9. Trilby

T rilby

"Serafina, button up. I can see your bra." Allegra tuts as she flicks her eyes away from the offending outfit.

Sera rolls her eyes. "It's supposed to peek over the top. It's the style."

Allegra huffs. "Underwear is much like intelligence, my dear. It's important to have but not necessary to show off in public."

"That's such a sexist thing to say," Tess says.

Allegra lifts a chin in the air. "It applies to everyone."

"Even the heads of the Cosa Nostra?"

"Well, not those, obviously ."

Sera holds back a smirk, but Tess isn't quite as successful, and hers slips out via a snort.

"And you, young lady." Allegra wags a finger in Tess's direction. "We've already had words this morning, so ..."

"I am not wearing a pink dress to Tril's wedding. And forcing me to will only result in me repressing my anger and shame at not being allowed to express myself authentically."

Allegra goes to speak, but Tess ploughs on impressively.

"I will go through the rest of my life pretending to be someone I'm not, masking my true identity, because I fear I'll never be accepted for who I really am. And I'll let others treat me poorly, because I don't feel worthy of being liked. Then, when it all becomes too much, and I begin to suffer from anxiety—that's if the depression hasn't already taken hold to the extent I can no longer leave the house—I'll be relocated to a therapist's couch and made to dig up stories about how my childhood experiences effectively ruined my life."

Allegra halts, her mouth open wide enough to catch flies. Tess, to her credit, manages to maintain eye contact with her, while my gaze flits about as if trying to locate an escape route.

The only sound is the clip of each button as Sera fastens her jacket.

Allegra's mouth snaps shut. "Fine." She concedes slowly and through clenched teeth. "I won't make you wear pink. But you are not, Contessa—I repeat, not —wearing black to the wedding. Do I make myself clear?"

Tess flicks her long hair over one shoulder with a huff. "I'll think about it." Then she strides ahead in black leggings, a bodysuit, and pointed-toe boots that make her look like a raunchy Catwoman.

I turn to Allegra and shrug. "I really don't mind what she wears to the?—"

"I do." Allegra wrings her hands together. "She is not wearing black. This is a Mafia wedding—it's dark enough as it is. The very least we can do is bring some color."

Sera's eyes flick to me. It's the first time Allegra has expressed a view of my upcoming nuptials as anything other than bright, breezy, and law-abiding.

"Come on." Sera threads her fingers through mine. "It's burning out here. Let's go inside."

I give Allegra a smile, and she follows. It dawns on me then her hand-wringing isn't born of exasperation. She's terrified. As am I.

It's been two weeks since Savero killed a man in front of my eyes. It's been only one since Cristiano dragged me to Joe's Bar and effectively disabled Rhett by shooting through both of his hands, and I'm still a bundle of nerves. I've only seen one other person get shot, and that was my mother. The sound at Joe's took me right back to that day. But in the days since, I've realized with stark clarity the gun isn't the enemy; it's the person firing it. In some ways Cristiano is an enemy. He's jeopardizing my ability to protect my family just by breathing . The more I try not to think about him, the harder it becomes to keep his deep eyes and seductive voice out of my head.

But his actions were not the actions of an enemy.

I stand by my hatred for violence when it's used for death and destruction. The only thing Cristiano destroyed that night was one man's inclination to steal from another, and possibly the use of his hands. But one thing I was able to deduce from the madness was the fact Cristiano gave Rhett close to a thousand bucks to make sure I got home safely. And Rhett didn't do as he was told.

I personally wouldn't have shot through his nerve endings, but I can understand why Cristiano was a little perturbed about Rhett stealing his money.

What I don't understand is why on earth I was worth that much.

I smile at something Sera is saying, but in the past few days I've lost the ability to be present with my own family. I spend long moments daydreaming about the wedding being called off so I can stare back at Savero's brother without worrying someone might see. Those long moments should be spent throwing myself into becoming the best fiancée I can be to keep my family's jugulars in place.

Logically, I know if the wedding were to be called off, I'd never see Cristiano again. He has a life in Vegas and businesses to run; he's only here to bury his father and be a best man. The thought sits like a lead weight in the pit of my stomach.

The house is enormous. So enormous, in fact, the word "house" doesn't do it justice. It's a complex. A network of opulent buildings connected by intricate covered walkways, terraces, and gardens. A doorman walks us through an entrance hall and outside, to a path painted yellow and white with the last of the snowdrops and the first of the daffodils. Birds twitter in manicured evergreens peppering a central garden.

Tess sucks in a breath and releases it with a low whistle. "Is this where you'll live?"

I can't answer her for two reasons. One: I don't know. And two: I can't form a sentence—even a one-word sentence.

"I had no idea a place like this existed here," Bambi whispers.

It's clear this home, this compound , is worth more than most homes around here put together. Even the knobs turned by the doorman's satin-gloved fingers look like they cost more than the average family's life savings.

"It's certainly unique," I eventually say, forcing an element of wonder into my voice.

We're taken straight out to a pretty terrace, where a long table has been laid with bowls and plates of delicious-looking seafood and salads. Three men stand at different corners of the terrace, each one talking on a phone. Only one I recognize—the one who never left Savero's side at the funeral. I believe his name is Nicolò.

Savero looks up as we approach and slides his phone into an inside pocket of his jacket. It must be about ninety degrees out, but still, these men insist on wearing their suits.

"Welcome." He strides toward us and makes straight for Allegra.

"Tony is on his way," she explains. "He's coming from the port."

"Of course," Savero replies before kissing her on the cheek. "I apologize for my no-show last week. I'd been looking forward to dinner, and Cristiano told me the spaghetti was perfetta ."

Allegra has either the good grace or the poor sense to blush.

"Unfortunately, I had a pressing matter to deal with." His expression sobers quickly, and I understand straight away. It's an expression I'd hear a lot when eavesdropping on Papa's conversations with Gianni. I gathered pretty quickly the "matter" was usually a person who'd betrayed the mob, and "deal with" was generally code for "shot in the head."

I swallow and glance at Bambi, whose face has paled. I take hold of her hand and give it a reassuring squeeze. I don't know if Papa or Allegra have had "the conversation" with her yet—not so much about the birds and the bees but about clans, codes, and consequences. She's about to be joined to the New York Mafia through her sister's marriage, and she's fourteen now, so it's well overdue.

Savero pans his gaze to me, and my spine stiffens. "Trilby," he says, casting his eyes over my outfit.

I felt bad for my aunt after she put in so much effort to welcome Savero, only for him to send his brother in his place, so I gave in to her nagging and compromised with a strappy summer dress in sunshine yellow and navy heels that lift me by a meager two inches. I've even straightened my hair.

"You look ... radiant." He reaches for my hand and lifts it to his lips.

Every nerve ending I have fires up, willing me to run. "Thank you for having us," I say mechanically. "Your home is beautiful."

"Oh, yes. Stunning," Allegra adds, having recovered from the unexpected compliment.

Savero walks us to the edge of the terrace, and we genuinely gasp at the view.

"This is spectacular," Sera says, arriving at my side.

I look behind us to see Tess and Bambi tentatively giving their drinks preferences to a servant.

"Come," Savero says. "Let's eat."

We help ourselves to small plates of antipasto and sit at round bistro tables. Everyone else settles into lighthearted conversation while I fight to keep the image of Franco as far from the backs of my lids as possible.

Thankfully, Papa arrives and shoots me a reassuring look. When he sits down next to Nicolò and another man I quickly figure is a capo, called Beppe, Savero edges closer to my side. I bristle when he lowers his face to my shoulder.

"Do you like the house?"

I swallow a mouthful of food and dab the corner of my mouth daintily, like Mama taught me. "I do. I like it very much."

"You'll be the lady of this residence very soon."

I'm sure his words are designed to please, but his voice carries a foreboding note.

"It would be my pleasure." I sneak a timid smile at him, but a flash of his harsh eyes sobers me.

" Will , Miss Castellano. It will be your pleasure."

"Of course," I rush out. "That's what I meant."

I cast my eyes downward and curse my brain for emptying completely. I have a million questions prepared, but I cannot for the life of me think of one. "How are you finding your new position?" I ask, internally kicking myself when his brow creases and his top lip hooks upward.

"I won't ever talk to you about my work, Miss Castellano. So don't ask me again."

"Oh, um, of course," I splutter. "I'm sorry."

"Do you have hobbies?" he asks, though his gaze wanders as if he couldn't care less.

For some reason I decide not to disclose the truth about my love of art. I feel so unbearably uncomfortable that I don't want to bring a part of the real me into this conversation.

"Tennis," I say, confident he won't ever ask me to demonstrate my skill—which is fortunate, because I have zero hand-eye coordination.

His lips thin out into what could be a smile, but I'm not sure, and I follow his gaze toward a figure darkening the door to the house.

My heart, God damn it, pounds at the sight of Cristiano. He's wearing a suit, and he must be boiling in this heat, but I can tell even from this distance he's barely broken a sweat. He prowls onto the terrace, greeting two men I've yet to be introduced to, then Beppe, Nicolò and Papa, and Savero.

After exchanging a few coded words with his brother, his gaze lifts to mine. My heart trips over itself, and I curse the stupid thing.

One glance at him and I'm right back in the passenger seat of his car, the road spinning around me even though Cristiano drove as smoothly as if he'd just popped out for gelato, not to shoot straight through both of a man's hands.

I can still taste the nausea that crept up my throat, mixed with guilt and regret. It's my fault Rhett may never have the use of his hands again. If only I hadn't gotten so drunk that night at Joe's.

I can still feel the roll of notes curled inside my fingers, the wet blood trickling down my chest. It stained the neckline of my dress. I should have been repelled by it, but I couldn't tear my eyes away.

I knew unequivocally there was no such intention behind it, but as my eyes burrowed into the blood-soaked bills Cristiano had just shot a man for, I couldn't help but think it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done.

Sera coughs beside me, and I realize my gaze is still locked on Cristiano. He's looking back at me, and though his expression is indifferent, a smile pulls at his eyes.

I spin away as if I've just been caught stealing red-handed.

After the food has been eaten and the plates cleared away, servants bring more trays of drinks for us all. The mood is light and strangely enjoyable.

Cristiano stands and lifts his glass of whiskey in our direction. His voice is thick and dry when he commands everyone's attention. "I'd like to make a toast."

" Grazie fratello ," Savero says. No smile reaches his eyes, and his expression isn't friendly as he looks sideways at Cristiano.

It occurs to me I haven't seen them exchange many words together.

"To my brother and future sister. May you enjoy much happiness ... together. Congratulazioni. "

His gaze doesn't leave mine as he tips back his glass and drinks the entire thing.