When his gaze meets mine once more, and Dante’s hand eases away from my chest, the realization occurs. “Isa.” That’s all I have to say. He nods.
“Yes, the mole killed your original bride.”
“Why?”
Emilio tilts his head to the side before gesturing to the soup. “Why don’t you eat while I explain?”
“I don’t want your fuck—”
“We will.” To my shock, it’s not Don Luciani who makes the oath or silent command—it’s Dante.
At Emilio’s side, Leon glares at me as he slowly reaches for a spoon and begins to sip at his meal. Fuck. Me.
Emilio doesn’t say a word as the five of us finish our soups and the women from before return with plates for each of us laden down with pasta and chicken coated in marinara sauce. Outside, the afternoon wanes, and dusk turns the sky through the windows into hues of orange and pink and red. Has Daisy realized I’ve left by now? Will she be angry when I return?
My thoughts scatter as Emilio finally speaks. “My uncle, the previous head of the Cesari Family, and his consigliere bothhad contacts within the Luciani Syndicate. Though my uncle is dead, his consigliere believes that getting rid of the competition near our territory is necessary for me to gain the respect and loyalty of the older generations of my organization.”
I can see that, but Isabella Ariotti hadn’t been married to me yet when she was killed.
“I don’t agree with bringing women and innocents into our world,” Emilio continues, “but my uncle’s consigliere has fewer scruples.”
“Have you kept him as your consigliere?” Don Luciani inquires.
Emilio’s face tightens, but he nods. “In name, at least,” he admits. “It’s the only thing that’s kept the elders from rising against me thus far… and Leon, here.”
My attention moves back to the man at his side. The man is at least ten years Emilio Cesari’s senior, but no weaker for the age. Amber-brown eyes glare back at me as he spears a tomato and a piece of chicken.
“Your mole isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty,” Emilio says. “He’s been in contact with my consigliere, Ambrosi, and I’ve allowed the communication in return for updates. Ambrosi is under the impression that I have signed off on the murder of first your wife, Giulio La Rosa, and then you and your brothers.”
Red colors my vision.
Setting his utensils to the side, Don Luciani speaks. “I am willing to facilitate a truce between our two Families,” he says, and when Emilio parts his lips to reply, he holds up a hand. “If”—he enunciates the single syllable with all of the grace and deep throatiness of a lion waiting to pounce on potential prey—“you,Emilio Cesari, as head of the Cesari Family, swear an oath here and now—and in your own writing—that you shall not intentionally cause harm to my Family or anyone attached to us herein.”
Everyone stops eating. The tension in the room mounts, filling each of our lungs upon each inhalation. Even the soldiers against the walls appear unnerved, their gazes flicking from Emilio to Don Luciani. “I am more than prepared for that, Signore,” Emilio finally says. “I will have Leon prepare a document stipulating your request.”
“Good.” Don Luciani lifts his napkin and dabs at each corner of his lips before setting it back down. “Now, will you tell us who your final guest is?”
At just that moment, as if it were timed by the universe—or, more likely, Emilio fucking Cesari—the front door’s bell rings out, a death knell reverberating throughout the townhouse.
Emilio slowly rises from his seat, and unable to stop myself, so do I. In response, Emilio’s second, Leon, stands. “Carlo?” Emilio calls out, his eyes locked with mine. “If you would?”
The butler, who had, until that moment, been hovering near the doors to the kitchen, darts forward. “Of course, Signore.”
“Bring our newest guest to the dining room,” Emilio calls out as Carlo hurries through to the sitting room and then the just-out-of-sight foyer. Emilio turns to the rest of us. “My final guest is your mole,” he states. “Invited here by my consigliere, Ambrosi. They are my gift to you in return for peace between us.”
As one, everyone turns toward the doorway into the sitting room. The figure that appears there, however, backed on either side by two familiar faces, drains all of the heat from my body and turns me, all at once, into a mountain of rage and ice.
28
DAISY
Life is short. Don’t burn the bridge. Use explosives. It’s way faster.
Daisy?” There are five men in the room—well, actually, there are far more than five, but there are five who draw my attention and keep it. The sound of my name ringing out comes from the only man standing to the right of the long dining table. Giulio comes forward and immediately, a wash of air lands on either side of my back, telling me that Otello has stepped back.
Not that I can blame them. Giulio looks ready to kill someone. Straightening my spine so I don’t look like a scaredy-cat, I tip my chin up and meet his vivid blue gaze head-on. Chips of black ice swirl within.
Okay, my mind is on board with the brave front, but my body? Not so much. My stomach churns, and I have to curl my fingers into my palms to hide the fact that they’re trembling.
