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This is when I notice the one person at our table who is not jovial. The fucking psycho Julia.

Her gaze is firmly fixed on Sienna, and more worrying is the deranged, unhinged, psychotic look on her face.

It is a look I have seen before.

On the day I lost a man so close to me, I considered him a brother.

It is the same look this bitch wore the day she killed Nicolo Scarva.

Chapter 20

Light

Damon is difficult to get to know, considering the almost impenetrable mask he wears to hide his feelings from the world. Most of the time, he chooses what he allows others to see. This is enviable but also frustrating.

With time, however, I have found a little loophole in that iron-clad façade. His body. It slips his control and betrays him subtly, only noticeable to those he allows close. Which is few and far between.

There were little inflections in his voice that could be missed or micromovements in his body, his muscles, such as just now when he tensed ever so slightly.

The cause is the woman on the other side of the table, Damon’s gaze so piercing as he stares at her that I bristle under its penetration. My eyes drift over to her, and once again, her icy blue orbs are locked on me. There is no mistaking the look in their depths. Pure hate. It is outwardly reflected in the sneer that contorts her face, making her look…psychotic, really. There is no other word that encompasses it. It reminds me of that movie with Jack Nickolson, The Shining.

Even more disturbing is the millisecond for that look to be replaced with a sickly sweet one. She is the epitome of a high-class lady as Luciano arrives at the table.

His arrival signals the onslaught of white and black as smartly dressed waiters and waitresses peel through the doors, carrying trays of appetizers.

“She doesn’t like me very much. Is there a history between you and her that I should know?” I whisper, leaning towards Damon so that only he can hear me.

“Not one you should be jealous of.” His answer doesn’t really give much away. I was hoping for more. Perhaps a denial that they have been physical, which sits at the top of my question pile when it comes to them. It is jealousy. I recognize it as that and also know it’s ridiculous that I should feel this way about Damon's past sexual encounters. Which I don’t doubt were plentiful, considering his breathtaking skill in that department.

But it’s also the picture in his office, the one he has kept as if it had sentimental value. For a man so guarded and hard to faze, his keeping it was a big thing.

“Do you remember asking me about the tattoo on my bicep?” I nod but keep quiet. This is the first time he is willingly divulging something about himself. I didn’t want to ruin it with my words.

“The man it is in memory of, the man who is dead, his name was Nicolo Scarva.”

Wait, what? My eyes drift over to the psycho on the other side of the table, who is thankfully in deep conversation with Luciano.

“Julia was his wife. She took the whole ‘until death do us part’ section of their vows into her own hands. Never proved, of course.” My hand flies to my mouth to stifle the gasp that escapes at the shockingnews, the blood draining from my face.

Damon did not seem like a man who fabricated stories, and his look was deathly serious.

“I don’t keep the picture as a fond sentimental token. I keep it as a reminder of just how dangerous Julia can be and what she is capable of.”

I don’t even have a chance to respond as we are interrupted by a waiter who places food in front of us before swiftly disappearing. I’m reeling from this story. We were sitting at a table with a murderer—someone who had taken the life of another.

“We never slept together.” Damon's confession snaps my gaze to him.

“I never thought that. I don’t care if you did.” My face flames, and my ears ignite as I lie.

He smirks.

“You care. In the same way thoughts of other men having you first make me want to go back in time and make sure they never existed just so that I could be your first.”

Once again, his words leave me speechless. All I can do is stare at this gorgeous man whose words, as disturbing as they are, convey his feelings for me in a nontraditional way.

“Eat up. You need your strength for tonight.” He points to the plate in front of me, and I am pleasantly surprised to find that it is a vegetarian option of celeriac medallions with truffled puree and pickled cauliflower.

“I sent in your dietary requirements over a week ago.” Speechless is my state of being for the night as I look at Damon, this sentence thrown out into existence like it is nothing. I don’t even think he realizes how much meaning I put into them.