Giorgio sits at the far end of the table, while Sylvia makes a last-minute change and trades seats with an older man so she can sit next to me.
The door closes over my hopes of seeing Callum O’Hara follow us inside.
My heart stumbles, my wings broken, invisible little weights pulling at the corners of my eyes and lips.
It swiftly dawns on me that my expression might be a dead giveaway as Sylvia flicks her eyes repeatedly in my direction.
With some effort, I slap my mask back on and stare at her, my face carved inthick resentment.
Regardless of where we’re headed with this, I won’t make a secret of how much I hate them for doing this to me.
They didn’t do this to my mother.
They let her choose her men, and have extramarital affairs and multiple lovers.
Every time she became obsessed with a man, they looked the other way.
And every time things slipped out of control, they stepped in and fixed whatever needed fixing.
Marrying her to Callum was their first and last attempt to use her in their ploys, yet even that felt like a gift to her.
I flick an eyebrow at my grandmother, and she finally gets my drift and tears her eyes away from me.
Conversations start around the table before dinner is served.Antipasti––melon and prosciutto skewers, cured meats, olives, and capers salad.Primo––pasta and risotto.
Then fish and meat. And dessert.
Most guests are focused on their food, while I can’t stop looking at the door. Feeling like a caged animal, I have a hard time swallowing my food.
I bring a glass of wine to my lips, surreptitiously looking around the table when I catch Marco Sandoval glancing in my direction.
He’s a combination of intense desires and aloof demeanor, with a promissory note for heartbreak written all over his face.
Whoever falls for those broody eyes will need some duct tape to hold the pieces of their broken heart together, but what do I know?
Maybe I was wrong about them.
Maybe theyareinterested in me after all.
Or maybe, they’re worse than my grandfather, and they’re simply weighing whether it’s worth their time to get involved with someone like me.
One word comes to mind when I look at them.
Merchants.
They arethe merchants of death.
Sure, they must look like choirboys next to Andrea Mancuso, but just because their crazy cousin excels at being a nutcase doesn’t make them look like angels.
His brother lifts an empty stare from his plate and shoots me an appraising look that makes me feel like the cured meat on my plate.
I swiftly tear my eyes away and seek a moment of relief.
These men are crazy.
A few moments pass before I notice the two guys conversing with my grandfather.
They’re both over fifty. I can’t tell whether they are of a higher rank or not.
