Chapter 8 RÓISE

"Take a seat." Don De Luca indicates a seating area similar to the one in my uncle's office.

But unlike Uncle Brogan's penchant for traditional furniture in dark wood, Severu De Luca favors sleek, modern lines. And his office is even more massive than my uncle's.

There's room for the traditional office suite of executive desk and visitor's chairs, plus the seating area. Three dark leather couches form three sides of a square, while two matching chairs with a table between them make up the final side.

It reminds me of the main living room in the mansion.

Across from the seating area is a glass conference table with twelve chairs. A pile of documents and folders sits at one end.

Everything is staged to set a tone. That tone is wealth and power with a dash of prestige.

I'm in my third year of theater study at college; I know something about staging.

So does the don apparently.

I make a beeline for one of the chairs, but Ares…darn it, Miceli grabs my wrist. "Let's sit here."

Here is one of the sofas. He neatly maneuvers me to one end and sits smack in the middle, right beside me. His arm stretches across the back of the couch, surrounding me with his heat and scent.

The familiar peppery fragrance, with earthy undertones and a hint of lemon is enhanced by something I discovered that night in Portland is pure him .

I snooped in the bathroom of his suite and discovered the cologne is Dark Lord by Kilian. Two months ago, I didn't think anything of it. Now? It's funny, in a macabre way.

The mafia underboss is definitely a dark lord.

"Would anyone like coffee?" the don asks.

My gaze locks on the low table in the center of a seating area. It holds a tray with a gold rimmed China coffee service, complete with the obligatory pot of coffee, five cups and cream and sugar.

"No thank you," I say politely.

This meeting is stressful enough. Holding a hot beverage right now is just asking for trouble.

"I'll have a cup." My uncle sits back on the sofa with a complacent look directed my way.

In our home, men never pour their own coffee. Lucky for me and my feminist sensibilities, my uncle (and sometimes his men) only join us for dinner.

Grateful to put some distance between me and Miceli, I stand quickly and lean over to pick up the coffee pot. After pouring my uncle's cup, I add a splash of creamer, stir it with one of the small teaspoons and put it down in front of him.

I lay the teaspoon on a napkin on the tray since there are no saucers.

I'm about to sit back down when Uncle Brogan clears his throat meaningfully.

Since it will keep me out of my seat a little longer, I indulge his chauvinism and ask, "Can I pour for anyone else?"

Mamo would be proud of me. Not for the polite question, but for asking it in an even tone with no sarcasm.

Pick your battles, Rosy-girl.

"Thank you, I will have a cup. Two lumps of sugar. No milk." Big Sal watches me like he's measuring my every movement against a ruler in his head.

I do not roll my eyes. Go me.

I pour the consigliere's coffee, doctor it and put it down on the table near him. His eyes narrow, like it offends him I didn't pass it directly to him.

Oh, well. I guess that's one ding against me.

"Sit down, Róise. My brother and I are capable of pouring our own coffee." Miceli casts an irritated glance at Big Sal De Luca.

The older man stares back blandly.

Miceli pours him and his brother cups of coffee, putting nothing in either. I suppress a shudder of revulsion. You cannot convince me that coffee without flavored syrup and oatmilk (other milk will do in a pinch) is meant for human consumption.

Black coffee is the worst .

"Do you want something cold to drink?" Miceli asks me.

I start to shake my head, but my throat is suddenly parched and I swivel so I'm nodding. "Yes, thank you."

"What would you like?"

To leave? To go somewhere private for five minutes to process the fact this is the man I had sex with two months ago?

Not happening. "Water is fine."

Miceli grabs his phone and sends a text, putting it back in his jacket before sitting down again. His thigh brushes mine and I jump.

Good thing I wasn't holding coffee, isn't it?

The don crosses one ankle over his knee and takes a sip of the unappealing coffee. "Your uncle tells us you are studying theater, Róise."

"Yes."

"You went to Portland to take an acting seminar a couple of months ago." The don's dark gaze penetrates so I feel like he's reading my mind.

He can't though. Right? Right.

No mind reading.

Miceli tenses beside me. His arm shifting so it lands softly over my shoulders. Is he trying to warn me not to say anything?

He doesn't need to worry. I'm not about to say anything about my wild night of freedom in front of my uncle.

"Uh, yes."

"Miceli was in Portland at the same time I believe. But you wouldn't have run into each other."

Something garbled comes out of my mouth that is supposed to be agreement.

"I spent the night I was there at the club and then went back to my hotel." Miceli's words sound like an agreement.

If you're his brother, that is.

To me, they sound like a taunt.

"Um…" I cast around wildly inside my head for something to say to change the subject, usually my specialty.

Then a woman arrives with a Karafe of water and glasses on a tray. She transfers them to the larger tray on the table and leaves without a word.

No one seems to think that's weird.

"Thank you," I call after her.

Don De Luca's lips tilt in the tiniest of smiles. Huh.

My uncle grunts. We've had the "Don't thank the staff for doing their jobs," conversation too many times for him to even bother anymore.

Big Sal is putting another mark against me in his mental tally. I just know it .

If he checks off enough negatives, will he advise his don to cancel the marriage part of the alliance?

Miceli pours a glass of water, drops a lemon wedge in it and hands it to me.

"What if I didn't like lemon?" I ask with enough snark that my uncle clears his throat again.

This time it's all censure. Ooops.

"Uncle Sal is the one who convinced me this blood alliance is good for la famiglia ," the don says.

The sip of water I'm trying to take spills down the front of my black dress.

I narrow my eyes at him. "Did you take a class in mind-reading?"

"Your face is very expressive."

When I'm not thinking about it. Which is most of the time, to be honest.

"You like lemon." Miceli pats at the wet spots on my chest with a napkin. "You're too tart not to."

"Ha ha." I grab the napkin from him.

Memories from that night two months ago spin to the forefront of my mind again, but I shove them back.

This is now. And now my Ares is actually a Cosa Nostra underboss with a brother who sees way too much for my own good.

And apparently an uncle who went to the same school for hidebound patriarchs as my own.