Page 23 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

By the time the house finally settles, it's dark outside.

Silvano and Dante doubled the guard detail, and Manollo assured me—again—that Enrico is fine, just tied up in meetings for the rest of the day. I can't say why I am so worried about him, but whenever he is near, I feel safe. And when he's not around, I feel… unsettled.

Maybe because my entire life has been turned upside down.

For the better, most certainly, but anxiety still haunts me now and then.

I jump at shadows while servants unload the SUV.

Turns out the other guard who was with Manollo isn't dead.

He drove the SUV home, while Manollo took Enrico's tank to keep Izzy and me safe, and Enrico took Izzy's Lambo.

With all this happening, I had forgotten about our earlier purchases.

That's not the case for Izzy, who has them brought up to our closets, where she stands like a drill sergeant, directing the servants on which bag to take where.

It's a whole new experience watching her work . Where Camilla would have yelled and screamed, Izzy smiles at the servants, correcting them with a simple nod or a sweet word. She doesn't even lose her composure when a maid accidentally drops a box containing a pair of her new shoes.

Whenever I have a quiet moment, I can still hear the banging of gunshots, the boom of an explosion.

I see blood and dead bodies, but thankfully, Izzy is not giving me much pause.

First, we unload my bags, then she helps me organize and put everything away, which makes me feel like a princess in a fairy tale.

Seeing all these new clothes, knowing they're mine, is simply overwhelming.

Once we're done with my closet, we get to work on Izzy's. But before we can put anything away, things go flying out into the hallway that separates her closet from her bed and bathroom.

"Nope, don't need that anymore." The velvety brown dress she just tossed out still has a price tag on it. "So last season," she mumbles.

"I found another box," one of the maids holds out a shoebox that must have gotten lost in the SUV.

"Oh, Sandy. Thank you." Izzy takes it, then looks at the maid. "I think this dress would look great on you." She snatches up the one she just tossed and hands it to the beaming maid.

It doesn't take long before word spreads among the maids and kitchen helpers—as this seems to be a common occurrence—and they all find reason to be in Izzy's bedroom.

Izzy tosses designer clothes at them with no other thought than to make room for her new clothes.

Camilla would have rather cut all her dresses up than watch one of the Giordano's maids wear her clothes.

"Thank heavens they started filling the truck before the shooting," Izzy exclaims, half-laughing when she finally made enough room for the new stuff.

I don't respond. Part of me wants to argue with her—say it feels wrong to be glad about anything after what happened—but the truth is, it's a comfort. Having my own clothes and belongings grounds me, even if that makes me selfish. I guess I'm learning from Izzy and taking things in stride.

Dinner is served at six in the formal dining room.

Izzy counseled me on what to wear and tried to prepare me for her family.

But I'm still uneasy, all the more so when what sounds like a heated conversation stops the moment Izzy and I enter.

All eyes fly to me, and I feel my face flush.

My eyes move over the assembled group sitting around the table.

Enrico is not among them. The only other person I know, Dante, winks at me, relieving some of my tension.

A woman, the only one at the table, dressed smartly in a skirt and blouse, rises from the head of the table.

She looks beautiful with her black hair and dark eyes.

"You must be Catalina. Dante told me about you." She steps forward and takes my hands. "Welcome. And thank you for saving my baby girl."

At the tears forming in her eyes, my face flushes more.

I'm not prepared for the embrace she enfolds me in next, but it's more than welcome.

It reminds me of my mamma, so much so that my arms move around her automatically, and I'm not sure who is more reluctant to let go, her or me.

The simple gesture makes it clearer, too, that Enrico's hug earlier did more to my body than just give me comfort.

"Thank you, from the bottom of our hearts. You are a Godsend and very welcome here. Whatever you need, you name it, eh?" The deep voice of a man interrupts our hug.

The man I see when the lady lets go of me looks exactly like Enrico, only about thirty years older, with graying, dark hair. It's not as black as Enrico's, more of a dark brown. He also looks a few inches shorter, but no less impressive than his son.

"I'm Fabrizio, Rizio, and this is my wife, Eliza," he introduces, before he kisses me on both cheeks. "And these, up, up," he yells at the other two men, also carbon copies of their dad, who promptly rise, "are my other sons, Mattheo and Tommaso."

"Nice to meet you," Tommaso mumbles, while Mattheo kisses both of my cheeks like his father did.

"Come sit, cara." Eliza pulls out the chair to her left. I feel a little uncomfortable, sure this seat is usually taken by someone else.

As if reading my mind, Izzy pushes me forward. "It's just Enrico's. You can sit there tonight. He won't care."

Relieved, I sit down, forcing a smile at the family, who are all still staring at me.

"Move! Sit over there tonight," Izzy pushes Mattheo out of the way, taking his seat.

"Manners," Eliza scolds her daughter.

"It's good for a girl to be assertive." Rizio smiles indulgently at his daughter, giving me the impression that Izzy could get away with murder with her father. Then I remember that they're all mafia and duh myself, barely holding back a nervous snicker.

I get that I'm not with the Giordanos any longer, but staying in the shadows, trying not to gain any attention, has been second nature to me for so many years that the attention being lavished on me now is… unsettling.

"What do you like to do, Catalina?" Eliza smiles at me, just as I pull my courage together and use a pair of tongs to grab a piece of meat from the platter in the center. My hand begins to shake so badly that I have to put the tongs down.

"Would you like some?" Mattheo doesn't wait for my answer; he takes the tongs and the same piece of meat I selected and puts it on my plate.

"How about some potatoes?" Tommaso asks next.

"Yes, please," my voice is barely a whisper.

"Steamed or mashed?" He wants to know.

"Mashed."

"Here, let me see your plate." Dante is next, and Izzy pulls it from under my nose and holds it out to him to fill with vegetables.

Proudly, Eliza looks from one of her kids to the other, and the love that's written over her face for them takes my breath away. A deep yearning for my mamma fills me. It's been so long since anybody looked at me with anything other than disdain.

My plate emerges back in front of me, loaded with different vegetables, meat, and mashed potatoes.

"Thank you." My voice is still barely a whisper, but since all eyes are on me, it's audible enough.

"So?" Izzy pushes her mother's question.

"It's silly, really." I squirm in my seat, but the probing eyes won't go away. "I'm on Pinterest a lot, I like… fashion."

"Really? What's your handle?" Izzy pulls her phone out.

"No electronics at the dinner tab—" Rizio's voice trails off until it becomes inaudible under his wife's scorching glare.

"LaModaDiCat," I whisper my username.

I should be grateful that all eyes are on Izzy now, as she scrolls through my account, chattering about the outfits I pinned and asking a million questions.

But still, small beads of sweat trickle down my back.

The Giordanos always made a big show of dinner; four, sometimes five nights a week, everyone seated at the long table like a twisted royal court.

And while the Sartoris clearly value family meals too, the energy in the room couldn't be more different.

With the Giordanos, there was always an underlying hostility, a sharp tension beneath every word.

Camilla and Roberto constantly sniped at each other, vying for their father's approval like it was oxygen.

Giovanni barely spoke unless it was to issue a command or a threat.

Constancia, their mother, usually ducked out after the first course, wine glass in hand, eyes already glazed over.

She existed on the fringe of the family like a ghost with a silk scarf and a drinking problem.

Once, during a particularly tense dinner, Camilla snapped at me for chewing too loudly. I hadn't even been eating; I was just sitting there, existing in the wrong place.

But here... the Sartori house feels like it breathes.

There's banter. Laughter, even. Rizio tells a dry joke about a politician and a goat that makes even Eliza smirk.

Izzy rolls her eyes but doesn't hesitate to rib her brother.

Mattheo, seated two chairs down, teases her right back, and someone actually passes the salad without turning it into a power play.

No one's trying to cut anyone down. No one's waiting to pounce.

And Eliza sees everything , not just what's happening on the surface. She notices when Tommaso winces and casually slides the bread basket his way. When Izzy pauses too long in her teasing, she gently changes the subject. She doesn't just host the dinner. She holds the room together.

Already, I sense that the Sartoris operate on something entirely foreign to me, mutual respect. Protection. Love, even. And though it's only my first day here, something dangerous and disorienting blooms in my chest: Hope.

The feeling that maybe… just maybe… I won't always feel this tense. That maybe I could sit at this table someday and feel like I belong.

"Wow, Mamma, look at this!" Izzy passes her phone to Eliza.