7. Trilby

T rilby

I knew I wasn't imagining it when I suspected Cristiano's touch was familiar. There's a ring of fire around my arm where he's holding me upright, and like a thought treading a neural pathway, my body fizzes with recognition at the contact.

His words are harsh and at total odds with the way he's been looking at me since he came to the wrong door.

"Have you been drinking again, Castellano?"

My mouth drops open.

"I should be asking you the same question. Don't you look where you're going before you walk out of a room?" I snap, but I regret it instantly. Why, when I'm around this man, do words fly out of my mouth before I can even consider them? I've never spoken so curtly to a man before—not least one who wields just as much power over my family's future as my fiancé does.

He coasts his gaze over me slowly. The way it falls across my stomach and glides over my hips makes me shiver. We're standing in each other's space in the middle of the corridor, staring each other down. If anyone were to find us like this, there'd be questions. For me, not him, let's be clear.

His eyes morph from opaque to sparkling. "What's with the Dolly Parton mug?"

I glare up at him through my lashes. "I was flustered."

His hands slide down my arms slowly and drop away. Then the corridor echoes with the sound of cracking knuckles as he stares at me.

"So flustered you forgot where the glass cabinet was?"

My nostrils flare. "It's easily done. I don't use the glass cabinet too often."

"You don't serve drinks to other male visitors?" Another crack.

"Not usually." I turn my head for some oxygen. The air in the gap between us is too heated. "Was the whiskey to your liking?"

Out of the corner of my eye, his Adam's apple bobs up and down.

"It was perfect. Maybe I should drink from a mug more often."

I can't help but let a slow smile creep across my lips. "Don't be thinking you're going to borrow that mug," I warn. "It's my favorite."

His eyes widen, and I could kick myself. I just told my new brother-in-law I gave him my favorite mug. Is that flirting? I think it's flirting. Is it obvious? I truly don't know. I've never had to worry about anything like this before.

My breath sticks in my throat when he dips his mouth to my ear, and his words are slow, low, and deep. "Then, Castellano, I'm honored you served it to me."

It's a few seconds before he straightens, and by then I'm pink-cheeked and flustered. I must be the ideal opponent at this game. All the man has to do is breathe a whisper in my direction, and I don't know right from left.

He pushes his hands into his pockets and goes to walk past me, stopping at my shoulder. "Can you do me a favor?" he asks, looking straight ahead.

"Um ... of course," I reply, remembering my manners.

"Don't wear that dress when you're with my brother."

My heart thumps with dread. "Why?"

"Because he'll destroy any man who can't take his eyes off you. And I don't want to be cleaning up his mess for the next month."

He walks away before I can respond. Not that I have a response—only a question.

Did Cristiano Di Santo just give me a compliment?

Why is it that sometimes you're faced with a meal that simply doesn't disappear no matter how long you look at it?

I curl another string of spaghetti around my fork and stare at the wall ahead as I feed it into my mouth. Then I chew it for longer than normal, because my throat simply won't entertain the idea of swallowing it.

The invisible blinkers I've attached to each side of my face don't stop his voice from wrapping itself around my ears and sliding its way inside, making me hot from the mere sound. I didn't know sound could do that.

Since Cristiano delivered that loaded instruction, I haven't been able to stop thinking about him. It doesn't help that he's sitting at the far end of the table, next to Papa, coasting his gaze over to me every thirty seconds. He's attempting to make Allegra feel comfortable about the fact he's here and his brother conspicuously isn't.

"I'll be sure to let him know exactly what he's missing, signora . I haven't tasted spaghetti like this since my mother was alive."

He's trying to put her at ease, but I can tell by the way her fork drops into her bowl the topic of a deceased parent has caught her off-guard. I look up sharply—not at the sound of clattering cutlery but the realization he too lost a mother.

"Perhaps you can give me the recipe to share with our cook."

"Of course," Allegra replies, composing herself. "It's a family recipe, but ... well, I suppose you are about to become family too."

His eyes burn the side of my face. My invisible blinkers are useless; I don't need to see him to feel the weight of his gaze.

"How is the waste-disposal business going?" Papa asks. "I hear you're doing well in the north."

Cristiano looks down at me as he takes a long sip of red wine. "Yes, Nicolò just won a few major contracts with the help of some friends in Washington."

I suspect this is code for dirty politicians sending government contracts their way in return for backhanded payments.

"We've also financed a new division. Private residential. I believe Sav plans to launch it in the next few months."

"Do you have branding for it yet? A logo? Trilby could design something for you—right, honey? She's about to finish up art school, just in time for the wedding."

My gaze snaps to Papa. "What about the other courses I talked to you about, Papa? And the galleries that offer management programs?"

Papa continues as though he didn't hear a word I just said. "She's a qualified designer. Top of her class." He jabs a fork in my direction, then he spins his last few strands of spaghetti around it.

My jaw would hit Allegra's fancy tablecloth if I weren't so incensed.

" Was top of the class." I pick up my napkin and dab the corners of my mouth before laying it gently to one side. "Unfortunately not qualified though, and it sounds like I never will be." My chair scrapes the wooden floor as I stand. "Excuse me," I say, sweeping my gaze across everyone except Cristiano. "I have a headache. I'm going to get some fresh air."

Allegra inhales tightly. "Take some Advil, Trilby. You'll be fine to join us again in thirty minutes."

Guilt tingles across my skin as I walk the short distance to the library. I'm behaving like a child, and it isn't like me at all, but I feel like I'm walking barefoot into a fire with no protective clothing to keep me from getting burned.

What on earth was Papa thinking when he said I was the only one of the four who could handle marriage to a don? I haven't even married Savero yet and I'm struggling to keep the resentment at bay. How will I handle a whole lifetime of dinners with my husband and his capos and associates if I can't even handle one dinner with his brother?

Cristiano's voice echoes in my ears, and I can still feel the burn where his fingertips dug into my skin. He doesn't even need to be in the same room as me to haunt my every thought.

I shake the sound of his velvety voice from my head. It's fine to not be attracted to my husband-to-be. People have arranged marriages all the time to people they're not attracted to. But to be more attracted to his brother would be unthinkable .

I leave the door of the library ajar and walk to the window. Mama's rosebush in the center of the lawn is beginning to bud. I miss her so much it's like I have a permanent hole in my chest. Mama would tell me what to do and how to behave. She'd make sure I don't jeopardize my family's future. I wish she were here. I need her to stop these traitorous thoughts, because I'm not sure I have the strength to do so myself.

Resting my hands on the windowsill, I look out over the gardens. Papa has worked so hard for everything we have—I won't let him down. But despite my loyalty I feel angry at him, and it's taking everything in me to contain it.

I had plans before Papa decided to marry me off. I wanted to graduate art school and work for a gallery. I wanted to champion new artists and give them spaces to show their work to potential investors. I wanted to counteract all the death and destruction in the world with beauty.

I'm incapable of producing such great beauty myself, as evidenced by my black splatter marks, but I could beam others' sunshine into the skies. However, it's clear Papa has other plans for me. Namely, not taking my education any further and having me deliver work for just the one client: Di Santo Incorporated.

A figure moves past the open door, casting the room in shadow. I look over my shoulder to see Cristiano leaning against the doorframe watching me.

I turn around, rest back against the window, and stare back at him. The hem of my dress rises up my thighs, and I make no move to tug it down like I normally would in front of any other man. He's in my space after all.

The longer his gaze holds mine, the hotter I become, until I'm sure my burning skin is the same color as the red silk dress.

Without waiting for an invitation, he steps into the library and walks toward me. My gaze follows him, and my heartbeat quickens.

He stops a couple of feet away, his chest level with my face, and uncurls his palm. "For your headache."

I drop my gaze to the two white pills in his hand then glance up at him. "I think we both know I don't have a headache."

I cross one ankle over the other, knowing it will elongate my legs, but not knowing why I can't stop myself.

"You don't have to design any logos or branding for us. We have agencies on our books."

"I'm sure you do."

He pushes his hands into his pockets and regards me.

"How about we start over? Let's forget about the night at the bar and pretend we just met at the church."

"The church? Seriously?" I smile thinly. "What's to forget? I barely remember anything anyway."

For a split second he looks at me as if I slapped him, but he resumes his blank expression instantly. "You told me I was attractive."

Blood freezes in my veins. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did." He folds his arms across his chest, and his biceps fill out the white shirt, dark ink filtering through the soft cotton. "In fact, your exact words were, ‘If you weren't the most attractive guy in here already, you certainly are now.'"

My vision swims.

His gaze feels searing against my shoulder blades as I turn back to the window. Even looking in the opposite direction I can't escape the heat.

"That was inappropriate of me. I'm sorry," I whisper.

He takes another step toward me. "Don't be. I would have been flattered if it weren't for the fact you only thought that because I might be bad news."

My peaked nipples chafe against the fabric of my dress. "And are you?"

There's a long pause before he replies.

"It depends who's asking."

My mouth is suddenly dry. "What if it's me asking? As your future sister-in-law." I stare out at the garden, too afraid to read his expression.

His soft sigh touches my skin from a few paces away. "No ..."

I hold my breath.

". . . because I'm not staying."

The thump of my heartbeat threatens to drown out all other sound. "But you'd be bad news if you were?" I turn my head far enough to catch his presence out of the corner of my eye, and my blood pulses in my ears.

Seconds pass.

His jaw works softly from side to side.

Then he nods slowly.

I shiver as I exhale. I feel like I'm levitating, unable to keep a handle on solid ground.

I turn back to the window, afraid to look at him. "I'll see you in the dining room," I say quietly.

When I return to the table, rain is lashing against the windows, the late spring weather reflecting my volatile mood. One minute I'm upbeat and the sun's shining; the next I'm as low as I can possibly be and thunderclouds are emptying themselves over every corner of my world.

I'm attracted to my future brother-in-law.

And if his cryptic response to my last question was what I think it was, he's attracted to me too.

I feel sick and lightheaded.

Cristiano and Papa are discussing something at one end of the table, with Allegra and my sisters at the other. Sera and Bambi are doing something on Bambi's phone, while Tess and my aunt bicker over something inconsequential. I sigh inwardly and sit next to Tess and Allegra, feigning interest in their low-key quarrel.

"Can we talk about something else?" Tess whines, jerking her chin toward me. "The wedding. What's the latest?"

My stomach drops, and my eyes involuntarily find Cristiano's. His face is turned toward Papa's, his chin resting on his curled fist, but his eyes keep flicking sideways, watching me.

I turn away before my cheeks heat. "I don't know anything about it."

Tess lifts a glass to her lips and extends a finger toward Allegra. "Do you?"

"I've had some ideas. I was hoping to talk to Savero about it this evening," Allegra replies, looking personally offended he didn't show.

Tess flashes me a glance.

I look down at the linen napkin I'm bunching between my fingers. "He's not coming."

"How do you know?" Tess places her empty glass on the table, the loud clang turning Papa's head.

"It's ten p.m. already." I shrug. "And he sent his brother in his place. At least I know what his priorities are before I marry him. My expectations won't have to come crashing down after the wedding—they'll already be on the floor." I pick up a glass of whiskey that hasn't been touched and throw half the double measure down my throat.

"Trilby Castellano," Allegra hisses. "What's gotten into you?"

The whiskey burns, but I manage to swallow. "What?"

"You don't know the reasons why he didn't show ..."

"And I never will," I say tightly.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I'm never going to know where he is, what he's doing, who he's with. It's not my place, is it? Not in his world. I have to sit back, do as I'm told, and live with it." I circle the whiskey glass, watching the amber catch the light. "So there's no point in speculating. I'll only ever know as much as you." I glance at her wide-eyed expression. "Which is nothing at all." Then I down the rest of the glass.

Allegra seethes silently, while Tess gleefully scours the table for more whiskey. What could be more entertaining: me having another disagreement with Allegra, or me having another disagreement with Allegra, drunk?

My aunt and I stare at each other until a shadow falls over us both.

"Excuse me, ladies."

His voice brings me out in goose bumps. I glance up—a long way up—until I find his face.

"Oh! Mr. Di Santo ..." Allegra springs up from her seat, but Cristiano puts his hand on her shoulders.

It's then I think the one thing I never thought possible: Right now, I'd give anything to be my aunt.

"Please sit." He coaxes her back down. "And please, call me Cristiano."

Allegra gulps loudly.

"I'm about to leave, but may I have a word with your niece?"

Allegra frowns. "Serafina? Well, yes, of course."

"Serafina?" Cristiano's brow dips.

"Yes. You're interested in marriage, no?"

Both Cristiano and I gasp at the same time but for probably very different reasons. I suspect any marital involvement with my family is low to nonexistent on his bucket list, and nausea overcomes me at the thought of him marrying one of my sisters. One Mafia man in the family is more than enough.

"No. Trilby, signora . I owe her an apology."

Allegra flushes deeper than a ripe raspberry.

"No, you don't." My words come out too high and too fast. "It's fine. I understand. Savero has business to attend to."

His eyes darken. "Still ..." He pauses, his gaze burrowing beneath my skin. "Would you mind walking me out?"

Nerves sizzle across my shoulders. Allegra pans to face me slowly. Tess returns from her search empty-handed and with an obvious awareness of the uncomfortable vibe. Her gaze flits between me and our aunt.

"Um, of course," I mutter. I can hardly refuse him. "In fact, it's time I went home anyway."

If I leave now, I might save myself the Spanish Inquisition for at least twelve hours.

I kiss Allegra's stone face and wave good night to Papa. Then I numbly follow Cristiano out the dining room to the front door. Before he opens it, however, he shrugs off his jacket and slides it around my shoulders.

"It's been raining out, and I noticed you didn't bring a jacket."

He opens the door before I can think of a response.

Our pace is slow as we walk along the path. When we reach the steps to the apartment, an image from the night at Joe's flashes across my lids, and I burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "I just remembered something. When I got home from Joe's Bar that night, I was so relieved to see these steps. I had the cab driver doing circuits of this whole neighborhood, because I couldn't for the life of me remember my address."

When I look up at him, he's not laughing. It sobers me right up, even though the only thing I drank tonight was the one glass of whiskey.

"Didn't the bartender tell the driver? He knows where you live, right?"

I gawp at him. "Yeah, he does, but ... why would Rhett tell my cab driver?"

In a beat Cristiano has my arm in a tight grip. "Who called the cab?"

"Cristiano, that hurts . . ."

He growls through clenched teeth, " Who called the cab? "

"I did. What's the matter?"

"Who paid for it?"

"Me!" My voice is high-pitched, and I look around the gated development, hoping no one is witnessing this. "Who else?"

When he doesn't respond I glance back at him, and for some unknown reason, I'm afraid of what I might see.

It turns out I'm right to be, because a shadow has descended over him like thunder .