“Of course. I’ll do it right away.”
“Thanks, Iris. Oh, and if he…says anything to you about the interruption, just tell him I sent you.” She winks.
The sound of men shouting gets louder the closer I get to the kitchen until it’s ricocheting off the mansion walls. Don Spada isdefinitelyin one of his moods. If the yelling continues any longer, someone will need to fetch Ms. Zara to come and calm him down.
I head to the fridge, grab a pitcher of iced tea, then set it on the tray beside some spare glasses and a plate of fresh muffins I baked this morning. With a deep breath, I proceed with my load toward the “business” wing of the house, where the wall between the former dining room and the cards room has been knocked down, creating one large space that has become a new conference hall. The renovated area houses an enormous table that’s able to accommodate the entirela Famiglialeadership and more at one end, and at another, the don’s desk and a cozy sitting nook.
Using my elbow to push the door open, I slip inside. From his seat at the head of the conference table, the don’s angry gaze meets mine the moment I cross the threshold.
“Ms. Zara sent me,” I quickly declare, lifting the tray higher to show him the reason for my intrusion.
That angry expression on Don Spada’s face melts away immediately. “Thank you. Just set it on the coffee table over there.” He gestures toward the sitting nook and turns back to the discussion he was having with Capo Tiziano and Capo Donato, both of whom are occupying seats to the left of the don.
A small grin pulls at my lips. When dealing with an irritated Don Spada, it’s important to know the magic words.Ms. Zara. That’s what everyone at the house calls her. Except her husband, of course. To Don Spada, she is always Zahara.HisZahara. The thought alone warms my heart.
It’s that, right there. That feeling. The feeling that makes it possible for me to work for this man. To have anything to do with the Mafia world, really. Because even in the darkness, in the heart of a dangerous man, there’s light. There’s goodness. Don Spada is a living example of what I have always believed. No one is completely bad.
I pivot toward the nook where two leather sofas and a handful of armchairs are arranged around the coffee table. Don Spada often holds one-on-one meetings here.
One step in that direction, and I almost drop the tray.
Because Adriano Ruffo is sitting on one of the sofas. Alone.
He hasn’t noticed me yet; his attention is focused on the document in his hands. More papers are scattered on top of the coffee table. The same table that is my intended destination. Somehow, even in this casual setting, and while he’s preoccupied, he still manages to look formidable. But I don’t think it’s his all-black outfit—black suit, black dress shirt, black tie—or his inky-black hair, if you disregard the peppering of silver strands, that are the culprit. It’s just…him.
How have I not noticed that before? How did I ever think he looked kind? Not necessarily friendly, but never like someone with ice in his veins. I know I wasn’t the only one. How did Adriano Ruffo fool me? Fool everyone, if what I believe I stumbled on is true?
Another shiver runs down my spine as I stare at the enigmatic billionaire. More than a month has passed since I walked in on him in Capo Brio’s library, but to me, it feels as if it happened just yesterday. Likely because each second of that encounter has been replaying nonstop in my head. I remember every detail. The almost amused look in Mr. Ruffo’s crystal-blue eyes while I stared at him down the barrel of his own gun, pointed at his heart. How my fingers trembled as I lowered the weapon. The way my throat closed up when I gulped the scotch, feeling the burn and its bitter taste.
And I can still hear that rich, husky voice saying my name.Little Iris. The sound made goose bumps break out across my flesh. I keep hearing it. Over and over. Day and night. Like abroken record on repeat. It won’t stop. And I can’t forget it for some reason.
Adriano Ruffo is unlike any man I’ve ever met. He is something else. Something that makes me doubt myself. Clouds my judgment. Keeps me scared. But that fear isn’t alone.
Like some twisted undercurrent, my fear blended with my attraction to him. A heady mix. A dangerous, screwed-up allure. It’s tempting me… Urging me to know more. To unveil the layers beneath that cultured mask. To discover which side of him is real—the polite, unflappable, civilized man or the primal predator he keeps hidden.
As silently as possible, I advance toward the coffee table. Closer tohim. All while holding my breath. I’m like a frightened lamb in a wolf’s territory, tiptoeing to stave off being spotted. Trying not to draw those eyes of his, while at the same time, and deep, deep down, hoping he will look at me.
Behind me, the heated discussion between the don and Capo Tiziano over some sort of property lease is proving helpful in masking my approach. Drowning out the sound of my steps. Not sure about the pounding of my heart, however. It’s beating faster and louder the nearer I get. Maybe I’ll get lucky… Maybe I will be able to set the tray down and flee before Mr. Ruffo notices me?
I’m nearly there when the cause of my anxiety looks up. Those wicked blue eyes dart directly to mine. I almost drop the tray for the second time.
“And so we meet again.”
I tremble. That voice. Deep. Dark. A tad smoky. It wraps around me like a corporeal being. One with a pulse and breath of its own.
I glance away, breaking the hold those icy-blue eyes have on me. “Um… Good afternoon, sir.” My hands shake so much the glasses rattle as I lean to set the tray on the coffee table. I have to—
A strong male hand covers one of mine, curling over my flesh and the edge of the serving tray. Steading both it and me.
For the longest moment, I am suspended in time. I gape at Mr. Ruffo’s fingers. His hand is so big, it seems to swallow mine.
“Breathe.”
The whisper is low. Smooth. Soft like velvet.
“You have nothing to fear from me, Little Iris.”
I swallow, then meet those icy orbs again.
