Page 11

IRIS

The emerald silk gown clings to my curves like liquid water, cut down to the base of my spine and slit high up my left thigh. Around my neck hangs a collar of black diamonds that Romeo fastened with his own hands twenty minutes ago, his lips lingering against the hollow of my throat until my skin flushed burning pink.

Tonight is my official introduction to the Sicilian Cosa Nostra.

Romeo made that clear while I was still standing in the ruins of our shredded marriage certificate. He wanted every capo, every underboss, and every allied family on the island to see the woman who wears the Messina ring.

I refused to wear the blindfold.

If these vultures came to gawk at Danny O'Connor's broken daughter, I would give them the full view. My hair is piled into an elaborate crown of red curls, pinned with silver combs, leaving the faint spiderweb of scars around my eyes completely bare to the room. The smoky gray shapes and halos of light that make up my vision shift constantly as chandeliers refract against crystal champagne flutes.

Sofia walks on my left in a diamond-studded leather lead, her ears perked, a constant shield against anyone stepping too close.

The grand reception hall of the Tindari palazzo hums with low Italian murmurs, expensive perfume, and the faint clinking of gold jewelry. The scent in the room is suffocating: roasted lamb, aged chianti, and the heavy musk of cold, old money, and blood.

"Stay close to me, Donna," Romeo murmurs in my ear, his hand firm on my waist.

He wears a bespoke black tuxedo with no tie, the top two buttons undone to reveal the ink curling up his neck. Every man who passes bows his head with a hushed Don Messina. Every woman gives him a hungry, lingering stare that makes my molars grind together.

I hate that I care. I hate that every time a pair of high heels clicks past us and a sultry voice purrs his name in Italian, my stomach twists into an ugly knot of pure, possessive fire.

He is a monster. He is my captor. But he is also the man who put his mouth between my thighs, the man whose name I screamed into the darkness, and watching other women look at him like a meal makes my Irish blood boil.

"I need a drink," I say stiffly, pulling slightly against his grip.

Romeo's fingers tighten on my hip, pulling me flush against his side. "You stay where I can see you, Iris."

"I am standing three feet from the bar, Romeo. Unless you plan to pour the wine down my throat yourself, let me breathe for two minutes."

His jaw tenses, but a slow, wicked smirk tugs at his lips. "Two minutes, Kitten. Then you're back on my arm."

I leave him surrounded by three capos discussing port tariffs and step toward the long marble bar, Sofia guiding my steps with precision. The bartender immediately slides a flute of chilled prosecco into my hand with a quiet Signora.

Before I can take a sip, the sharp clicking of stilettos approaches from the side, accompanied by the overpowering stench of tuberose and patchouli.

"So, this is the tragic little Irish bird Romeo decided to rescue," a smooth, accented voice purrs in English.

The speaker stops right in front of me. Even with my impaired vision, I can make out the tall, statuesque silhouette of a woman in a skintight silver dress, her dark hair cascading over one bare shoulder.

Behind her, two other women snicker, their voices laced with malicious amusement.

"Gianna Moretti," the woman says, taking a step closer until her perfume fills my lungs. "My father is Don Moretti of Palermo. Romeo and I have a long, very intimate history. We all expected him to take a proper Sicilian bride once his father was in the dirt, not a damaged dock rat who can barely see her own reflection."

The women behind her giggle.

Sofia's lips pull back, a low, guttural warning rumbling in her chest.

"Easy, girl," I say softly, keeping my hand flat on Sofia's head.

I take a slow sip of my prosecco, savoring the crisp fizz on my tongue before turning my face toward Gianna. I tilt my chin up, letting the chandelier light illuminate every jagged line of my scars.

"You smell like an entire bottle of cheap perfume poured over desperation, Gianna," I say, my voice sweet as syrup and cold as ice. "Is that what you wore to catch Romeo's eye? Because from where I'm standing, it didn't work. You're over here sipping champagne alone while I'm the one wearing his grandmother's emerald."

Gianna's breath hisses through her teeth. "Do not flatter yourself, bitch. Romeo married you to settle Danny O'Connor's debts and claim the New York shipping routes. It's business. He keeps you in this pretty cage out of guilt because he was too slow to save your eyes in that church. But a monster like Romeo needs a real woman in his bed, not a blind cripple who flinches at shadows. When he gets bored of playing nursemaid, he'll come straight to Palermo."

She steps forward, her fingers reaching out as if to touch the black diamonds at my throat.

She never gets the chance.