Page 18 of Lovely Venom

We share an uncomfortably long moment of eye contact, and I can only imagine what he’s thinking. If he suspected I was hiding something before, I’ve all but confirmed it now. The last thing I need is a man as astute as Cristian curious about my past.

In moments like these, the weight of what I’ve been carrying feels like a never-ending burden. It only serves as a reminder that there is no version of this life where I won’t fear being discovered. And I’m just so…tired.

Thankfully, Cristian doesn’t push for answers. Instead, he taps out a text on his phone, and a few minutes later, the stewardess appears with a tray.

“Good evening, Miss St. James.” Veronica offers me a warm smile. “Would you like to eat here or at the bar?”

“She’ll eat there,” Cristian answers without looking up from his phone.

Veronica follows his directive and sets the tray over my lap. I’m still trying to figure out why I’m being served a meal at all when she removes the warming dome, revealing a hot plate of Cacio e pepe.

I swallow the weird feeling in my throat as Veronica points out the rest—a burrata appetizer with olive oil and heirloom tomatoes, and a side of fresh bread. I’m not Italian, but if I had to assemble a perfect meal from all the delicious food I’ve eaten with the Vitale family, this would be it.

“Would you care for any drinks or dessert?” Veronica asks. “Perhaps an espresso martini or an affogato?”

“I’m fine with water, but thank you.”

She nods, and I sneak a glance at Cristian as she leaves, but his attention remains on his phone.

It seems impossible that Veronica just happened to serve my favorite dishes. But I guess it really shouldn’t come as a surprise that Cristian knows these things. He could probably list at least twenty obscure facts about every person he’s come into contact with. Men in his position need to be observant. Information, no matter how small, can be an asset or a weapon.

The problem is, I never intended for anyone to know too much about me.

After several minutes go by, I realize Veronica isn’t coming back.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask Cristian.

“I already had dinner.” He continues typing on his phone.

“Oh.”

I’m hungry, so I eat, but it doesn’t lessen the discomfort I feel. Accepting gestures of any kind is difficult for me, because I’ve spent most of my life making sure I never need anything from anyone. When someone offers something that isn’t an even exchange, I feel like I owe them. But in this case, I can’t imagine anything Cristian Vitale could want or need from me. The man has everything.

Silence hangs heavy in the air, but I suppress the urge to fill it and focus on my food. After a while, Cristian rises from his seat and takes a call as he faces the window.

He speaks quietly with whoever’s on the other line, the deep cadence of his voice lulling me into a false sense of calm. That’s the thing about Cristian. For someone like me, his quiet nature and measured words feel safe to my nervous system, though I know he’s the farthest thing from it.

He doesn’t have to raise his voice to be dangerous. For all I know, he could be issuing hits right now. Though, realistically, it sounds like he’s discussing the legal side of his business. Something to do with investments and acquisitions, whatever that entails.

In his world, I suspect that means he has the power to crush companies, disappear board members, and use his connections to have assets frozen.

The Vitales have amassed a vast empire over generations, and by all outward appearances, their businesses are legitimate. But the Mafia plays by different rules, and I know from experience there are always gray areas.

Cristian keeps an office downtown, and he also oversees the management of a Vitale-owned nightclub. From what I can gather, something big is taking place there this weekend.

I’ve only been to Eden After Dark once with Mariella for a quick drink, but it caters more toward invite-only clientele.

Deciding it’s best that I don’t know what’s going on, I tune out the rest of the conversation.

Veronica returns to take my tray once I’m finished, announcing our imminent arrival to Black Stag Island. I’m surprised the forty-five-minute trip went so quickly, but I don’t know how long I was asleep before it started either.

When the boat docks, I realize I don’t have my shoes. As I’m about to get up and search for them, Cristian ends his call and turns to face me.

“You’re not walking on that.” He nods at my ankle.

“It’s fine,” I protest, sliding toward the edge of the lounge.

He takes a step closer, towering over me with that quiet dominance that makes my stomach somersault. Then, before I can launch another argument, he bends down and braces one arm behind my back and the other beneath my knees.