Page 25

Every surface in this room is polished mahogany, heavy lace, and antique sterling silver that has likely seen more executions than a royal courtyard. I sit at the head of the table on Romeo's right, my spine rigid against the carved high back of the chair.

I wore the dress Romeo laid out for me before sundown: high-necked midnight blue velvet with long sleeves that hide the fading scratches on my forearms from the terrace, cut snug along my waist and hips. My red hair is pinned in a sleek twist, my face completely uncovered, the delicate silver scars around my eyes catching the warm glow of thirty beeswax taper candles.

Sofia sits under my chair, her chin resting on my left foot, her muscular frame a silent, unmovable warning to anyone who dares breathe wrong in my direction.

Across the linen tablecloth sit the Messina women.

Donna Carmela Messina, Romeo's mother, occupies the seat directly opposite me. She is sixty years old, draped in tailored black mourning silk that she hasn't shed since Emilio caught a bullet in his skull three years ago. Her silver-streaked dark hair is swept into a severe bun, her obsidian eyes the exact shade of Romeo's, sharp enough to cut through bulletproof glass.

Flanking her are Romeo's two younger sisters.

Bianca, twenty-four, dripping in diamonds and disdain, sipping her wine like it tastes of vinegar. And Valentina, nineteen, younger, and quieter, but watching me with the morbid curiosity of a child poking a wounded bird with a stick.

The clinking of silver forks against porcelain is the only sound in the room for five excruciating minutes.

"You do not eat the caponata, child," Donna Carmela speaks at last. Her English is aristocratic and clipped, carrying the heavy, ancient cadence of Sicilian nobility.

I keep my hands folded in my lap, feeling the cold weight of the emerald ring against my knuckles.

"I am saving room for the veal, Donna Carmela," I reply, my voice smooth, even, giving away none of the tension coiling in my gut.

Bianca lets out a soft, sharp scoff, setting her crystal goblet down with a pointed clatter.

"Of course she is," Bianca mutters in rapid Italian to her mother. "An Irish girl from the Boston docks. They eat like laborers. Why Romeo brought a blind dock rat into our home when he could have unified the entire western coast with a Moretti or a Falcone bride is beyond my comprehension."

My jaw tightens. My Gaelic blood flares hot in my chest.

Before I can speak, a heavy, bone-chilling sound silences the entire table.

Romeo sets his steak knife down against the mahogany table with deliberate, terrifying force.

He sits at the head of the table, towering in his black tailored suit, his top collar unbuttoned, the ink creeping up his throat dark and menacing under the chandelier. His eyes are black, fixed directly on his sister Bianca. The temperature in the room drops twenty degrees in a single second.

"Say that again, Bianca," Romeo whispers.

His voice is so low, so quiet, that the hair on my arms stands straight up. It is the tone he uses right before he puts a bullet between a man's eyes.

Bianca freezes, the color draining from her pampered cheeks. "Romeo, I only meant⁠—"

"You will address my wife as Donna Messina," Romeo rumbles, his knuckles resting on the edge of the table, his wedding band glinting in the candlelight. "You will show her the respect her title demands. If I hear one more disrespectful syllable leave your mouth toward Iris, I will strip your allowances, freeze your accounts in Milan, and ship you to a convent in the mountains of Calabria before dawn. Try me, little sister."

Valentina ducks her head, staring intently at her plate, terrified to breathe.

Donna Carmela does not flinch. She sets her linen napkin beside her plate, her dark eyes shifting from Romeo to me with calculating coldness.

"Do not threaten your sister at my table, Romeo," the matriarch commands, her tone ice. "Bianca speaks with reckless youth, but she voices what every family in Sicily is whispering. You brought home an enemy's daughter. Daniel O'Connor failed his debts. His bloodline was consecrated to the Scottish diocese, a liability that brought the church's assassins to our doorstep in Queens."

Donna Carmela leans forward, the diamonds at her neck catching the flame.

"She is blind, Romeo. She cannot oversee the household staff. She cannot read the family ledgers. She cannot see the enemies approaching her flank at a gala. A Don needs a partner who commands through strength, not a broken pet who requires twenty armed guards just to take a walk in the garden."

My hands unclasp in my lap.

The humiliation burns, but the anger burns hotter.

Romeo's chair begins to scrape back, his frame rising to tower over the table, ready to unleash the violence that lives permanently in his bones.

I reach out my right hand, catching his forearm before he can speak.