“I need a favor,” he demands in Italian. “I’m working on him. Salvatore will come around.”
Come around to what?
The words almost fly out of my mouth, but I stay quiet. I don’t know this man or his relationship to Benny. He might shoot my ass in these bushes. I lift my dress to crouch and creep. The orange tree closest to the house offers no cover for snooping. Mama Vee was notorious for pulling up the blinds when there was a commotion outside, privacy and anonymity be damned. I have a little more decorum. Today, it requires strong thighs and stable knees—both of which are questionable in these damn sandals.
“Shit.” I trip over a branch, sending me to my hands and knees.
The man goes quiet and looks in my direction. He’s not one of the Scilari members I met. His terracotta two-piece is a sharp contrast to the funeral black Benny’s people wear.
I shift closer to the ground and pray my ass isn’t visible in the air. Between the drones and guns, I need no weapon to form against me and prosper.
“An alliance is beneficial to our families,” he says, his gaze shifting beyond the trees. “He’ll do what’s necessary.”
The man disappears around the side of the house.
He better not be talking about that other woman. What was her name? Elsie? Elphaba?
Elena.
Whoever.
Benny isn’t my man for real, but the possibility of him entertaining any other woman while I’m here is grounds for a crash out.
Maybe I will pull up.
The car rolls to a stop in front of Eden. I wave to my new driver, grab my container, and tiptoe toward the entrance in my heels.
“Oh, hello,” I say in Italian to the man who opens the door. “Is—“
“This way.” His gentle tone doesn’t match the resting bitch face screwing his bottom lip.
I follow him through velvet curtains. The music is off and the lights are at rest. Shadows crawl over sofas missing club members or the staff serving them. My open-toed stilettos turn to reroute back to the car when a deep groan beyond a closed curtain steals my attention. It’s not Benny. His growls and moans live in my head rent-free.
The man who let me in nods at me to move along before he disappears behind a wall.
I grip the insulated bag and flip my braids over my shoulder. Death or an orgy is behind that veil. If it’s the second, Benny’s fate will be the first. Groans deepen the closer I get to the dark fabric. Light peeks from the dance floor under the hem. Beyond the veil are four men kneeling over a tarp. There’s a fifth, but judging by the pool of blood surrounding his face, he’s not making it home.
“Hey, cousin!” Andrea gives me a two-finger wave from a booth with computers and electronics on the table. His knit shirt and shorts set with high-tops are a stark contrast to his partner’s suit.
The tarp crinkles under Benny’s loafers as he slowly walks by the kneeling men. His suit jacket is off, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The fabric across his back shifts under blue lights cast onto the dance floor.
Benny tilts his head to the side and sniffs the air. His once hard profile softens into a low smile. Our eyes lock and I bite my lip.
The men on the ground look between us as I meet Benny halfway. He takes in his white dress shirt I’m wearing with biker shorts flirting with the hem. A sundress didn’t feel appropriate for Eden, so I improvised.
“I made lasagna.”
Three words that make total sense when stumbling onto a murder scene. Not “What you doing?” or “Please don’t kill.” In my defense, I didn’t expect to find him indulging in serial killer tendencies again, but is it wrong that I’m happy he’s not fucking Vicki with the long back?
I’m not saying I agree with him committing murder, just that I understand the more I get to know him. They probably deserved it.
“You came out here to bring me food?” Benny tugs my belt to pull me closer.
“Figured you didn’t eat,” I say to the shades of amber flashing in his dark stare. I ignore the open top three buttons of his dress shirt and the tattoos inked across his chest, teasing me.
I’m serving lasagna, not ass.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Liar.”
