Page 63 of Golden Burn

“It will. You’ve been closer to actual, real-life predators and not balked. These prickly men and their spoiled wives are nothing but tiny insects.”

The sentiment makes me chuckle, and also betrays my nerves, but it helps to think of the people I’m meeting as small and insignificant. Which, technically, when it comes to insects is not necessarily true, but I’ll have to put my biology brain aside for the next few hours.

Once inside the car, I smooth my dress with my sweaty hands. “Remember,” Martise announces, tucking my hair behind my ears, “If you don’t know what to say, it is better to say nothing. They take offense quickly and they do not forgive. Despite the tense circumstances, we want to remain calm.”

I gulp, my insides twisting into a knot. The rocking of the car makes me nauseous, but I maintain my composure as we arrive out the front of the restaurant. The fact that it’s a late night reservation, the streets of Rome eerily subdued, makes it all the more scary. But I swallow my fear and lift my chin.

“Ladies,” Ford says as we head over to the front door. Odin and Dom are waiting there, too. All three men are wearing sharp suits that accentuate their serious expressions. My eyes immediately veer to Odin. He’s wearing his gold eyepatch again. The one he wore when I first met him. He doesn’t seem anywhere near as intimidating to me now, but to others, I’m sure he does.

He rakes his gaze up and down my body quickly, at the floral dress he handpicked for me, but his face remains frozen. A sliver of worry worms its way in the spaces between my ribs. After the wedding, is this how we will need to be in public? Constantly acting? Will we ever be safe?

Could I live with that?

Fixing my face into a mask of disgust, I dismiss all of them as I walk beside Martise and head up the stairs to the restaurant. I don’t have time to dwell on questions I have no answers to. I need to concentrate. I have to play the game and I have to play it perfectly.

The restaurant is richly decorated. The carpet is patterned with black and gold and crimson red lines, the tables ebony with dark wood features and carved legs. Candles flicker everywhere, and the waiters movearound, dressed finely in suits with white aprons around their waists. Rome is visible beyond the windows, glimmering under the stars.

I wait at the top of the stairs beside Martise as the men come up behind us. Ford and Dom lead the way, while Odin hangs back next to us. It’s so hard not to look at him. To seek out his hand and give it a squeeze. Our night in Africa, our almost entanglement, springs forth in my mind, demanding I remember and remember it well. The way he held me together, protected me from my own thoughts, and shared with me a snippet of his vulnerable grief. Locking my jaw, I shoo it away and focus.

A waiter approaches us and directs us to a section of the restaurant separate from the rest of the public. Garlic, basil and roasted meat waft from the kitchen as we pass. As much as the delicious scents make my stomach rumble, I know there’s no way I’m going to be able to eat properly. Which is a fucking tragedy in and of itself.

We round a corner, and a long table comes into view. People are already sitting around it, sipping wine and chatting quietly. Noise ceases when they notice us. The men are all mostly older, styled in suits—dove gray, navy pinstripe—that fit to perfection. The women wear luxury dresses dotted with gems, hair pristinely styled, makeup dark and sultry. There’s gold and silver and watches and necklaces galore. There’s also an intense weight that hangs above the room. They glare at me like I’ve pissed on all their rose bushes or stolen their favorite car and cut the tires.

Walking through quicksand would have been easier than walking past them all to the head of the table where our host waits. But I continue, keeping my ankles steady despite their refusal not to. The press of everyone’s eyes is like a million tiny needles poking at my skin, hard enough to leave a bloody trace.

Then, their attention shifts to someone else.

Odin.

Part fear, part fury.

It’s clear the people at this table are aware of his reputation, and his future goals for their businesses. It’s also clear that they can do nothing lest they risk losing all of their wealth and standing. And that annoys them.

Dom walks ahead of me, guiding me toward the man sitting at the head of the table.

Compared to all the older, gray-headed men, he is the youngest by far, though still older than us. His hair holds some darkness, with only a few silver streaks. His aquiline nose is stark against the rest of his features, though from where I stand, I can make out a deep scar on his neck, almost like a bullet wound. His upper half is well defined, full of muscle, which only makes him more to fear because he isn’t a weak little mouse that likes to watch his enemies through TV screens. He’s as sharp and as strong as a wolf, who likes to hunt his prey and make them panic, before he rips them to shreds.

In his hands, he carves an apple with a very large, very sharp knife. He does not peer at us, does not even seem the slightest bit interested in our presence. He carves and cuts away at the skin until he’s satisfied with a piece of the apple. He sticks the tip of his knife into the flesh and plops it in his mouth.

Only then does he look at us.

Mouth full with fruit, he beckons us with his weapon. “Sit.”

“Harriet. This is Cerbera Lombardo,” Dom introduces.

Cerbera twists his neck and focuses his harsh gaze on Dom. His eyes are so black, so cold, they remind me of a crow. “We can do introductions once we are all comfortable.” He re-focuses his gaze on me. He huffs, a droplet of apple juice slipping out of his lips and down his chin. He slurps it quickly with his tongue. I swallow back a gag.

Dom nods. “Of course.”

I sit to the right of Cerbera, who pours himself a glass of wine so dark it could be blood. Martise is on my other side and Dom is opposite us. Ford stands near the wall, watching, focused.

The room, the people, the oppressive scenario, cave in around me, and I sense my nerves chewing away at my composure, tears pricking my eyeline. It’s not until Odin sits across from me, his presence a comforting blanket over my nerves, that I inhale properly, realizing suddenly what he does to me. He grounds me, yanks me up from the pit I feel myself falling into and keeps his hand wrapped tight around my wrist.

A waiter appears by my side and opens a fresh bottle of red wine. I hold up my glass so he can pour one. I wait for someone to start speaking, for Cerbera to ask me a question, or for Dom to talk about the wedding, but Cerbera chews his apple and stares unabashedly at me.

“You are quite a stunning creature. The cameras, it seems, don’t do you justice.” My face pales at the mention of cameras. It sickens me to remember he sent people to spy on me. Now I want to vomit thinking about him watching me through security cameras we didn’t know about.

He waves his knife in Odin’s direction. “You are a lucky boy, Mr. Bolt.” The only evidence Odin is pissed is the twitch in his jaw right before he takes a sip of his wine.

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