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I force myself to take a bite of lettuce, though it tastes like cardboard in my mouth. Sam hasn't touched his food, either, his fingers drumming an angry rhythm against the table's surface.

"I didn't mean to upset you," I whisper, keeping my eyes fixed on my plate.

Sam's fingers stop their drumming. "Look at me."

I raise my eyes slowly to meet his gaze. The darkness is still there, but something else flickers beneath it — something that looks almost like pain.

"My uncle was not a good man." His voice is low, controlled. "He hurt people… People I care about."

I think about the night in the alley, trying to reconcile the violence I witnessed with this explanation. Was this some twisted form of justice? Or just another act in an endless cycle of violence?

"Eat your food," Sam says, effectively ending the conversation. He picks up his fork and starts eating as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t just admit to killing his uncle for revenge.

I follow his lead, though each bite is hard to get down. The salad is probably excellent; the chef clearly knows what they're doing, but I can't taste anything. My mind is too busy tryingto process everything, to understand the complexities of Sam Costello.

He can smile one moment and be terrifying the next. He can touch me with such tenderness, then speak of murder in the same breath. He's a paradox wrapped in an expensive suit, and I'm starting to realize how dangerous it is that I find myself wanting to understand him better instead of running away screaming.

The same server appears to clear our plates, replacing them with the main course. The smell of perfectly cooked lasagna fills the air, but my stomach is still in knots.

My dad and grandpa would talk endlessly about how incredible my grandmother's Italian cooking was, but she passed before I came into this world. Neither of them could cook worth a damn. Mom's talented in the kitchen, but she gravitates toward French cuisine - Italian food brings up memories of my father that she'd rather leave behind.

I moan over another forkful of lasagna. Sam chuckles, and I find his eyes fixed on me when mine flutter open.

Heat rises to my cheeks.

"My bad," I say quietly, dabbing my lips with the linen napkin. "The food is incredible."

"No need for apologies." Sam takes a drink of water. "I'm pleased you like it. Emilio's the finest chef in New Orleans."

The door suddenly opens, but it's not one of the servers this time. It's the same guy I spotted earlier today, before Sam directed me upstairs to clean up and get fitted for an entirely new collection of clothes. They exchange a glance and, somehow, without words, they communicate, because Sam rises from his chair and drops his napkin, abandoning his half-eaten dinner.

"They'll bring out dessert," he tells me, shifting his focus back. "The staff will handle anything you need. I've got work in my office. Tomorrow morning, meet me downstairs. Clear?"

I nod, and this time, he doesn't insist on a verbal response.

He's already heading out.

And it shouldn't affect me. Shouldn't make me feel this way that he's cutting dinner short.

But there's an unmistakable heaviness in my heart that suggests otherwise.

SIXTEEN

Sam

Ifollow John into my office, shutting the doors behind us. My cousin goes right for the leather armchair and sits down, waiting for me to join him before he speaks.

"Kade agreed to a meeting. Tomorrow at one p.m."

Kade Marcellus is the president of the Iron Serpents. He's a middle-aged man who took over in his twenties after my father killed most of his club in retaliation for my mother’s death. After that, Nonno had a sit-down with Kade, coming to the agreement that's been in place for the last eighteen years.

This is what I wanted. A sit-down with the Serpents. See if there's an agreement we can come to before things turn into a bloody war.

"I promised to take Olivia to her bar tomorrow."

John tilts his head, eyeing me skeptically. "This is more important, yeah?"

Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I nod. "Yeah. Of course. I'll be there. Arrange backup, and I think Adrian should come in with us." It's time to get my new consigliere’s hands dirty. Well, I guess dirtier than I've already gotten them.