19. Cristiano

C ristiano

I haven't bummed a smoke off a total stranger since I was fifteen years old, but I need something to calm my racing pulse.

I stand on the corner of the street watching the sun bounce off the hood of my car and fill my lungs. The cigarette's harsh enough to distract me until I can reassemble my thoughts into something less obscene; less inconvenient.

I type one-handed into my phone.

Me: Any news?

I blow a curl of smoke into the air and watch as Sav types a response.

Sav: It's done.

I breathe out a long sigh of relief.

Me: So you're on your way back?

Sav: Tomorrow.

Fuck. I chew my bottom lip. I can't have Castellano at my apartment another night regardless of what I said about her not locking her door. The temptation was too great before I saw her in that dress. And now that I have ...

I shake every thought from my head. There's really only one thing for it.

I press the phone to my ear and take another long drag of the cigarette.

Someone picks up on the other end. "Allegra Castellano."

"Allegra," I say, feeling a small sense of relief. "It's Cristiano. Would you like to see the bride-to-be?"

An hour later, the voices of five semi-drunk women are grating against my temples. This was a good idea, I remind myself. The alternative would be a lot worse.

Annoyingly, I've opted for Savero's recommendation to avoid small talk by inviting over the entire female contingent of Castellano's family. I'm not avoiding small talk exactly, but the solution is the same. I need to not be alone with her. Not in the wake of that gown fitting.

Bridal gowns are meant to be virginal, for crying out loud, not the clothing equivalent of a slow, decadent fuck laced with ravenous bite marks and quiet gasps of desperation.

Cazzo. Cazzo. Cazzo.

Hidden by a velvet curtain, I turn to face the wall and bang my forehead against it repeatedly.

"I have your water here."

I turn to see the seamstress holding out a glass, her eyes averted.

"I may have given them a little too much champagne," she says apologetically.

"It's fine," I say, taking a sip. "I suppose she'll only get married once."

The thought sticks in my throat, and I suddenly want to hurl the glass at the wall. Instead I smile and place it on a side table, away from any inclination to vandalize this innocent woman's property.

I walk with a great deal of reluctance into their gathering. "How are we doing, ladies?"

They all look up, their cheeks pink and their faces shiny from all the laughing. I absently wonder what it must be like to get along with a sibling to the extent one could have a good laugh with them. My relationship with Sav has never been like that. Even when we were kids, he was intense. Too intense to joke about with.

I've never understood why he was always so competitive. Papa gave me a lot of attention, but I figured that was because Sav was the eldest—the one who'd inherit it all. He was the heir; I was the spare.

But so many of Sav's actions smacked of jealousy. There was the time he set fire to my toy cars, torching them until they were steel nubs, and the time he threw Father's favorite Rolex into the ocean because he'd let me wear it to church one Sunday. It was always explained away as "passion." I was calm and measured. Sav was "passionate." I never understood how that was supposed to be a positive thing. It never felt positive to me.

Allegra scrambles to her feet despite my urges to the contrary.

"Thank you so much for inviting us, Mr. Di Santo. It's just nice for us girls to spend some time together before the wedding."

"Do you like her dress?" The next eldest sister, Serafina, looks up at me expectantly.

"Yes." My voice feels tight. "It's beautiful."

"Do you think Savero will like it?" The youngest sister blurts this out, and the other one elbows her in the ribs.

I can't honestly answer that, because I have no idea what Sav likes and doesn't like. He certainly doesn't advertise it. So I give a noncommittal—and truthful—answer.

"He wouldn't be human if he didn't."

The younger sister blushes and bats her eyes away, and for some inexplicable reason I feel protective of her, as if she's my own sibling. At the feel of something warming the side of my face, I turn to see Castellano watching me curiously. Truth be told, despite working day and night in casinos, I haven't been around this much life in ages.

I rub my hands together and address them all. "How about an early dinner? I know a great little place down the street."

"God, yes." One of the sisters—the one dressed in an all-black ensemble despite it being early summer—clambers to her feet.

Allegra follows and sighs in agreement. "We could probably use some food to soak up the bubbles."

Castellano doesn't say a word, but neither does she remove her gaze from me as we bid farewell to the seamstress and head out onto the street. I become aware of her closest sister whispering something in her ear, but she bats it away.

I take them to an Italian restaurant owned by an old friend of my father and order everything on the menu. The table fills with chatter as they help themselves to prosciutto crostini, fried olives, and herbed ricotta. Even Castellano manages to eat a few bites.

"Will you be Savero's best man?" the sister in black asks.

"Tess!" Castellano hisses.

"What? It's a perfectly reasonable question."

I smile, but it feels stiff. "Yes, I will be. But I'll be heading straight back to Vegas soon after, unfortunately."

Tess's mouth falls open. "Really? But ... it's going to be the wedding of the year. Surely, the festivities will go on long after the bells have stopped ringing?"

"Contessa," Allegra warns. "It's not any of our business."

"It's a fair point." I shrug. "We Italians do love a wedding ..." My attention catches on Castellano. Her face has paled, and she's lowered the fork to her plate. "But I have unavoidable business to attend to."

She holds my gaze as talk of the wedding rumbles around us. Before she looks away, her left eye flickers as though she's caught onto something. Maybe she has. It doesn't change anything though. Whatever I feel for my brother's fiancée is irrelevant. It's better I remove myself from the object of my temptation sooner rather than later.

The sky outside darkens, the bottles of red wine littering the table now empty. The youngest sister lies across Allegra's lap sleeping, while Tess talks her aunt's ear off with what sounds to me like utter drunken nonsense. Castellano and Serafina are talking between themselves, so I pretend to check my phone while intermittently flashing my gaze toward my future sister-in-law. Sometimes she meets it; sometimes she doesn't. The times she does, I feel a spasm of longing clench around my heart.

This was actually a bad fucking idea. The more time I spend around her, the less I want to leave. Now I'm certain we met before, when we were both younger. Vague memories come back to me in fragments, but I'm knitting them together piece by piece, bit by bit. With each passing day, it's becoming harder to think about releasing her to Savero, especially when I know he couldn't give two flying fucks about this woman, which boils my blood. I don't remember much from back then—trauma often gets in the way of clarity—but I do know this: the girl has spirit, and Savero only knows one way to deal with that.

Break it.

Allegra straightens her back. "I think we should get going," she says, stifling a yawn. "We've overstayed our welcome long enough."

"Nonsense," I say, slipping the phone into my jacket. "It's been my pleasure. Let me call you a driver."

"Oh, no, you mustn't. We've burdened you enough. A cab will do just fine."

"No." My sharp tone makes all five women turn toward me. "I won't hear of it. My family has drivers in the city—I can have one here in no time."

"Oh, well, um, thank you." Allegra wipes a flustered hand across her brow.

I step outside to make the call and relish the cool night air. It's a relief after the stifling heat of her presence. But it's short-lived.

"Make sure the car can fit five."

I ignore her and speak into the phone. "Hey, it's Cristiano here. Yeah. As soon as you can. La Trattoria. Back to Port Washington. Four, please."

I hang up and reluctantly let my gaze drop to hers, feeling almost thankful looks can't kill.

"I said five."

"I know you did. I'm not deaf, Castellano."

She breathes in and out tightly. "Why can't I go home with my family?"

"I already told you. You're not safe there, and Savero wants me to look after you until he returns, which won't be until tomorrow."

She crosses her arms and lets out a small noise of frustration. "I don't understand you."

"That's probably a good thing," I answer smoothly.

She continues as if I haven't spoken. "One minute you're buying me the best designer clothes in the city and chaperoning me around as though I'm made of porcelain. The next you're glaring at me across the dinner table as if I just insulted you, and you can't bring yourself to stay after our wedding. I'm beginning to think you weren't telling me the truth yesterday, in your apartment."

"Oh? What do you think then?"

"That you secretly hate me."

I choke out a laugh, but the sincerity in her stare shuts my mouth.

"There's no other explanation," she insists. "You hate that I'm marrying your brother—that he's spending his money on me. That I'm going to be the lady of your family home. That has to be it." She shrugs her arms out to the side while I look on at her, stunned.

I suppose I should be grateful. If she hasn't read any further into yesterday's admission, I'm safe from Savero's wrath, and so is she.

Her voice drops to a whisper. It's a seething one, but a whisper at that. "If you hate me so much, why don't you just leave the city now?"

My eyes pop.

"Take me to the Di Santo residence and leave me there. I'll be safe until Savero comes home. And you'll be free from ever having to watch over me again." She turns to face me square and levels me with a pointed glare. "You can go back to Vegas, to your precious casinos, your cabaret singers, and your dancing girls, and live happily ever after."

I stare at her for a long moment. Then my patience snaps.

I grab her arm and drag her down the side of the building, out of view of the restaurant. "Are you jealous or something?" I hiss.

She physically recoils, which twists a nerve in my chest.

"When have I ever talked about cabaret singers and dancing girls? What do you take me for?"

She shrugs but continues to glare at me.

I breathe out, my nostrils flaring. "Now you've insulted me, the least you can do is listen to my defense."

She works her jaw, not letting up.

"I have saved you from yourself and others too many times to mention. I have made you eat—I've cooked for you—and kept you alive despite your obstinate determination to starve to death. I've closeted you in my apartment when it was unsafe for you to stay anywhere else. I've practically shot a man's hands off because he didn't follow my order to get you home safe. If all of these things are symptomatic of my hatred for you, then fuck me twice, Castellano, I hate you with my entire being."

Her lips have parted, and her chest rises and falls with a quickened tempo.

I step into her body and soak up the warmth of her breasts again my hard chest. "You think I hate that my brother is spending money on you?" I can't conceal the growl at the base of my throat. "I hate that he's not spending enough . There isn't enough money in the world that would make him worthy of you."

Her breaths reach my ears, sending me even deeper into insanity.

"You think I can't bear the idea of you being the lady of my family home?" I laugh low and dark. "That doesn't bother me in the slightest. What bothers me is that he will be your lord."

I shift my feet out to each side and dip my mouth toward the crook of her neck. I can taste the sweat rising off her collarbone.

"Only one of your accusations is spot-on, Castellano." My words drift over her skin, my lips brushing the hairs at her nape. "I do hate that you're marrying my brother. I hate that it's him." I start to pant in her ear from the exertion of holding this back, then my voice falters. "It should be me ."

I linger until that statement has worked its way into her bones, then I push myself hard away from the wall and coast my eyes to the street. "Your aunt's car is here."

I ignore the sexy sound of her breathless gasps and pull her back out into the evening light.

I let her lead the way back inside, but "lead" is too generous a word. She can barely put one foot in front of the other. I didn't see her drink a whole lot of wine, but maybe she really is as incapable of handling alcohol as she's admitted to being.

I said too much, but she has to know.

She needs to know I'm on the fucking edge, and that this is killing me.

I can't stop myself from falling, but she can stop herself from pushing. And if she weren't aware of that before, well ... now she is.