The man in a half-mask descended the steps onto the back patio. He towered above the other males in his party. Unlike the blonds and the blazing redhead by his side, he was all dark. The midnight suit was custom-made to fit his tall, thick frame. Black hair, cut short, fell in soft waves over his brow. It dusted the plastic that hid half his face.
As if he were looking for me, his masked face cant to the side. His gaze crashed into mine. I met his eyes, and my mouth was suddenly dry.
At first the look was grouchy. Annoyed. But as he continued to stare, his gaze turned stormy. My heart stopped beating. Recognition glint in those dark pools.
He found me.
That unfriendly look sent my stomach churning. My professional front faltered. Fear whispered through my veins. This was the nightmare who’d threatened me under the shadow of night. The masked devil who my famiglia planned to sacrifice me to in just a few weeks.
A howling buzz filled my ears. The sounds of the garden party faded to the background. My breath turned short and shallow. I breathed hard, fighting the panic racing through me. There was nowhere to run, no escape. I stood rooted in place, with the fakest smile ever plastered on my lips.
“Mr. McDonagh, may I introduce you to my daughter, Gabriella,” my father said, suddenly appearing at my side.
His voice was muted by the buzz in my ears.
I faltered, not sure what to do. The Irish mobster stopped in front of me. Dio sopra, I probably looked idiotic just standing here, grinning and wheezing through my teeth.
“Good evening.” His voice was that same breath of dangerous air that I’d heard loud and clear in the night. It cut through the drone, crisp.
I sucked in a staggered breath and lifted my hand. Those storm cloud eyes dropped, looked at my hand, and his jaw tensed. I realized why a second later when he stretched out his gloved fingers to wrap around mine.
The leather was warm and supple, but beneath it was that hard, powerful grip. The one that I’d felt around my throat the other night. I meant to pull away at the moment the handshake could be considered proper.
His fingers stayed wrapped around mine.
Five more beats passed.
My heart felt shaky. As if it weren’t up to the task of pumping blood.
I lifted my gaze to his, falling still under the weight of it. Those eyes were the lightest of blues, tinged with grey and anger. There was something alive, roiling through those stormy depths.
Pain—I recognized it immediately.
And no wonder. The mask hid the worst of the mess. But raised red skin streaked down the side of his throat. It broke theinked design that once stained the area. His ear was poofy and knotted. A patch of hair didn’t quite grow right.
The beast didn’t speak, just watched me.
From somewhere in the background of guests, a string of Italian flickered through the air. “Filthy Irish.”
I wanted to bark at them for being so rude!
“Well, don’t hog the cailín,” the redhaired man said with a chuckle. “I want my turn to meet my daughter-in-law.”
The mobster released my hand. I snatched it back, dropping it to my side. His gaze tracked the motion.
Merda!
“I’m McDonagh Senior, but you can call me Padraig.” His brogue was thick. The accent made the words dance in the air, merry and chipper. The redhead opened both palms, offering them to me. I wasn’t sure what to do with that. The moment I slipped mine into his, balancing my cocktail carefully, he pulled me close and pressed a kiss on my cheek. “My wife’s got a wee cold in the head, but she wanted me to pass on her greetin’.”
I nodded robotically.
“Liam? Gabby? Why don’t you two come over here and have a cocktail,” Signora Morelli urged, pointing to an intimate spot. An ornate metal table and chairs, crafted to look like vines, sat near her prized rosebush. “Come along, come along. We’ll have dinner presently.”
There was nothing to do but obey.
The don’s wife ushered us to the spot, and I sank onto the metal. It was hot from the summer night, burning through the thin silk of my dress. I dropped my copper mug on the table and clasped my hands in my lap.
The mobster pulled back his chair. The legs scraped over the paved stones in a low screech. He put the chair’s back to the bush, sat down so that he was angled away from me.
