Page 144

“Smudged mascara, red eyes—time to paint over the wreckage.” I reach under my bathroom sink and pull out some concealer. If I didn’t have to go back down and mingle with the rest of these people, I would be on my second bottle of chardonnay. It’s what my brother would have wanted.

Antonio always used to say, “Every second is a good time for bubbly.”

I choke out a laugh as I apply my concealer. Tears brim in my eyes, but I do my best to hold them back. The last thing I need right now is to ruin my makeup for the second time.

Go down. Talk to parents—mainly my father. Then drink my sorrows away in my bed.

That is my game plan, and a solid one at that. I’m sure the wine will be a better conversationalist than the people currently in my home.

I come out of my room after about twenty minutes. I walk to my parents’ door and open it slightly. There, I find my mother lying on the bed, her chest rising and falling gently.

The pills worked.

I am not in favor of drugs helping her cope, but I popped a Xanax this morning to get through the day. If this is what helps her sleep and keeps her from being hysterical, then it’s a win for all of us. I hate hearing her bloodcurdling scream. I hate not being able to soothe her pain.

“Fuck, Antonio,” I curse my dead brother as I make my way down the stairs in search of my father. There are still people lingering around the house to ‘console’ us. But I know this world like the back of my hand. These people are just circling sharks who linger because they can smell blood.

The Faravelli heir is dead, and their family is weakened.

The anger pours into my system all over again. I have been robbed of my brother because of nothing but greed and a thirst for power. I have this undeniable bloodlust that fills my system. I am murderous. Whoever killed Antonio will rue the day they ever laid a hand on a Faravelli.

“Maria, a moment, please?” a woman I don’t recognize calls out as she sees me walking down the hallway.

“I need to go and call my father,” I say with an apologetic smile, though truly, I don’t want any more of their fake condolences. “I’ll be back.”

Her shoulders sag in disappointment, but I could give two shits what makes her sad or not. I’m in mourning. Not her.

I round the corner and come to a halt when I see my father and Matteo Davacalli walk into his office. They’ve been having hushed conversations all day. At first, I thought they were simply catching up, but now my little spider senses are tingling—something isn’t right.

“What are you up to, Papá?” I whisper under my breath. I wait for the door to close, then tiptoe toward it, wanting to hear what they’re saying.

I stand outside my father’s study. I can hear the muffled voices of the two men inside. There’s something about Mr. Davacalli that stirs something in me. I don’t know if it’s fear or something else. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of anything that could otherwise be considered inappropriate.

I am at my brother’s wake, for God’s sake.

I step closer to the door and strain my ears to catch what’s going on inside. I hear the words, urgent and necessary. As far as I know, my father has been staying clear of any heavily connected links within the mafia—particularly the Italian sector, which just so happens to be Matteo Davacalli. So why is he meeting with him? What could this man possibly have to say to my father?

“This will be for the betterment of your family, Marcelo.” I hear Matteo Davacalli’s deep voice seep through the door. Heavy footsteps follow, and I stiffen. I step away and quickly rush around the corner to hide.

Seconds later, the door opens—and out walks the mafia king himself. As before, his stature is domineering and demands attention. It’s almost impossible to look away. My lips part as I gaze at him, but this time from behind the shield of the wall.

He easily towers over the majority of the men who attended today’s funeral, including my father. His short black hair is slicked back, the style revealing the sharp features of his face—chiseled jawline and high cheekbones that look like they could cut diamonds. Not to mention the way his tailored suit hugs his body, leaving you wondering just how chiseled he really is.

A rush of heat moves throughout my system, and I catch my breath, embarrassed at how intensely I’m staring. There is no way in hell that I am… ogling my father’s old friend. There is no way I can—shit.

Matteo rounds the corner and smacks right into me. His hand shoots out and helps to steady me so that I don’tcompletely lose my balance. Little sparks of electricity move from the place where his palm touches my back.

He smells like expensive whiskey and something darker—something dangerous. His grip is firm, warm, steadying. I pull back, resisting the urge to shiver, and avert my gaze to the floor. His eyes scan me—slow, assessing.

“Careful, Miss Faravelli. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there, Mr. Davacalli. I was on my way to see my father.”

Why am I explaining myself? This is my house. I live here. If anything, he should be the one explaining why he was?—

“That’s all right,” his deep voice filters into my ears, and I all but lose my shit. It’s this silky, textured kind of symphony that kisses my eardrum.

Is it hot in here? My chest heaves up and down, trying to take in as much air as possible before I finally release my breath. A shiver travels up and down my spine until I steel my back and remember where I am.