He keeps staring, his dark eyes narrowing as if he is trying to place my face from a distant memory. His gaze becomes suffocating fast, and I find myself wishing Damiano would step out of the shadows to save me.
“¿Os gusta el jardín?”he asks if I like the garden; the sudden use of Spanish stuns me.
“Sí, es precioso,” I answer. “Los limoneros me recuerdan a mi infancia,” The lemon trees remind me of my childhood, I tell him.
He goes very still. His eyes drop to my mouth for a moment, then back to my eyes. Then, measured and deliberate, he asks me where I was born,“¿Dónde naciste y te criaste?”
“Nací en Madrid y me crié en Argentina,”I answer. I was born in Madrid and raised in Argentina.
His expression shifts, and the casual lean disappears. He stands still, staring at my face as if he’s seen a ghost.
The Don steps closer, and the scent of expensive tobacco fills the air. The proximity makes my breath hitch. Up close, I realize he doesn’t have the emerald eyes that his sons have. Instead, his eyes are dark brown, almost black.
“And your parents?” he asks, his voice barely audible against the fountain. “Where are they?”
“I don’t remember them,” I say. “I was very young when they died. Mateo was my only family. I have no memories of them of my own.”
The Don blinks slowly before his eyebrows knit together, shadowing his deep-set eyes. He looks older in that second, but no less formidable. When he looks at me again, the suspicion in his eyes is gone. What replaces it is harder to name, but I am certain it looks like grief for a second.
“You look very familiar,” he murmurs, more to himself than me, then stares for one long, unreadable moment before saying, “You are not trouble, Katarina. You are a guest of this house. For as long as you need to stay, you are most welcome.Capisce?”
“Grazie mille. You’re very kind.”I smile, the words come out smaller than I intend.
A Mafia Don just told me I was welcome in his home. I don’t know what to do with that, nor what that costs.
“Kindness has little to do with it,” he says, his voice regaining its rasping authority. “But you are safe here for now. Go inside,bambina. The night air gets damp quickly.”
He gives me a small, stiff nod and walks back toward the house. I watch him leave, my legs feeling like jelly.
Chapter 30
Damiano
“You two are awfully quiet.”
None of them even looks at me. Lucian stares at the waiter who is setting three fresh glasses of whiskey on the table while Andreas pretends he didn’t hear me.
“Usually, you’re the one complaining about me being so loud,” I add.
Nothing.
We are seated in one of Andreas’s clubs, a massive subterranean asylum of dark stone and neon lights. The thump of bass reverberates through the floor beneath my boots, pulsing up my legs. The air is heavy with the humid scents of sweat and cologne, blending with cigarette smoke.
After helping Lorenzo with his shipments this morning, I was already late. I told Katarina I would be home before dinner, but Andreas’s call pulled me here instead. I am on my third glass of whiskey, the alcohol doing nothing except sharpening my nerves. I can’t help but think about the woman waiting for me at home.
Across me, Andreas and Lucian sit like mutes. They have been acting strangely since I arrived. Andreas fingers tap a restless beat against the arm of his leather chair.
You could hear my patience snap as I take a swig of whiskey, then slam my glass on the table. Andreas inhales sharply before picking up his glass and swirling the clear liquid.
“Just fucking tell me already,” I say. It’s clear they’re holding some bad news they’re hesitant to deliver.
“Fine,” Andreas sighs. “La to’ principessa. Turns out, she’s an actual princess.”
When I don’t respond, he pulls out an envelope from his jacket and places it on the table. I frown, the glass of whiskey pausing halfway to my lips.
“Get to the point.”
Andreas rubs his jaw and looks away before shaking his head.
