I walk into the dining room.
Eight people are already seated around a table that could fit twelve. I recognize three of them from my research: Carlo Messina, one of Valerio’s captains, and his wife whose name I don’t remember. At the head of the table, an older woman with silver hair and Enzo’s dark, penetrating eyes—the same eyes that have been haunting my dreams lately, though hers are warmer, softer somehow. His mother, Isabella Valerio.
The others I don’t know. More family, probably. They all look up when I enter, and the conversation pauses just long enough for me to feel like an intruder.
“You must be David.” Isabella rises, extending a hand with the kind of grace that comes from a lifetime of commanding rooms full of powerful men. “Enzo has told me about you. Please, sit.”
He did, huh? I wonder what exactly.
I shake her hand and I’m surprised by the strength in her grip. Her eyes flick over my navy shirt, leather jacket, khaki pants, and brown leather oxfords, assessing. Whatever she sees must pass muster, because her smile stays in place.
I take the empty seat she indicates. It’s halfway down the table, with a clear view of the other head where Valerio will presumably sit.
Perfect.
“My son speaks very highly of your work,” Isabella continues, reclaiming her seat with the same practiced elegance. “He says you found vulnerabilities even our regular security team missed.”
“Just doing my job, ma’am.”
“So modest.” She smiles, and it’s brighter than Enzo’s has ever been, full of pure maternal warmth that makes my chest ache. I haven’t felt anything like it since my own mother died.
“Are you from the city originally?”
And here we go. The polite interrogation disguised as small talk.
I give her the David DaCosta backstory—grew up in California, military service, private sector work. All lies, smoothly delivered. She nods along, interested and genuinely engaged, and something twists uncomfortably in my gut.
I’m about to make her childless.
What kind of monster does that make me?
Esperanza returns with my whiskey. I take a sip and feel it burn down my throat, settling the nausea that’s been building since I walked through the door. The alcohol won’t help my suppressants hold, but right now I need the liquid courage more than I need the caution.
The other guests resume their conversations. Something about a shipment delay, a competitor moving into territory they shouldn’t. I listen with half an ear, filing away details that might be useful, when a scent hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.
Cedar and smoke.
I turn, and Enzo is walking into the room. He’s changed from this afternoon’s three-piece suit into dark slacks and a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The top three buttons are undone, baring the strong column of his throat and the tantalizing V of his chest. His hair is slightly damp, curling at the temples like he just stepped out of the shower.
He moves past my chair to greet his mother, and I get hit with the full, unfiltered force of his scent.
My insides clench so hard I nearly double over. Heat floods my belly like someone poured molten lead into my gut, and I grip my whiskey glass until my knuckles go white, fightingto keep my body from doing something catastrophic like producing slick at my target’s dinner table.
“Sorry I’m late,” Enzo says, kissing his mother’s cheek before taking his seat at the opposite end of the table. His eyes find mine across the distance, and something electric passes between us, making my skin tingle in a way I haven’t felt in a long while. “I hope my family hasn’t been interrogating you too harshly.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I manage.
“Good.” He signals to someone I can’t see, and servants begin bringing out food, wine and bread still warm from the oven. “Then let’s eat.”
But before anyone touches their food, Isabella bows her head. The table follows suit immediately—even Enzo, who was reaching for his wine glass.
“Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
A murmured chorus of “Amen” ripples around the table.
I nearly choke on my own breath before catching myself and bowing my head a beat too late.
They’re praying.
