Page 47 of Marrying the Enemy

“Sex.” She didn’t mean to spit the word out with such contempt, but it seemed such a paltry return for the challenge ahead of them. “At least Nonna married for love.”

“Don’t be naïve. She married for sex. She didn’t want to sleep with my grandfather so she ran away with yours.” Dom left the bed and pulled on a pair of board shorts, which was the extent of clothing he’d worn since they’d cast off from Miami four days ago.

A chill settled over her chest.

“It was love, Dom,” she insisted. “Not the destructive kind, either.” She was still sore about those things he’d said about that. “She did one thing for herself and here I am still paying for it.”

“I’m the one who will be paying, Eve.” He turned to face her, armor up, battle-ready. “Your brother’s situation isn’t all due to the feud. Quit playing martyr to history and thank me for bailing him out.”

She curled her fist into the sheet, chest pierced by the lance he’d just plunged through her. She really had been traded for a bride price. Her eyes were hot, but she willed the tears not to well and pressed her quivering lips together, refusing to say anything at all.

After a long, charged moment, he muttered, “I need to arrange our flight,” and walked out.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

DOM WAS FEELING prickly and keyed up as he and Eve were driven from the private airfield to his sister’s villa.

He wasn’t one to navel-gaze and fret about conflict. It was the state he’d grown up in. His father had had a hair-trigger temper, always ready to become combative. Dom had learned to navigate those rough waters the way an experienced kayaker went through the rapids in a chasm. Sometimes you got bumped or bruised, but you always survived it.

So his argument with Eve this morning shouldn’t have grated on him, filling him with a sense of this is bad. The argument shouldn’t have happened at all. He shouldn’t have risen to the bait of her dismissing their relationship as “just sex” and snapped at her over it.

What did they have other than sex, though? What did he want from her? He’d been raised to expect very little from those who were close to him. At least, he’d found that was the best way to avoid being disappointed so he typically clung to that strategy, but with her—

“Dom?”

Her small voice dragged his attention to her crinkled brow and the wiggle of her fingers in his too-tight grip.

He didn’t remember picking up her hand. He released her.

“Are you worried about my meeting your sister?” she asked.

“No,” he said with a dismissive scoff. Astrid was a people-pleaser by nature. He suspected the only reason she’d invited them was because it was the polite thing to do. Either that or Ingrid had asked her to.

The car turned through a pair of open gates and the villa came into view. Dom had never been here so he leaned to admire its architecture of glass and stucco arranged like building blocks that were stacked and fanned out to take advantage of the views offered by its private beach.

Dom came around to help Eve from the car and kept her hand as they walked past a water feature to the double doors.

“Astrid’s husband, Jevaun, is a music producer. His father is a development banker, but the rest of his family are in the music industry. His mother is a famous folk singer here.”

Jevaun opened the door to them himself. He was dressed casually in a T-shirt and board shorts, feet bare, brown head shaved bald and black beard shaved down to a narrow chinstrap. He held their youngest, Adio, who was slumped against his shoulder.

“Dom.” Jevaun thrust out his hand. “Good to see you. Congratulations.”

Dom liked Jevaun. He was ambitious, but not in a showy way. His clients were A-list superstars, but Dom only knew that from perusing the awards Jevaun had won. He was far more likely to brag about his kid’s new tooth than any of the songs he’d launched to the top of the charts.

“This is Eve—I almost said ‘Visconti.’ Eve Blackwood. My wife.” Damn, that was satisfying.

“Nice to meet you.” Eve shook Jevaun’s hand.

“Adio.” Jevaun nodded at the boy whose head of short, tight curls was heavy on his shoulder. “I need to put him down. Astrid and the kids are outside.”

Dom usually only saw his sisters on occasions like weddings or, perhaps, a birthday where he might make a point of taking one out to dinner. He’d seen them more often when his father had been alive, crossing paths with them in the six-story limestone mansion that Ingrid still occupied on the Upper East Side of New York.

He rarely visited their homes so this great room littered with children’s toys and small clothes in bright colors was also new to him.

Dom’s father never would have allowed so much disarray. Children were to be seen and not heard. If they were seen, they were clean, neatly dressed and stayed in one spot. They didn’t run at you wearing paint and glitter, shouting, “Uncle Dom!”

Jayden’s wide grin revealed front teeth that were too big for his six-year-old face. The top of his hair was in an intricate pattern of cornrows, the sides shaved up in a fade. His sister, Maya, was four. Her hair was in long braids with neon-colored beads swinging off the ends.

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