“You also don’t marry, and that’s not a damn screw on your ring finger, so it’s a bit late for that.” He claps me on the back. “Date your wife, G. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Death. Her death. Her body, broken beyond recognition. Her eyes devoid of life, that same glassy emptiness as the man she killed in the alleyway.As if he senses my thoughts, Dante’s hand constricts on my shoulder. “If you care about her at all, you need to make a claim where everyone—especially Cesari—can see.”
I consider his words. Plenty of our brethren have done the same with wives. Marriage. Claiming. Kids. That’s the way of it. To stake a claim is to ensure protection. Then, Dante’s words slam into me. I snap my head to the side and glare at him.
“Who said anything about caring for the girl?”
Both of his brows shoot toward his hairline. As quickly as the surprise reaches his face, it bleeds right out, leaving nothing but a smirk and a glint I don’t care for in his eyes. Pushing away from the counter, Dante turns toward me and leans closer until his mouth is right next to my ear.
“If you didn’t care,” he says, “then why did you panic when she left this morning? Why did you end the meeting early? Because her tracking came back online?”
“Because the client was annoying me with pedantic bullshit,” I argue. “Regardless, shewasin danger. If I hadn’t ended it, then I wouldn’t have been nearby when she called.”
Dante chuckles, and the sound makes me want to punchhim. “She wasn’t in danger when you left that meeting,” he reminds me. “But sure,brother,” he says, “if you want to believe you don’t care for the girl, then you just keep believing that.” He pats my cheek in the way only a condescending little brother can.
A growl rises up my throat, but Dante merely laughs and backs off before whistling to capture the women’s attention. Their heads swivel in our direction as Dante crosses around the kitchen island. “Daisy, it’s time for your friend to go home.”
Daisy stands up and offers Dante a smile. “Are you going to take her?”
Dante nods as he slows to a stop in front of her. I watch the two of them, feeling a pit open up in my gut as Dante cups her cheek and smiles back at her. “I am,” he says. “And don’t worry about what happened today. Giulio will take care of it all.”
As if she’s been waiting for that reassurance all day, Daisy’s shoulders sag, and she nods. “Thanks, you don’t know what that means to us. Just… seriously… thanks.”
Dante kisses her forehead, and my growl stutters and stops in my throat. My hands clench into fists, and the urge to dive over the kitchen island and deck him becomes nearly impossible to resist. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing, and it’s pissing me off.
“Don’t you worry about a thing,sorellina,” he says. “You’re part of us now. We take care of our own.”
Part of us. Yes, she is. Daisy is part of us now. Part of me.
“She’s my wife; there is no getting away.”
17
DAISY
Note from Daisy’s guardian angel to Daisy: I quit.
P.S. Here’s my therapy bill, you dumb bitch.
I’ve never been to a rooftop bar in New York City. At least, never as an actual customer. Waitress? Sure. Been there, done that. Barback? Yup, that, too.
But a decked-out fancy bitch in a pair of Manolo Blahniks straight out of an episode ofSex and the City? Nope. Definitely never been here, and I’m more than a little surprised that G didn’t take me somewhere else—like, oh, I don’t know… a crumbling warehouse where I’d be strapped under a light and tortured for causing the Luciani Family so much grief.
Instead, Giulio’s hand is currently sliding against the small of my back as he directs me through the crowded restaurant. The solid weight and warmth of that hand has the same effect as an electrical wave pouring through me. I’m practically trembling as we follow the smartly dressed maître d’ to our table.
When I woke up this morning—three days after the whole “killed a man” situation—I wasn’t expecting the box in front of my bedroom door or the note that it contained along with tonight’s outfit.
Be ready at 7 p.m. Wear this. —G
That was it. Pretty simple note. Yet, those short words had left me feeling like I’d accidentally stuck my finger into a light socket all day. Buzzed. Crazy. Confused.
Horny?my inner self suggests. Okay, yeah, maybe I was a little hot for my husband.
He’s been acting odd since the dead guy fiasco. For one, he’s been far more touchy. A brush of his fingers down my arm in the morning as he made coffee and I grabbed orange juice here. A kiss to my forehead before he left for work there. For two, he’s stopped wearing a shirt to bed. Now, I have to stare at his chiseled chest and eight-pack abs when saying good night when what I want to do is climb him like a tree.
He even brought me flowers the other day.Flowers!I’ve never had a man give me flowers before. Ever. Most women would be overjoyed, but no, not me. I’m a fucking wreck. Each new gesture is worming its way beneath my defenses, and I don’t know what to do about it.
“Here we are,” the maître d’ announces, distracting me from my thoughts and waving his arm out with a flourish. I look at the high-top table set against the vine-covered stone wall and frown when I notice that there are no tables around us. We’re practically in a corner all to ourselves.
