I turn my head slowly toward him. The look I give him makes his smile falter, his hand dropping to his side as he takes a half-step back. He sees it then—the predator I’ve been keeping on a leash all day.
"The power," I say, my voice a low, lethal scrape, "is exactly where it’s always been, Ferretti. Don't let the suit fool you."
I leave him standing there, sweating in his expensive tuxedo, and start walking toward my wife.
She is standing near the edge of a conversation between two of Conti's men.
I stop.
She is not where I left her.
I find her across the room, standing near the window with a man I place in three seconds — Benedetto Ricci, forty-one, minor family, minor money, the kind of man who shows up at these things because nobody has told him not to yet. He's leaningtoward her. She's leaning back just slightly, wine glass at her lips, and she's saying something that makes him laugh.
She knows I’m watching because her eyes move over me for a second before deliberately turning back to the bastard.
All the calm, reasonable air in my body evaporates at the sight and the thing that replaces that reasonability is ugly and green.
She’s intentionally doing this just to spite me and I’m sure it’s because of the damned dress hugging her sinful body, which I shouldnotbe picturing naked.
I cross the room before I can stop myself.
Ricci sees me coming when I'm four feet away and he goes white in the face, what happens when men in this world realize they've been standing somewhere they shouldn't.
He takes a step back.
"Ricci," I say. My voice comes out the way it comes out when I'm not managing it — low, flat, a register that doesn't require volume to carry weight. "I don't believe we had an appointment."
He laughs, the laugh of a man who doesn't know if this is a joke. "Rafael, I was just?—"
"I know what you were doing." I look at him until he stops talking. "Enjoy your evening."
He goes.
I turn to Gia.
She's watching me with a raised brow.
I step close. Close enough that this is private, close enough that nobody watching from across the room can read what I'm saying. "You want to tell me what that was?"
"Conversation," she smiles a sickly-sweet smile. "People have them."
"In my house, with my allies, at a function where every person in this room is watching how we operate." My voice stays level. It always stays level. "You don't get to fucking play games here, Gia. Not with my name attached to yours."
"You played games with my wardrobe this evening," she says, at the same quiet volume. "Consider us even, Rafael."
I look at her for a long moment. I don’t know if I’m thoroughly impressed, thoroughly turned on or thoroughly annoyed.
"If you ever do that again," I say, "I will remove every social privilege you currently have in this world before you finish the sentence. Am I clear?"
She holds my gaze. It’s obvious she wants to fight back but thinks better of it.
"Clear," she snaps.
"Good." I take the wine glass out of her hand, set it on a passing tray, and hand her a fresh one. "Smile. We're being watched."
She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. It doesn't need to.
I stay beside her.
