Page 36 of Shield and Savior

“Oh, was that what that was? Backhanded compliments?” I lean in, “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, last time someone came to my table to pay tribute to my family, my mom got a fur coat.” I blink at him and gesture to his empty hands. “I think you have some work you need to do.”

“I’ll be sure to tell my ex-wife, your aunt Rita.” His eyes flash with anger but a coolness takes over. “Have a lovely evening.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your message.” I wiggle my fingers at him. My ex is bad, and possibly on par with Rita, but still. Yuck. “Mr. Sweaty has shitty manners and even worse taste in women.”

Lance steps between us and puts his hand on my chair. Looming is the right word. My sweet Lance wanted to buy me plates an hour ago. But now his darkness leaks out, and I start to envision him in military fatigues running through the forest in Russia to get to a safe house, only to have to carry a dead woman home.

It’s a harsh reminder that he’s as complicated as I am. And probably more dangerous.

Once Facci returns to his table, Lance sits, but his hand remains on the back of my chair. “You good?” he asks.

I nod. It’s the first time I had to play the Mafia princess on my own. I’m already fucking it up. But I don’t trust myself to speak. Too many emotions swirling around at once.

Lance puts the wine in front of me and gives a little appreciative nod to Dimitri, motioning to his rolled-up shirt. “Had to flash the octopus?”

Oh, on a closer inspection, it is an octopus; the ribbons are twisting tentacles.

The Russian man shrugs. “Why play an ace when a deuce will do?”

ChapterEighteen

Izzy

When the bride and groom enter for their first dance, Lance throws his arm over the back of my chair. His invasion of my space doesn’t feel like a violation, more like a willful surrender. I shift and his hand doesn’t move, hovering in this forbidden zone. The newlywed couple laugh and kiss each other, sharing secrets not meant for us. Lance’s thumb brushes against my shoulder. My skin feels like it’s on fire, pulsing and dancing. I should shift my weight, at least move one of us out of this danger zone. Instead, I stay, allowing his thumb to make small circles while wishing it was some place much lower on my body.

Following their dance, the newlyweds are escorted to their table, and we’re all served a three-course meal while they snuggle in together and ignore the world. The appetizer of shrimp and caviar, kinda gross but pricey, upholds their standard and appearances in society. A strawberry goat cheese salad, which is the win of the night, had to be a concession to make some relative happy, but I am not complaining. And the filet mignon, lobster tails, and polenta seem to bring the requisite oohs and aahs to remind everyone exactly which family made the most decisions.

Lance’s knee presses against mine under the table, and, as he’s talking more with Dimitri, his arm goes back and forth between his plate and the back of my chair. Hours in and he still smells amazing. But I can’t focus on that. No. I need to think about something else. Anything else. Math. Math isn’t sexy. Hmm, there’s about two hundred people here, and between the open bar, two hundred dollars per guest for food, plus the flower centerpieces, the band…this wedding is getting expensive.

I replay my dad’s message.

That’s one hell of a gift he’s giving them.

But something about it doesn’t sit well with me.

I snap a picture of the dress and text it to Waverly.

Waverly texts back a car emoji, an equal sign, and a dress emoji. She sends a screenshot of what a similar dress costs, and I almost fall out of my seat. This wedding is at least a six-figure event. Damn, the cake is gonna be good.

Will it be chocolate with buttercream frosting? Maybe a classic vanilla cake with a strawberry compote. It could be a red velvet cake. I’m not too crazy about those, but there’s no such thing as a bad cake. Even a dry crappy cake is still better than eating no cake at all.

The bridal party walks onto the dance floor to do some choreographed dance number for the bride and groom. It’s oddly sexually suggestive to be doing in front of grandparents, but hey, if they’re willing to invite the manager of their sex club to their wedding, I guess this is pretty tame.

The wait staff starts to wheel out another table.

Dessert!

But something sticks out as odd. Too many little plates and not enough giant…oh no.

It’s not a cake.

And it’s not pie.

Maybe it’s crème brulée?

Or éclairs? Some sort of personalized handheld dessert? I can’t see from here.

I sigh. None of these are legitimate substitutes for cake. Time to go investigate. “Let’s go pay our respects to the couple.”

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