Page 6 of Stroke of Luck

Paolo whirls me around until I’m trapped by his body against a wall, his finger over my lips. “No more sharing his secrets until I can hear the full story. Patience is not my virtue, and you’re already killing me with the mystery of it all.”

The feel of his warmth and the glint of interest in his eyes makes me want to groan as need flares through my body. Something tells me it’s been a while since I last scratched that itch, and this man would be all sorts of fun to play with. Then I let my eyes drift over to Enzo, who watches with his own hunger as he lets his eyes trail over the two of us. Somehow I know that a tryst with two bi-sexual men is a favorite of mine that I don’t find very often.

“Goodness, what do we have here?” Giorgio asks, splintering the moment as Enzo locks down his feelings once more into the cold man he now pretends to be.

Walking up to us, Giorgio grabs my hand and pulls me out from under Paolo before wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to be late for dinner—he’s already in a mood,” he tells the others as he leads me into the dining room I’d peeked at earlier. “Daring choice, not wearing the dress he sent up for you, but I think it’s good for him to have someone who won’t bend to his will.”

“Tell me why I don’t believe that,” I question as he pulls out a chair for me to sit in. “Besides, who picks out clothes for someone they don’t know? That’s just kind of creepy.”

Giorgio opens his mouth to answer, but Othello walks in and takes his seat at the head of the table before he can. Enzo takes a seat on his right with Remo and Paolo, while on the left are just Giorgio and me. Seems there are rules to sitting at the mafia boss’s table…

God, I’m going to get in so much trouble. I don’t do well with rules and limitations; it has been a never-ending fight in our household, as Mother wants me to fit the role she has set for me. Which is why I’ve secretly sent off an application to Northern Illinois University to see if I can get into their art program. I’m just waiting for their answer before I break the news to my parents. They are going to have a stroke when they find out I’ve signed up as an art major.

“Did the dress not fit?” Othello asks, crashing into my thoughts.

Jerking my head up to meet his gaze, I almost knock over the glass of water that’s been placed too close to my elbow. “Ah, no… Actually, I’m not sure. I didn’t try it on.”

Othello’s brows rise in surprise. “Do I even dare to ask why?”

“Take one look at me and tell me that you really thought I would be excited about wearing an all-white dress. Seriously, that is an artist’s dream when they can do something with it, but there is no way in hell I would wear something so…blah,” I explain.

“The shirt you are currently wearing is white. How could it possibly be different?”

I lean forward on the table, resting my head on my palm. “This is a hell of a lot more comfortable than that would have been, and if I have to be tortured, I choose the lesser of the two evils. Besides, isn’t a woman in a man’s button-down supposed to be super sexy?”

Othello pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment before he finds the strength to look at me again. “What would that have to do with anything?”

Now it’s my turn to frown at him. “Ah, because the only reason I can think that I’m still alive and you asked me to dinner is so you can talk me into having sex with you.”

Paolo laughs so hard that it turns into a coughing fit, giving Remo an excuse to whack him on the back much harder than needed. Enzo just looks at me like I have two heads, and Giorgio shakes while he tries to keep his own laughter at bay.

“Let me make one thing extremely clear, Miss Leto. I do not need to persuade someone to sleep with me—I have quite the opposite problem,” Othello informs me, then grabs his wine and takes a few gulps. “As for why you are here at dinner, it would seem that our families know each other, and they asked that I look after you, seeing as you’ve suffered some memory loss. To what extent, we don’t know, but I have a doctor coming to the house tomorrow to look you over.”

“Wait, what year is it?” I ask, beginning to panic.

“It’s March twenty-twenty-one,” Enzo answers.

“Are you telling me I’ve forgotten over four years of my life?!” I demand, shooting to my feet. “You better tell me what the hell happened last night. RIGHT NOW!”

“Baby girl, I am not someone you make demands to, especially in my own house,” Othello asserts as he too rises from his seat. “Sit. Back. Down.”

I hold his gaze, unwilling to back down. His reaction alone tells me that I’m missing something, and something big. Giorgi reaches for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, but I’m not going to be the one to look away first.

“Sky, please, we can talk about it after dinner. Othello never talks business during family time. He’s old-fashioned like that,” Giorgi coaxes, tugging at my arm.

I take my seat once again, without breaking eye contact with the prick at the head of the table. “We will be talking about this later. I won’t let you brush me off.”

“You have my word we will discuss the matters of last night once dinner is finished and we retire to the living room,” Othello concedes.

Satisfied that I’m going to get answers, I turn my attention to the others at the table. Paolo looks at me with pure amazement while the other two stoic men seem to be more curious. Giorgi, on the other hand, is gaping at me in wonder, still holding my hand as if he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

As if on cue, staff I’d somehow missed entirely, enter the dining room holding trays. They bring them right up to us, instead of just setting them on the table, so we can take what we want.

“Oh, prosciutto stuffed chicken—my favorite!” Paolo crows as he spears the one he wants. “Please tell me we have the garlic mashed potatoes to eat with this?”

“Of course, Master Paolo,” the man says, signaling over one of the men with a bowl of said mashed spud.

I smile as I fill my own plate with all the delicious looking food that’s being presented to me. Well, except the vegetables. Yet when I go to pass on the asparagus, I freeze, having a flash of a memory.