ve had, I’m taken aback by his willingness to help. “Thanks.”
I’m not entirely sure I should trust him. The utter lack of welcome has left me on guard, but when Gio gives me a genuine smile, it’s impossible to be suspicious.
“You’re welcome,” he says, snapping his book closed and taking a step toward the bookshelf where he was heading.
Encouraged by the polite exchange, I find the courage to test our relationship just a bit more, hoping his helpfulness might extend past meal options.
“Can I ask you something?” I say, standing from my chair to approach him.
“Sure. What’s up?”
Again, I get a sense of open acceptance from Leo’s younger brother, and I take a deep breath before continuing, hoping I won’t piss him off with my next question. “Did I do something to mess things up… with your family?”
“Well, your family and ours aren’t known for getting along, are we?” he says playfully, his lips quirking into a soft smile.
“Well, no. I guess not. I just don’t get the feeling that… you know what? Never mind.” Now that I’ve started to say it out loud, mentioning anything to Gio feels like I would be complaining about his family to him. “Forget I said anything.”
“We’re not the most welcoming bunch, are we?” he says, his hazel eyes apologetic.
“I just get the sense that everyone’s angry with me. Sandro and Raf haven’t said a word to me. Genevieve has been incredibly helpful, but I don’t get the feeling that she trusts me. Miko threw a knife at me the other day?—”
“Hewhat?” Gio demands, his pleasant calm suddenly intensifying.
Oops.“I mean, I don’t think hemeantto throw it at me. I went looking for Leo in the garage. He said he thought I was Sandro.”
Gio’s shoulders drop an inch as he rolls his eyes. “Those two are idiots together. I’m pretty sure Raf is the only reason Sandro has lived this long. Don’t take it personally. To be honest, we’re all kind of feral in one way or another. We don’t have a lot of feminine influence in our lives—unless you count Genevieve, who came into the picture less than a year ago. And she spends most of her time distracting Raf.”
“What happened to your mother?” I ask, the question tumbling from my lips before I realize how rude it might sound. “If you don’t mind my asking,” I tack on quickly. A lifetime of lessons on how to be civil, and already I seem to have lost track of an important one about prying.
But Gio doesn’t seem offended by the question. “She died giving birth to the twins, so we were mostly raised by nannies. And ourfather has always been more obsessed with power and control than being polite—in case you haven’t noticed.”
