Page 12 of Satin Empire

His lips press together, but he decides I’m not worth it and gets out of the car. Mom squeezes my hands and gives me a reassuring smile, then we’re all headed through the front doors and into a modest restaurant decorated to look like it’s from a small southern village at the very tip of Italy.

Men and women are clustered around tables. I don’t recognize any of them. A few kids are running around, and it takes me a minute to find Carlo.

He’s chasing after the kids. When he catches one little boy, he lifts the kid up and laughs, tickling and roaring, and the boy’s kicking his legs and squealing with delight. A pretty woman with auburn hair touches his shoulder and says something, which makes him put the kid down and look over at me.

“Chin up,” Mom says through the corner of her mouth. “Shoulders back. Good posture. Good first impression.”

“Thanks, I’m fine,” I hiss in reply but do as she says anyway because I was definitely slouching.

Orsino makes the introductions. It’s a whirlwind of names and faces: Don Renzo, his brothers Gian and Saul, their wives Maddie, Molly, and Allegra. Then there are the little kids: Brando, Cassie, and baby Vincenzo, just over a year old. Last of all is Stefania, the person closest to my age, and Carlo’s little sister. There are other men, Capos and a few important soldiers, plus the security team lurking at the edges of the room. I’m passed around like a prized Russian nesting doll or a fragile golden egg.

All the while, Carlo’s watching, and I hate it. I hate the way he stares at me like he’s thinking about my performance at his club, and I hate myself for giving him that ammunition. I despise the way it makes me feel, both intensely seen and judged, and I wish I could fade into the background.

But this evening is supposedly all about me.

Everyone seems nice. At least the wives do. I sort of know Allegra since she’s the daughter of Don Rinaldo, but we’ve never talked before. Maddie and Molly both go out of their way to make me feel welcome, but they’re all a few years older than me. I’ll be expected to fit in with them at some point after the marriage is official, and even if they’re the nicest people in the world, I have no idea how that’s going to happen.

Finally, at long last, Carlo asks my stepfather for permission to take me on a walk around the block.

“You want to sample the goods, Carlo?” Orsino chuckles at his lewd joke, and fortunately nobody else finds it amusing. “That’s fine with me, so long as there’s a security detail keeping watch.”

“I’d have it no other way.” Carlo nods at me. “Alana, are you interested?”

I want to say no, but everyone’s staring at me, and what else can I do but nod and stand up. He offers me his arm, which I accept, my cheeks burning, and we leave the restaurant together as everyone stares.

“That was so fucking awful,” I say once we’re outside.

Carlo smiles slightly. At least he’s capable of that. “I should’ve warned you, but I didn’t know how. Renzo insisted on making that shit official, when all I wanted to do was talk to you.”

“It’s fine. Whatever. Here we are.” We start walking toward the far end of the block, going nice and slow. I notice a few Rossi soldiers are tailing us at a respectful distance. “Unfortunately for you, my top’s staying on this time.”

“I agree, very unfortunately for me.” His smile reaches his eyes and I refuse to find him charming. “We got off to a bad start the other night.”

“No kidding. I stripped in your bar and you called me immature.”

“You called me old and insinuated that I’m a bad person.”

“You are old,” I mumble and his arm tightens on my hand.

He’s silent for a second. We keep moving and I wish I understood what this is all about. Carlo didn’t have to do this—I’m going to marry him whether I want to or not. And what’s it matter if I don’t like him? The end result is the same. We’re hitched, our lives glued together through holy matrimony, and our families get their alliance. What I want and what I feel aren’t important.

“If we’re going to do this, we might as well try to get along.” He looks at me sideways like he’s weighing me. “You don’t want to be my wife and I don’t want to be your husband. At least we have that much in common. Maybe we can go from there.”

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. We haven’t even reached the corner of the street yet and I’m already done with this conversation. I know where it’s going, and I have no interest in making nice with him.

“You dragged me out here in front of your entire family, paraded me around like a prized cow, and now you’re saying we might as well get along? You realize that’s not really the tempting pitch you think it is?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “At least I’m trying. And I wanted to talk to you in private, but Renzo wouldn’t allow it, and I don’t have your phone number. Instead of stalking you, I decided this was the next best option.”

I look away and try to keep myself under control. Really, I’m not angry with Carlo right now—he’s not doing anything wrong, exactly—but more pissed at this situation, at my mother and my stepfather, at this ridiculous nightmare I’ve found myself in.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I say to him, because he’s trying to make peace and start over, which is totally reasonable. “But it’s just not what I want, okay? I’m going to find a way out of this marriage somehow. You don’t need to get attached to me, alright?”

He’s quiet for a second. I’m worried I pissed him off, but he doesn’t seem angry, only thoughtful. And I shiver under that intense scrutiny; Carlo really is gorgeous, with lips that beg to be bitten and arms I want to sink my fingers into. He’s the kind of man I’ve always dreamed about, but would never let myself get anywhere near, purely because of what he does for a living. I’ve met too many mafia bastards like him, and I know better at this point. Tempting, absolutely, but he’s a poison flower.

“It would be a shame if you managed to wriggle your way free of this arrangement, because what I saw of you the other night has me very curious.”

Heat fills my cheeks. It’s partially embarrassment; now that I’m a couple days away from the night that shall forever be known in my head as strippergate, I’m honestly amazed I went that far. It was the crowd egging me on, and the fear of getting caught and potentially skull-stomped by big old Helmuth, and a little bit because I’ve been so good all my life it felt kind of fun to be bad. And where else can a girl be very bad if not in a club specifically designed to flaunt her sexual organs?

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