I shuddered beside him, grateful that gaze did not fall on me.
He placed his hand around the back of my neck, pressing the cool collar into my skin; a symbol of protection. One of possession. He would have me and everyone know it.
Dominic Benedetti owned me.
And in some strange, sick way, I wanted to be his.
I told myself it was for now. A game, a role I would play. A necessary thing. But if I scratched lightly at the surface of that thought, I’d see the lie.
We walked up the aisle slowly, purposefully. Dominic cast his gaze down every row we passed, as if he were boss. As if he owned each and every one of the people here.
The first telephone rang, and Dominic checked his watch. I looked up at him and saw the ruthless set of his eyes as he turnedto the man who answered. Someone I did not know. Someone I felt sure he made a mental note of.
But then, in my periphery, I saw Angus Scava, James’ father. My would be father-in-law and Victor’s uncle.
I swallowed, unable to take my eyes from his. He cocked his head to the side, one corner of his mouth rising infinitesimally as he nodded as if to say, “well done.”
Another phone rang somewhere behind us, but we walked on. And there, just two rows ahead of Angus Scava and directly behind the near-empty pew that awaited us, stood Victor, his face red with rage, his gaze burning into mine.
My first instinct wasn’t fear. It was to laugh. He looked like he would explode.
Dominic’s hand around my neck tightened, and I clutched my bag closer, feeling the hardness of the pistol.
I returned Victor’s glare. Then, just like his father had done to me, I cocked my head to the side and narrowed my eyes, conveying to him my warning. War had come to his doorstep. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. He had killed my brother. I would kill him. Dominic would make certain of it.
Victor’s phone rang. He broke our gaze to dig it out of his pocket, and when he did, we stopped walking. We’d reached the open casket.
One more phone was answered then. Dominic’s uncle, Roman, quietly put his to his ear. Dominic glanced at Salvatore, whose eyes had narrowed. A silent understanding passed between them.
Dominic shifted his attention to me, turning my face to his, his blue-gray eyes looking for a moment like they had behind the death mask he’d worn those first days. But then, they changed, not quite softening, no, not that. Dominic burned too hot for that. They smoldered and burned instead, and in front of allthose people and God and Franco Benedetti’s open casket, he kissed me full on the mouth.
Women gasped, and when he abruptly released me, the entire church seemed to hold its breath.
I stood shocked. His gaze challenged me, dared me to make a move while warning me to be still. He glanced at the priest who watched this arrogance, this effrontery, this sin against God and man. Dominic didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked once more over the assembly, satisfied with what he saw, before turning his gaze to the casket. His face betrayed no emotion, nothing, as if he were unaffected. I knew he was not. I knew Dominic felt. He felt deeply. He behaved as though he didn’t give a shit, but inside, he was like a bubbling volcano of emotion, hypersensitive, and so, so well-schooled in hiding it all.
I waited with him, standing beside him until he was ready. I glanced at the old man in the box, feeling nothing myself.
Dominic turned back to me, eyes flat, and ushered me into the aisle so that I stood between him and his uncle. Roman’s face had gone white. He tucked the phone into his pocket. Dominic leaned toward him.
“Urgent call, Uncle?”
Roman stood a few inches shorter than Dominic. His hands fisted as his throat worked, and he swallowed. He didn’t have a chance to reply, though, because the sound of the priest clearing his throat rang out over the loudspeakers, and he began the service. All went silent apart from the man’s booming voice, but I wondered how many in the room actually heard the service at all.
I fully expectedto see Victor after the ceremony. Or at the very least, at the cemetery. But he’d left before the service ended. Disappointment mingled with relief as I stood at Dominic’s side while he greeted the mourners, shaking hands, making subtle comments about being back now. Nodding when anyone said anything about Franco Benedetti.
Behind us, calla lilies covered Dominic’s mother’s and Sergio’s graves. I didn’t miss the look either brother gave those two headstones.
Salvatore and Lucia stood in the same line and beside them, Roman, looking more anxious than grieved. My gaze traveled over the soldiers circling the gathered mourners, but when I heard the familiar sound of Angus Scava clearing his throat, I turned to look up at the older man.
“Gianna.”
He took both of my hands in his, making a point of turning them over.
“Mr. Scava,” I said. He’d always called me by my full name.
“You look well.”
His gaze momentarily landed on Dominic before he touched my ring finger.
