Page 47 of Twisted Fate

He leans close and whispers, “You’re welcome.”

“For an asshole, you’re incredibly considerate,” I say.

He laughs, the sound washing over me, making me smile.

Luca crosses to the far side of the open outdoor area at the back of the yacht where another man stands. They greet each other and quickly become engrossed in a conversation. I notice that the man has a gun tucked into his waistband.

I follow Damian across the wide deck that has a built-in, u-shaped outdoor seating area surrounding a hot tub. He holds the doors and gestures for me to precede him into a room that looks like something out of a fancy hotel. Long ivory sofas accented with pale, seafoam blue throw pillows face each other, separated by a narrow glass and chrome coffee table. There’s a bar along one side of the room, manned by an actual bartender. Huge windows look out at the ocean.

In this room are three people, all of whom look in our direction as we enter. A man and two women.

The man rises from the sofa and approaches. He looks a little like Damian, but there’s a harshness to his features. His jaw is more square, the hollows under his cheekbones more pronounced, his lower lip fuller than his upper. He wears his dark hair shorter than Damian does, and he’s perfectly clean-shaven.

Leonardo Russo, Damian’s older brother.

The head of the Russo family.

The boss. The current king.

“You must be Alina,” Leo says to me, his words perfectly friendly, his tone less so. His gaze flicks over me like I’m something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

My chest tightens and a cold sweat breaks out on my skin.

“I must be,” I agree.

“Leo, this is Alina Madsen,” Damian says. “Alina, this is my brother Leo.”

“Welcome,” Leo says, the word as warm and welcoming as freezer burn. His eyes are dark, cold.

“Thank you.”

It all feels incredibly awkward. Leo doesn’t smile. Maybe he never smiles.

Damian isn’t smiling either.

The brothers make a dynamic duo of intimidation.

Leo glances at the woman next to him. “One last thing, Nicole,” he says. “I need you to coordinate a meeting this week regarding the cybersecurity initiatives.” His tone is different with her. Polite. Professional.

“Of course, Mr. Russo,” she says, rising as she closes the tablet she holds.

She has dark hair, scraped back into a tight bun. No makeup. Glasses with thick black frames, the lenses magnifying her eyes so she looks like a frightened owl. No jewellery. She’s tall, but it’s hard to determine what her figure looks like. Her shoulders are hunched, her neck jutting forward. She’s wearing a beige drop-waist dress with ashy grey horizontal stripes. I could not imagine a less flattering combo of color and style if I tried.

“This is Nicole Milano,” Damian says. “Leo’s assistant.”

She reaches her hand out to me without meeting my eyes, instead looking somewhere over my left shoulder. Her nails are short and unpolished, the cuticles ragged. Her handshake has the strength of a stalk of celery that’s been sitting at the back of the fridge for a month.

“Hello,” she says, her fingers squeezing mine for a second, as if she’s offering reassurance.

An ally, one who isn’t related to the Russos.

“Hi, Nicole.” I wonder what her story is. How she got this job. She just doesn’t strike me as the person Leo Russo would hire as his EA. Then again, I don’t know Leo Russo, so I ought to have no expectations about him. Maybe she has superhuman organizational skills.

“Enjoy your dinner,” she says softly and turns to leave.

“Nicole,” Leo says. She freezes. “You’ll be joining us for dinner. My date was unexpectedly detained. I’ll need you to round out the numbers.”

“Of course, Mr. Russo.”

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