A family that runs guns and drugs and God knows what else is asking for God’s blessing over dinner.
The irony makes my head spin.
Isabella looks up and catches my eye, and I manage a tight smile before dropping my gaze to my plate.
The food is incredible, fresh pasta in a rich tomato sauce, served with veal so tender it melts in your mouth.
But I can’t taste any of it because I’m too focused on keeping my eyes off Enzo.
Every time I look up, our eyes meet across the table, and I feel that electric buzz all over again. Sometimes I’ll catch him laughing at something someone said, head thrown back and throat on display. Or see him lifting his wine glass to his lips, and I’ll watch his mouth close around the rim, watch him swallow, and all I can think about is what those lips would feel like on my skin. On my throat.
Lower.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it, Luca.
But then his gaze finds mine again, dark and knowing, as if he can read every filthy thought running through my head.
And the worst part? I think he can. His nostrils flare when he catches me staring, like he can smell my omega scent bleeding through the failing suppressants.
The conversation flows around me. Isabella tells a story about Enzo as a child, something about him trying to negotiate with a teacher over a bad grade. Carlo discusses business in vague terms that probably mean something illegal. Enzo is relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before, engaging with his people like he’s actually human and not a fucking monster.
It’s disarming in a way that makes me angry. I don’t want to see him like this. Don’t want to see the man behind the murderer, or the son who loves his mother.
I want him to be a villain. Simple. Uncomplicated. Easy to kill.
I watch him over the rim of my glass and force myself to remember Marco. His rotting body in the cold, hard ground. The three weeks he spent in jail, scared and alone, insisting to anyone who’d listen that he’d been framed.
No one listened.
And now he’s dead, and Enzo Valerio is laughing at a joke his captain just made, completely unaware that there’s a loaded gun three feet away, pointed at his future.
The meal winds down. Dessert is served next, something chocolate that I push around my plate without eating. My skin is starting to burn despite the air conditioning, and sweat starts to trickle down my back.
“Mr. DaCosta.”
I look up and find Enzo on his feet. Somehow I'd missed the other guests drifting toward what looks like a sitting lounge off the main dining area.
“Walk with me,” he says.
This is it. This is my window.
“Of course.” I set my napkin on the table and follow him. We move away from the others, down a hallway lined with more expensive art, toward another wing of the house.
Enzo opens a door onto a terrace overlooking the grounds and steps aside to let me through.
“After you.”
I step out into the night, and the cool air hits my feverish skin like ice water. For a moment, I just allow myself to breathe it in, letting the relief wash over me even though I know it won’t last.
“Figured you could use some air,” Enzo says behind me. “You looked a little flushed in there.”
I tense. “It was warm in the dining room.”
“Mm.” He doesn't sound convinced.
The door clicks shut behind us, and the sounds of the dinner party fade to nothing.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. Enzo moves to the terrace railing, and I stay where I am, keeping distance between us.
