Page 55 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Isobel

When I first took Marcello’s case, I never imagined I’d be invited to Salvatore Romano’s mansion for a birthday party. Yet here I am, walking into the sprawling estate with my arm hooked around none other than the heir to the Outfit empire himself.

The agent in me is buzzing with a twisted thrill at being here, while the woman in me can’t help but feel a little anxious about how I’ll be received by Marcello’s family.

When I first met Lucky and Enzo back at Sacred Heart, neither looked particularly thrilled to see me.

I haven’t worked up the courage to ask Marcello what he told them about me since I’m not exactly eager to burst the ‘ church and state’ agreement we got going on.

And by church and state, I mean his direct affiliation with the most notorious crime family on the East Coast, and my role as a special agent in the FBI.

“Are you nervous?” Marcello teases, lifting my hand just to brush a kiss against the back of it.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Little bit.” He chuckles.

“I’m sorry,” I reply, trying to shake the nerves away.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Izzie.” He smiles warmly. “I have to be honest with you… I’m a little nervous myself.”

“Really? Why?” I ask, surprised, since this huge mansion is like a second home to him. Unlike me, he should feel completely at ease here.

“I’ve never brought a girlfriend to meet my family before.”

My heart swells as I stop mid-step to face him. “Is that what I am? Your girlfriend?” I tease playfully to not show how one little word quickened my heartbeat.

However, my taunting smile disappears with the seriousness in his eyes as he cups my cheeks in his palms and leans closer, breathing me in.

“There isn’t a word in the English language that does justice to what you are to me. So unfortunately… girlfriend will have to do.” When I don’t respond immediately, his brows pull together in concern. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” I shake my head. “It’s just… my heart needs a minute to start beating again after that.”

His eyes soften while his gentle caress on my cheeks is starting to make my knees feel weak.

“It’s the truth,” he whispers, his gaze dropping to my lips.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I warn, swallowing dryly.

“Like what?” he murmurs softly, his gaze becoming heady.

“You know damn well like what.” I laugh nervously. “If I’m about to meet your mother, I must have my wits about me. I can’t be fantasizing about sneaking off with you to a room and having your wicked way with me.”

“It doesn’t have to be a fantasy, you know,” he says, before leaning into my ear to whisper, “But I’ll be a good boyfriend and… put a pin on that idea… for later.”

My cheeks burn as Marcello presses a soft kiss to my forehead instead of my lips, fully aware that it would be enough to change my mind if he kissed me now. Unbeknownst to him, his chaste kiss to my temple still manages to ignite the tangled mess of emotions his words have stirred inside me.

I’m still amazed that a man whose life revolves around killing his enemies can be so tender and gentle with those he loves and cares deeply about. And I thank my lucky stars that I’m counted among the latter, and not the former, like I used to.

“Come,” he urges, guiding me forward into the lavish party filled with notorious mafiosos and some of the state’s most prominent figures.

Though I try my best to put it out of my mind, I can’t help but mentally catalog each guest as we pass, my FBI training kicking into overdrive. Haynes would have a field day with so many high-ranking capos under one roof. Not that he’ll ever know I was here.

After putting his hands on me last week, the first thing I did the next morning was email Director Roderick, explaining the incident in detail.

I also addressed the issue of Haynes’s unprofessional behavior since joining his task force.

I explained that he has been stingy with information, not keeping me in the loop with the operation, which has sometimes proved detrimental to my investigation.

I gave the example of Haynes enrolling me at the same college Stella attended, and purposely not disclosing that information, believing it was redundant for me to know.

I detailed how my relationship with Stella could have helped me get closer to Marcello sooner, and how this connection with her could have enabled the FBI to discover the unwritten agreement between the Bratva and the Outfit ahead of time.

Furthermore—and this one is a doozy—I informed Director Roderick that Marcello might not even be responsible for Father McDonagh’s disappearance, like we first assumed.

After eavesdropping on Father Torres and Enzo, I informed that I’m inclined to believe that the young priest may actually be the culprit involved in his mentor’s demise and not the Outfit heir as we previously suspected.

In other words, the FBI is no closer to bringing the Outfit down than it was before I arrived in Chicago, making the whole task force obsolete—something that Haynes is trying very hard not to let the head office be aware of.

I included all of this in my report and formally requested to file a complaint against Haynes.

Director Roderick promptly emailed back, advising me she would look into the matter.

In the meantime, she requested that I report to her, and only her, my findings regarding Father Torres, which is more than fine with me.

If I can go the rest of my life without running into Haynes again, I’ll call it a win.

However, my attention isn’t on work tonight. It’s on meeting the people Marcello holds most dear—his family.

As we wander around the large living room, something very peculiar catches my attention.

“I thought you said this was Annamaria’s sweet sixteen?” I whisper over to Marcello.

“It is,” he nods.

I chew at the corner of my bottom lip in confusion.

The atmosphere is all wrong. I don’t see anyone close to Annamaria’s age here.

If anything, this feels like a celebration thrown for her parents rather than for her.

I keep that thought to myself as Marcello leads the way with his hand pressed at the low of my back, weaving through the sequins, silk, and elitist crowd.

“Let’s find the birthday girl and give her our present before I go look for my mother,” Marcello says, his eyes scanning the room.

“Okay.”

However, as we navigate the sea of glammed-up guests, Annamaria is still nowhere in sight.

“Hmm. I wonder where she is?” Marcello murmurs, worry knitting his brows. “Stay here, bella. I’ll go find her. Maybe she’s hiding out in her room or something.”

With a quick kiss on the top of my head, Marcello disappears amongst the overdressed crowd.

Only when I’m left to my own devices do I realize I’ve garnered some attention from the guests.

I feel their eyes linger on me a moment too long before leaning in to whisper to the person beside them, as if I wouldn’t notice.

I try to shrug it off, but soon it feels less like curiosity and more like I’m some rare artifact on display in a museum.

When their blatant gossiping starts to get on my nerves, I decide to wait for Marcello outside on the backyard porch.

The last thing I want to do is cause a scene tonight, so slipping out to catch some fresh air seems like a good judgment call on my part.

The chilly spring air is sharp against my skin, the cold breeze a welcome relief after the heat of so many eyes on me inside.

I hug my arms to my chest to keep warm, letting my gaze drift past the porch.

I scan the vast expanse of the yard and the dark line of woods just beyond, where the last light of the sun casts everything in gold and shadow.

That’s when I catch another flash of gold—not from the setting sun, but from long hair lifting and twisting in the wind.

“Anna?” I call out when I spot her standing in the middle of the yard, her gaze fixed on the woods ahead.

She looks mesmerized by the sunset bleeding across the sky in shades of pink, lavender, and orange, its glow spilling onto the trees where the last of this year’s winter snow glistens as it melts.

“Izzie, hi,” she says, turning toward me, discreetly wiping the silent tears streaming down her face.

“Are you alright?” I ask, hurrying to her, worried that she’s hurt.

“Yes, I’m fine.” She offers a meek smile.

“Are you sure? You don’t look like it.” I frown, placing my hand on her back and rubbing it gently.

“It’s nothing really. I’m just… I don’t know. A little sad, I guess.”

“Is it because it’s your birthday? Most girls would be excited about turning sixteen.”

“Is it only sixteen? I feel older than that.”

My frown deepens at the reasoning behind her words. Annamaria might have just hit a significant milestone in her teenage years, but the sadness in her eyes seems like she’s lived twice as long.

“I would have thought you’d be more excited. Most teenagers get cars at this age,” I say, trying to lighten her melancholic mood by offering something she could look forward to.

“Not me. I get chauffeurs and bodyguards to drive me around,” she counters sullenly.

“Yes, I heard that your parents are a little overprotective.”

“That’s a generous way of saying it,” she sighs. “But I’m used to it. Besides, that’s not the reason why I’m a bit… off today.”

“What is it then? Why are you sad, Anna? Is it because of the party? Did your parents not let you invite your friends from school?” I ask, since I’ve been curious about that too.

Though, from the little Marcello has talked about his parents, there is nothing they wouldn’t do to make their children happy, particularly Annamaria, being the youngest.

Annamaria doesn’t offer an explanation right away, preferring to stare back at the woods, as if they hold all the answers to her melancholy.

“I don’t have any friends,” she says at last. “And the one I do have wouldn’t be welcomed in my home. Not anymore.”