My jaw ticks. She’s about to burst into that annoying laughter again when I grip her wrist firmly enough to remind her who’s in control. Her laugh dies when she sees the look in my eyes.
“Test me out there,” I rasp, face inches from hers, “and I swear the cameras will capture a wife begging her Don for mercy. And I’ll be damned if I don’t give them a show.”
“Go to hell!” She releases a sharp breath, angling her head.
I let my eyes drop, down her throat, over the bare stretch of her back, to the slit riding up her thigh. A dress designed to taunt me. To make every man outside want what already belongs to me.
My lips curl into a cruel smirk. “Where do you think I came from,dolcezza(sweetness)?”
I loosen my grip, and she yanks her wrist out with a sneer just as the driver opens the door.
I step out first, ignoring the camera flashes and questions. I don’t give them shit. Instead, I move around the car, extending my hand because appearances matter, even when they choke me.
Isabella places her hand in mine, stepping out of the car. A practiced smile plays at her mouth as she links her arm through mine. The heels she’s wearing add inches to her height, bringing her close enough to brush my shoulder. She leans in, her breath ghosting over my skin. “Don’t you like the dress?”
The cameras go insane at the angle. Perfect fucking bait. I can already imagine what the papers will display tomorrow. My hand moves to the small of her back. She shivers, and I savor the victory. “Every action has consequences, darling wife.”
And I’m already planning exactly what those consequences will be.
***
The Black Rose Gala is hosted every year. To the outside world, it’s a charity ball. To us, it’s the one night we choke down our hatred, sit across our enemies, and pretend civility exists in our world.
We’re guided to the table, set apart on a low platform at the head of the hall. A table for the four elite families in New York. Four seats of power that have run this city in the shadows for decades.
The room is large enough to fit the entire population of Vatican City. Over a dozen round tables are already filled with men and their significant others. Waitresses dressed in black fitted dresses move between these tables, carrying trays with glasses of wine. Above us, hundreds of glass rod installations hang likeraindrops frozen midair, and from the far corner of the room, a string quartet plays.
“Glad you could join us.”
Salvatore Russo, the host of the event this year, pushes himself halfway out of his chair, a cigar clamped between his fat fingers, and his other hand extended.
“Dominic,” Marco Conti drawls next, flashing the oily smile of a man who’s never earned the seat he’s sitting in. The Contis are “new money” real estate kings, but I’ve never liked Marco in particular.
A faint clink pulls my attention down the table. Valerie DeLuca lifts her wine glass in my direction. “Long time, no see, King.”
“I see we’re still using nicknames,” I reply coolly.
The DeLucas don’t bother with façades. Guns are their business. From corner crews in Brooklyn to private militias in South America, half of them carry DeLuca steel. Rocco DeLuca built that empire brick by bloody brick, but he’s on his deathbed now. His daughter, Valerie, is taking over.
I take my seat, Isabella at my side. The waiter refills glasses and serves us antipasti. Isabella crosses her legs, the slit of her dress riding higher. And Marco’s fucking eyes go there instantly. He doesn’t even have the decency to disguise it.
My hand twitches under the table, itching for my gun. I want to put a bullet between his eyes and watch his brain matter splatter across the starched white tablecloth while the string quartet keeps playing. I want him to choke on his own tongue for daring to look at what’s mine.
Isabella, oblivious, lifts her wine glass. Marco licks his lips. I grip her bare thigh beneath the table, hard enough that she startles, eyes flashing to me. I don’t look at her. I keep my stare locked on Marco until he finally realizes he’s been caught, and returns his gaze to his plate.
One bullet. That’s all it would take.
***
“Let’s address the issue on the ground,” Valerie says after the formalities are over, dabbing her lips with a napkin. Her stare pins me across the table. “The U.S. election is coming, and our candidate is still trailing in the polls.”
I lower my glass onto the wood. “That’s why we’re here. To come up with a plan.” My gaze settles on Marco because if there’s one bastard in this room who’d take money from the other side, it’s him.
He coughs too quickly, eyes widening. “You can’t possibly be suspecting me?”
Salvatore exhales smoke thick enough to sting the back of my throat. “No one said anything about suspecting you.” His toneis flat, but I catch the look in his eyes, the way they cut toward Marco. The old bastard sees what I see.
Isabella stifles a yawn. She looks like a bored debutante at a ball instead of a woman sitting at the most dangerous table in New York.
