“I don’t need to hear the terms. I’m not interested in marriage.”
Tommaso shifts his weight, but he contains his frustration. “Don Cristiano, with respect, this is a significant opportunity.”
“I said no.”
Tommaso’s expression doesn’t flicker. He’s been dealing with Montoni tempers for decades. “Don Carlucci is your most powerful potential ally, and he’s a traditional family man. He won’t respect or trust you if you don’t put down roots in this city. For all anyone knows, you may disappear back to Italy in a few weeks. A Malus bride would show that you intend to stay.” He pauses. “Do you want Don Carlucci getting close to Don Vincenzo instead?”
I snort at the mention of my sister’s husband. “That dirty, sneaking bastard? A Barone would never stoop so low. Don’t make me laugh.”
“Don Vincenzo is a legitimate ally for Don Carlucci, and he’s a married man.” Tommaso leans forward, his voice dropping. “Listen to me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve been navigating these waters since before you were born. If you marry one of Don Carlucci’s daughters, you’ll consolidate your power in Malus. This is why you returned, is it not?”
I stare out at the rain.
He’s not wrong, and I hate that he’s not wrong.
I have no real allies in this city. The other dons tolerate me because they fear the Montoni name, but fear isn’t loyalty. The Dervishis have been testing our borders, probing for weakness. The Sokolis ambushed a restaurant where I was meeting with Damiano Barone, Don Vincenzo, and Rafiel Lucania, and sent a message in Molotov cocktails and blood.
The thought of my sister’s husband gaining influence over Don Carlucci makes my jaw clench. The Vici symbol is a raven, and ravens are carrion birds. I don’t trust men who pick at carcasses.
“One dinner,” Tommaso presses. “Meet the girl. See what you think. That’s all I’m asking.”
Andreas is practically vibrating with anticipation. He wants this match and the Barone connection. He wants the prestige of marrying a don’s daughter, and he wants Lucy Barone in his bed. His eagerness is unseemly, but I suppose I can use it. Keep him happy, keep him manageable.
I tap my finger against the desk.
One dinner is not a commitment. It’s reconnaissance.
“Fine,” I say. “One dinner.”
Tommaso nods, satisfied. Andreas grins.
I turn back to the window and watch the rain pattering against the glass.
I’m not thinking about her. I’m not imagining her somewhere in this city, under this same gray sky, watching the same rain fall.
I’m not wondering if she knows I’m back.
The Barone mansionis all cold light and old money. Don Carlucci greets me at the door like a long-lost son, his handshake firm, his smile wide and welcoming. His wife flutters beside him, perfumed and pearled, already looking at me like I’m the answer to her prayers.
The daughters are presented like offerings.
Lucy, the younger one, is a slender thing with golden curls and a classic beauty that would make most men look twice. Andreas can barely keep his eyes off her, and I watch him work his charm throughout the evening, leaning too close, asking too many questions. Her brother Damiano watches Andreas withbarely concealed hostility, his dark eyes tracking every move my cousin makes toward his sister.
Then there’s Ariana. She has dark, sleek hair and fine features. She sits beside me at dinner with perfect posture, answers my questions with careful, measured words, and barely touches her food.
Tommaso has practically begged me to give this a chance.Try to like her,he said.Just try.So I try. I study Ariana’s profile, the elegant line of her neck, the way candlelight catches in her hair. I wait for something to stir inside me. Interest. Attraction. Even curiosity.
I feel nothing. I haven’t felt anything in five years. Just the same bone-deep weariness that’s followed me since Italy. The same gray disconnect between me and the rest of the world.
Because she’s not—
I stop the thought before it forms.
Ariana doesn’t like me either. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, and she won’t meet my eyes.
Mrs. Barone fills every silence with desperate chatter about her daughter. Ariana would make an appropriate wife. A strategic asset. A means of consolidating power, just like Tommaso said.
And I couldn’t care less.
