The tray trembles faintly in my hands as José pours the whisky and sets the bottle beside the glasses. He gives me a questioning look when he notices my expression.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” I reply, pinning my lips together.
“You look pale.”
“I’m fine. Honestly.” I lift the tray before he can question me further.
The second I’m let through the ropes, the tension slams into me again.
I make my way toward the table carefully, feeling the greedy-eyed man watching me approach like a starving dog.
Fiero’s presence vibrates across the room but even in my periphery I notice his shoulders go unnaturally still.
I place the lowball glasses down one by one. Then I reach the man at the end—the one who ordered the vodka.
Before I can straighten fully, his hand clamps around my wrist.
“Jesus Christ,” he says with a sloppy grin. “She’s even prettier up close.”
My stomach twists.
“Sir—”
In one sharp movement, he yanks me sideways onto his lap. The tray slips from my fingers and clatters onto the table.
No one laughs. No one moves. The tension in the air feelsbrittle. I wonder why no one is helping me—are they reveling in my discomfort? Is Fiero happy with this?
“Let me go please,” I say politely, forcing a smile onto my face.
I try to stand but his arm vines tighter around my waist.
“Nah.” His breath already reeks of alcohol. “Stay awhile. Warm my lap, gorgeous.”
Every muscle in my body locks. I glance instinctively toward Fiero—he hasn’t moved. His eyes are fixed on the man holding me to his lap, and beneath them is an emotion that terrifies me.
Rage.
Pure, violent,boilingrage.
It’s burning so hot it practically distorts the air around him.
Remo and Cassio exchange a look but it’s so fleeting I can’t read it, and besides, my awareness is tunneled into the movement of the man’s hands.
Brando’s gaze settles on me and the blade in his fingers stops turning.
It’s as though the three brothers are waiting—watching—to see what Fiero does.
Finally, Cristiano barks an order across the table.
“Leave her the fuck alone, Val.”
The man beneath me laughs. “What?” He squeezes my waist tighter. “I’m just appreciating the scenery.”
Cristiano’s expression hardens. “Were you raised in a fucking barn?”
A few uncomfortable chuckles ripple through the room, but nobody actually intervenes.
