“What news from the kitchen?” I ask Maeve to take my mind off my present disappointment. She always knows the latest gossip.
“The groom and his best man spit-roasted Truvy last night. That's why she’s got those new earrings today.”
I squirm at Maeve’s very crude description and the thought of sex for gifts between our guests and her sister who’s our cook. The bride and groom’s wedded bliss doesn’t sound promising and, as the groom is from the Trio, they'll have the traditional Seconda Notte tomorrow night to guarantee fidelity’s failure.
“Their men are pigs.”
“Most men are pigs,” Maeve counters before raising a finger to silence me. Without warning, she hurls the empty whiskey bottletoward the brick wall by the backdoor. “Truvy, if you’re eavesdropping again, I’ll…”
But it isn’t Maeve’s big sister spying on us. It’shim!
Carlo Vicini and his brother Luca step into the garden eyeing the broken bottle at their feet and then the pair of us. Neither man is someone I want to tangle with, but I shoot to my feet anyway. “Sorry, my aim was off,” I say as if I threw the bottle. I glance down at Maeve’s open mouth and subtly shake my head.
Carlo’s brow furrows as though he’s sniffing out the lie. “Was it your wish to hit us?” he asks at length, his dark eyes settling on me.
I gulp. Did it sound that way? “No! No, I was aiming for the garbage can.” Which is ten feet away from the men and currently covered.
“I hope you never handle firearms with aim like that.”
Luca laughs at his brother’s rudeness before giving Maeve a look that sends the maid darting off like a hare. Sweet Mother, he’s scary and that’s saying something coming from someone with De Lucas in their family tree. “You’re Silvio De Luca’s niece, aren’t you?” he asks.
“Yes, and Brian Donnelly’s daughter.” Their expressions make it clear they’re unimpressed by the fact. Should’ve figured. My father is a high-ranking man in the Black Rose Gang but not very admired by the Trio.
“What’s your name, Silvio’s niece?” Carlo asks, stepping closer. His eyes flick to my sore elbow while I can see the top of his Trio tattoo, the three-headed wolf, that covers his throat peeping out above his necktie.
“Frankie,” I say as a hiccup escapes. That’s even more embarrassing than stepping on his heel. “I mean, my name is Francesca. My mothersays my nickname isn’t becoming for a girl on the cusp of womanhood but I prefer Frankie. It’s...”Why am I talking so much?
He smirks at my babbling, and there’s this stupid burst of butterflies in my belly caused by his proximity. Maeve was right. He is hot, and he smells good. Bad men should be ugly and stink if we’re meant to stay away from them.
“And how old are you,Frankie?”he asks, lips twitching as he notices my bare feet.
“Fifteen,” I answer, awkwardly slipping on Maeve's abandoned black flats.
“Still a little girl, one who shouldn’t be drinking with the help.”
Flushing, I nod despite his patronizing tone and wipe my sweaty palms down the front of my dress, feeling more and more queasy from the liquor and nerves. “I should go inside.”
“Yes, you should. Don’t let me catch you like this again while you’re underage. Understood?”
“Why? Are you going to spank me if you do?”
His eyes widen. Mine do, too. Why the hell did I say that?
Luca laughs. “She’s got spirit, this one.”
“More spirit than sense perhaps,” Carlo replies, coolly. “You are still a child, but don't ask the sort of men who are here today a question like that, Red. Okay?” I nod, flushing at the nickname he gave me with my red hair. “Now, for the last time…Go. Inside.”
Being as I’m not a complete idiot - no matter how much my mouth wants to prove otherwise today - I hurry to obey. I’ve just entered the bustling kitchen when I see three men dragging a fourth through the open backdoor. It’s the Best Man from the wedding. What on earth?
The kitchen staff remain focused on their work, too smart to be nosy. Even Truvy with her new earrings ignores them.
But I’m overcome with curiosity and can’t help watching from the window. I see them stand the man up in front of Carlo. He pulls his knife, holding it to the Best Man's throat. I can't hear what he says, but the other men soon drag the crying Best Man toward the back of our garden. Luca trails after them with a disturbing smile on his face.
Carlo starts to follow them but turns suddenly and catches me watching. With a firm expression, he points in the direction of where the wedding reception is still in full swing with his blade. The message is clear –go where you belong– and I don’t need to be told again.
I hurry to rejoin my family, grateful my father’s not high enough in the Trio’s esteem to worry about ever being married off to a man like Carlo Vicini someday.
2
