Celeste;
My gait back to the dining room is as unstable as a corrupt governor's promise to his citizens.
Even with heels, I feel like I'm traipsing through a floor of clouds, and it might give out anytime and pull me under.
The asshole simply stood. He stood and sadistically watched while I struggled with my dress that he'd snagged down to my lower back, with a moronic snigger hiking his lips.
God, I hate him.
All eyes stare back at me, making beneath my skin itch and prick. I try to deal with the aftereffect of Caruso Giordano's presence—the lingering jabs of his voice, his ominous aura, and the impending danger he oozes like something rotting beneath perfume.
A shudder travels through my pulse.
I ignore everyone, blatantly. Only coming to settle in my askew seat next to my fiancé—from where Caruso had manhandled me from it earlier.
"Everything okay?" Leaning back into his seat, Romano appraises me, casting hasty, heavy glances over my body.
Honestly disoriented, it takes me a couple of seconds to gather myself.
"Yes, he just had some questions he needed to ask me."
Romano doesn't seem convinced, but his earlier thick look dispels after a few seconds.
Running a finger below my eyes to make sure I get rid of any remnant of tears that cling to my lashes.
The tears were fake. I'd conjured them, but at that particular time, I honestly felt a burning in my throat—I'd honestly felt like crying.
The man Caruso called Paolo fixes narrowed eyes on me.
Beads of sweat pool on my spine, and I label him a threat to my mission. One I have to deal with.
Determination scalds my mind.
I clear my throat. "Uncle,"
The wrinkled lines of his forehead hitch in silent response.
"You know my papa?"
The whole table is silent.
Ruggiero has a twisted glint staining his gaze. His expression is something I can't quite put my nails on, but it unsettles me—the way he watches the interaction.
He's the Don, after all.
Paolo's sigh comes off unpleasant before he leans on either side of his elbows on the fancy lacquered wood. "We were business partners,"
Sawing my lips beneath my teeth, I correct,
"Are…he's not dead."
The delectable scents of the savory dishes now turn fetid, twisting a knot in the pit of my stomach.
They look at me like I'm a grieving daughter with hope.
Well, I was—ten years ago.
Paolo simply flicks a brow. "I don't remember seeing the likes of you in his turf."
The accusation burns like acid. I nod.
"There are many of us that you haven't seen, Uncle Paolo."
"Your father had sons as well," another gruff older man butts in.
Inclining to his direction, my head bobs, silently scrutinizing him. From his features, and the info I'd been fed by Angelo, I guess he's Alfonso. Ruggiero's immediate elder brother.
For why he hadn't earned the position of Don? I heard it's a brutal story. And I don't even want to know.
But I fucking have to.
"Has," I correct again. "And yes, Papa has sons. I have five brothers."
"And sisters?" Ruggiero's turn—his voice sends icy shards piercing my confidence.
I gulp.
"As many as you could count, but I…"
I feel everybody holding their breath with my hesitation. "I promise, I don't know."
And that's the fucking truth.
Galo is worse than a manwhore. He has a total of three wives and seven mistresses, having had children with all of them—I'm supposed to be the daughter of the fifth mistress, who happens to be his favorite.
The whole table is silent. Something heavy and suffocating clogs the atmosphere, making it harder for my lungs to pass air.
My body goes rigid.
"He sold a lot of them, married a few off for lands and connections, and of course, has a few in his pubs and brothels,"
The hairs on my skin stand on end, my empty stomach tossing in terror from the words and who had said them—my body recognizing him even before I set my eyes on the enigma of a man.
Why did he come back?
Fear curls around my bloodstream with every thundering of his footsteps.
Caruso comes into my line of sight, drawing out the empty seat two seats from his father and dropping into it.
Our eyes collide—it's just for a millisecond.
But I swear I feel it scorch me with a belying promise of something hot and utterly dangerous.
I immediately know one thing—Caruso Giordano still doesn't trust me.
Hell, he'd made it perfectly clear with all the rough pads of his fingers on my skin, the sizzling heat of his darkened green eyes, the lingering presence of his shadow caressing mine.
I literally feel him everywhere. And this is not good.
Panic tightens my chest.
The entire Giordano family's attention settles on him, and a subtle whiff of breath escapes me from the reprieve.
"That's twisted."
I couldn't even identify whoever had said that.
However, a hand squeezes mine. I turn to see Romano's large palm encasing mine—but he isn't looking at me.
His voice then echoes, "This is a family gathering to celebrate."
Silence stretches.
Then—
"We are not here to tear apart a guest."
From the corner of my eyes, I spot a scowl on Caruso's face.
Just like that, a blanket of silence falls on the table, and everyone concentrates on the meal in front of them.
The clinks of silverware replace the chaos.
The tension lodged in my throat eases with a hard gulp.
I survived.