5. Trilby

T rilby

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The sparkle has gone.

Even my painting hasn't pulled me out of the haze of depression like it usually does. Whatever challenges I've lived through, I've learned to cope by pouring all my emotions into my art. Even my outfits. Sera always says she can tell what mood I'm in or what side of my personality will come out that day by the clothes I choose to wear. "Choose" being the operative word.

I stare down at the dress Allegra had delivered. It sits stiffly on my hips and makes a scratchy sound when I move. The label describes the color as "sand," but it's beige. Frustration tenses my shoulders. I've never worn beige clothing, and I refuse to start now.

I step out of the ugly garment and fling it to the bedroom floor, then I pull out one of my favorite outfits: a red silk dress that falls just below my knees but makes up for the conservative cut by hugging my curves a little too hard. Allegra will have a conniption, but I don't care.

I kick off the nude kitten heels she keeps making me wear and slip on my highest heeled stilettoes. Leopard-print patent leather. Clashy, different, perfect.

I stand in front of the mirror. I look more like myself, but since the engagement announcement four days ago, I feel diminished.

Meeting Savero Di Santo wasn't the heart-racing pinnacle of my romantic life I'd hoped for. I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't to be given a front row seat to a gruesome kill, then dismissed for most of the evening, and relegated to the ranks of all the other faceless, nameless women in his life crowded into that one corner of the room where the light doesn't shine.

The only memory worth holding onto from that evening is the one of the monstrous balloon lying flat on the ground, my fiancé's brother having fired a bullet into it. But each time I recall Cristiano standing casually over the multicolored foil, guilt, shame, and raw nerves punch me in the chest.

I still don't remember what happened at Joe's, and despite Cristiano saying we only talked, I don't believe him. We touched—I'm sure of it. Why else would the heat of his palm when he shook my hand feel so natural and familiar? And if he's not being honest about that, what else isn't he telling me?

Papa has hardly been home since the engagement announcement. He's been at the port around the clock with Savero's men. It seems my fiancé doesn't want to wait until I've signed the marriage certificate, which makes me question whether I'm needed in this arrangement at all. But then I remember the look on Papa's face when he told me of my fate. He wouldn't have agreed to give me to this man—"the most violent man in New York," according to his brother—if he'd had any other choice.

I just have to hope with all my heart that whatever Cristiano isn't telling me about that night, he isn't going to share it. Because I can't be the cause of my family's ruin. I can't be the next in line to be sliced open with a silver blade.

My phone buzzes on the restroom counter. I glance down and see Allegra's name.

Allegra: Trilby Castellano, you'd better be on your way. We need to be ready to receive the don. He'll be here any minute now. And don't forget to straighten your hair.

I glance at my hair in the mirror. Messy waves brush my shoulders and trail over my forehead. I sigh and reach for the straighteners, then I put them down again. I'm probably already walking towards my imminent demise for wearing this dress—I may as well fully commit.

It wasn't long after Mama died that I began bleaching my hair blonde. I didn't need a shrink to know it was a symbolic way of detaching myself from the world around me. While we've never been an intrinsic part of the Mafia, we've lived close enough for me to feel its dark red stain and resent the olive-skinned, dark-haired Italianness of it. The less I looked like I belonged in its vicinity, the more easily I could stomach Mama's murder.

The sound of the doorbell makes me jump. Allegra must have gotten impatient waiting.

I walk to the door and mutter loud enough that she can hear, "Honestly, anyone would think I was about to hotfoot it to Atlantic City or sell myself to a circus."

I yank open the door expecting to see Allegra's pursed lips, but instead I get a shock that almost knocks me out at the knees.

"Let me guess. Trapeze artist?"

I don't know what takes my breath away first: the Barolo-colored eyes holding mine at three paces, the velvety voice dripping with mild amusement, or the fact Cristiano Di Santo is leaning against my doorframe.

My mouth falls open, and he reaches his thumb and forefinger up to scruff the manicured stubble on his chin as he regards me.

"I hope you're not always going to be this surprised to see me," he drawls, "because maybe we should get you on blood pressure medication now."

My heart thuds like a drum. Medication doesn't sound like a bad idea right this second. Nerves are fluttering around my chest like rabid wasps.

"Why—?" I flush at my squeaky voice and clear my throat. "Why are you here?"

His face is so still it could have been carved from granite. Then he sucks in a breath. "Sav is going to be late. I've come in his place."

Of course. Why else would he be here?

But something about his demeanor makes me feel like I'm being played with. All it would take is the mere mention of my drinking to Savero, never mind the fact I talked to Cristiano having no idea who he was, to put this whole arrangement into jeopardy. Cristiano knows my secret, and he could share it with anyone at any time. I'm at his mercy, and despite the fear that lines my stomach, that fact ignites something inside me. Something new and untested and dangerous.

His eyes flicker to the hallway behind me. "May I see your father?"

"Um, sure. I'm on my way around there now." I look for a space beyond the door to step into, but his body takes up the entire doorway. I bite my top lip nervously and glance around—anywhere but at him.

"On your way around where?" I hear the frown in his voice.

I jerk my head to the right. "Next door."

He pushes off the doorframe and anchors both feet to the ground. "Next door?"

A shiver tickles my spine. "Yes. The main house. This is the apartment."

When he doesn't question me further, I cock my head to one side. "Shall we?"

He grinds his jaw and steps aside. "After you."

My thighs tremble as I turn to lock the door, and I feel his warm breath drifting across my bare shoulders. I have to take extra care walking down the steps so I don't trip and make a fool of myself. We reach the main door, and I ring the bell. When I turn a fraction to check he's still there, Cristiano has a knuckle pressed to his mouth.

"What's so funny?"

"You ring the doorbell? You don't just walk in?"

I run my tongue across my top teeth. "I like my entrance to be noticed." I narrow my eyes in a challenge, but the laughter in his expression has disappeared. "What?" I ask.

He swallows. "Nothing."

Before I can press him any further, the door swings open, and Allegra's face instantly contorts as if she'd asked for a crate of Dom Pérignon and got a glass of cheap white wine instead.

"Ah ..." Her gaze flits between me and Cristiano, and for a few seconds I enjoy her flustered confusion.

Cristiano, it appears, doesn't enjoy it so much.

" Signora , my apologies. Mi fratello ... he is going to be a little late. He has some business with?—"

"I understand," Allegra replies in a tone that suggests quite the opposite. "No need to explain."

"I found this one on my way here." His fingers lightly tap the small of my back, making me leap forward into my aunt. Out of utter embarrassment I try to make it look as if I'm going in for a hug, even though I rarely do that despite how much I adore her.

"Hey, Allegra!" I unravel my stiff arms and smile like a lunatic before stepping past her into the house. I need to get away from the owner of those fingers before the mortification burns me from the inside out.

I feel his hot glare at my back as I skip down the hall. Thankfully, Allegra, in a bid to impress the family I'm marrying into, holds him captive at the door.

I tuck my head around the entrance to the living area and see Papa deep in conversation with one of the port managers. I continue on by and almost run for the stairs. I need to get to a restroom to splash cold water on my face and then seek solace in one of my sisters' bedrooms.

"Not so fast, Trilby." Allegra's voice is stern, and I turn to see the kind of expression I've learned to just deal with, because an objection simply isn't worth it.

Cristiano's voice filters through from the living area. He must have been swiftly steered toward Papa.

"I was just going to the restroom," I say weakly.

Allegra's brows rise. "I thought you'd just come from one." She looks down over my outfit and mutters, "Supposedly…" She coughs and gives a little shake of her head. "Now, our guest would probably like something to drink, wouldn't he?"

I shrug like a moody teenager. "I don't know."

Her spine straightens defiantly. "Then I suggest you go find out."

When I don't move, her face drops as though I'm fast becoming the most disappointing sister of the four of us.

"Fine." I sigh and push myself off the bottom stair.

I drag my feet past Allegra and hesitate in the doorway. The three men have moved to Papa's desk, where they're looking through plans of the port and the surrounding area. Part of my heart wilts at hearing Papa transfer some of the control of his pride and joy. His father built that place from the ground up, and Papa has run it since he turned eighteen. The port is part of our family, and it feels like we're losing it.

I take a deep breath and walk quietly into the room. Papa and his manager keep their heads down, focused intently on the maps. Cristiano is the only one who senses me entering. For a moment our eyes meet, and my pulse picks up speed. His gaze betrays no emotion, but it tunnels into me like a laser beam.

"... and that's where the private consignments are checked in," Papa says as if he still has the attention of the second most prominent member of the Di Santo family, when, in fact, it's settled wholly on me.

Cristiano's lips move mechanically. "I look forward to seeing it in the flesh."

I stop in the middle of the room and shiver. His gaze somehow makes me feel naked. "Mr. Di Santo, would you like something to drink?"

"Yes, I would." His voice sounds as gravelly as my mind feels foggy.

I hold in a lungful of air, hoping for strength. "What can I get you?"

"Whiskey, please. No ice."

I nod and turn slowly, trying not to run out of the room the way I want to.

Then his words halt me. "Actually, I will take ice."

I twist to see him yanking at his collar, his jaw rigid with tension.

"Thanks."

Biting my bottom lip, I walk out of the room. It's only when I reach an empty kitchen that I release a hot, wretched breath.

My brain claws around for some explanation as to why I'm feeling so unhinged all of a sudden. I'm about to marry a don . And not just any don—the downright ruthless head of the Di Santo family, the most notorious crime family for miles. A don whose brother knows my secrets—that I get drunk in backstreet bars and that I don't want this marriage at all. Those are reasons enough for why I can barely think straight.

I reach for one of our "best" crystal tumblers and place it on the counter, staring at it for several seconds. We never use the "best" glassware for anything—what are we saving it for? For this? For a man my family feels is above us in some way? I'm suddenly infused with a sense of injustice. What makes Cristiano Di Santo more deserving of our "best" glassware than we are?

No one looks up as I enter the room.

I place his whiskey gently on a coaster and take three steps backward. The men continue their deep discussion as if I'm not there.

Cristiano's gaze glides from Papa directly to me, and he reaches for his drink. Without glancing at the vessel, he lifts it to his lips and takes a sip.

It's Papa's gasp that turns everyone else's head. "What th?—?"

Papa's manager snorts and then quickly tries to cover it up.

"Oh, um ..." Papa gently wraps his fingers around the mug I've served Cristiano's whiskey in. "I'm so sorry. Let me ... um ..."

Cristiano refuses to let go of the mug.

Our eyes are fixed on each other.

A rumbling beside him begins to infiltrate my consciousness until Papa's voice breaks out in a growl. "TRILBY!"

I pan an innocent glance his way. "Yes, Papa?"

"Get rid of it and serve Mr. Di Santo's drink in a proper glass. Now."

"No." Cristiano sets his hand firmly on the top of the mug that has a giant pair of naked boobs and the words "What would Dolly do?" printed shamelessly across it.

Tess bought the mug for my eighteenth birthday, and no matter how often Allegra tuts and purses her lips, I refuse to throw it out.

His eyes never leave mine, but something behind them dances. "It's fine. It doesn't matter what the poison comes in." A corner of his lips lifts before his expression settles into something else. Something deadly and accompanied by a low, sinful voice and eyes that burrow beneath my skin. "As long as it comes ."

Blood rushes like an avalanche up my chest, flooding my collarbone, my neck, my entire face.

Cristiano pans his gaze back to Papa's, effectively dismissing me.

I turn on wobbly legs and walk back to the kitchen, wondering—not for the first time since I met him—what the hell just possessed me and why such simple, innocent words from the mouth of my future brother-in-law make me feel like I've just been doused in lava.