Page 4 of A Game So Reckless

With this in mind, it’s easy to spot my papà among the fancy suits and sparkling dresses crowding around the building’s massive glass doors. He’s got his big hand on Mamma’s lower back, but he’s not talking to her. His attention is focused on his other side, where Rocco Fabbri, my soon-to-be-father-in-law, walks beside him on his left. I wrinkle my nose, looking for Dario, but I don’t see him out here.

“Let’s go,” Curse says as he gets out of the car. I grasp my door’s handle then pause, not quite ready to head out there yet. I take a steadying breath, then blow it out harshly between my red lips.

I eat men for breakfast.

I’m a Titone. Maybe I can be a wolf, too.

I yank the handle and shove open the door.

Curse is already there waiting for me, having come around the car. The sun gleams on his thick dark hair – hair the same colour as mine now that I’ve dyed it. Unlike his older brother Elio, whose face is all bold, brutal lines, Curse is more classically handsome. Dark eyes, high, sharp cheekbones and a hard jaw. In another life he could have been a model for underwear or cologne or the covers of mass market romance novels.

But he got this life. And instead of posing and pouting and putting that face to good use, he pulls out a gun and aims it at whichever men Papà or Elio tell him to.

“Thanks,” I say, nodding at his outstretched hand. “But I’m good.”

I get out of the car without his help, balancing carefully on my sky-high heels. Curse lets his hand fall, and before his fingers close over it, I glimpse the single black tattoo in the centre of his palm. Curse is covered in tattoos, from his neck to his knuckles to his toes. But he’s only got the one on his palm, tiny and simple, in the very centre of his left hand. A single capital letter A.

I’ve been trying to guess what the A means for the better part of twenty years. One summer when I was a young teen I got so invested in figuring it out that I pulled out a massive dictionary and started going through the A words, one by one, reciting them out only for him to shoot every single one down. I got as far as “apparition” before I gave up. I still wonder about it, even now, but I know he’ll never tell me on his own. He might not tell me even if I do guess it correctly one day.

Maybe it’s something completely boring. Maybe it’s just the first letter of his own name. Accursio.

Probably not, but that’s what I tell myself so I don’t go crazy from not knowing. Another one of the things Mamma is always telling me to work on.Stop being so nosy.Especially where the men are concerned.

Curse stays close beside me as we manoeuvre through the people milling about outside. In my periphery, I’m aware of the flashes of cameras from media come to cover the unveiling of the new condos. I barely even need to think about the beatific expression I plaster on my face. Keeping up that smiling, polished image in the public eye is second nature to women like Mamma and me. It’s our main function as females in afamigliaas powerful as ours – one of the ruling families of Toronto, Montreal, and everything in between. Well, that and getting hitched to whichever man pays the right price and popping out fat-cheeked little mafioso babies.

Spotless glass doors slide open automatically for Curse and me, and we step through to a massive, open lobby decked out in shades of opal and onyx. Mamma and Papà are already inside, still with Rocco amid the sea of lawyers and realtors and socialites. Papà’s men are positioned around the perimeter of the large, shining space, their eyes never resting in one place for long. Beyond this lobby is a huge indoor pool separated from this area by glass so clean and clear I wouldn’t have even known it was there if I hadn’t seen some idiotic man staring down at his date’s boobs walk right into it.

I don’t see Dario yet, but I do see tables laden with food. My stomach growls, and I smack my black and gold clutch purse against my abdomen, as if I can shut my stomach up simply by squeezing it. I would have had something to eat at home before coming here, but Mamma’s been up my ass about carbs and calories and fitting into my wedding dress when the time comes. Plus, I’m apparently supposed to be having dinner with Dario in his papà’s new building tonight. If he ever bothers to show up.

Not knowing when that dinner may be, I propel myself through the drinking, chatting crowds and head straight for the nearest food table. I don’t need to turn around to sense Curse following behind. I’ve almost always got at least one chaperone or bodyguard around me, usually Curse or one of my papà’s men.

“Care for a canapé?” I ask him, picking up a little cracker topped with cream cheese and smoked salmon and waving it in the air between us. He shakes his head, letting his gaze skim over the groups of people gathered in the lobby, and I pop the small snack into my mouth.

I linger at the food table a lot longer than is customary for me. Despite my distinct lack of excitement about meeting Dario tonight, parties like this usually have me in my element. The greeting of guests, the schmoozing, the making sure every detail of an event is perfect – I love it. And I’m good at it. Mamma and I have planned countless galas and fundraisers and modern-day balls. Normally, I’d be gliding through the room by now, flitting from group to group like a social, slightly-drunk-on-champagne butterfly.

“Do you ever wonder what kind of insect you would be?” I ask Curse, suddenly unable to shake the image of a tipsy butterfly fluttering this way and that…

Before getting crushed under somebody’s shoe.

“Spider,” he says without hesitation.

“I’m not sure if I should be impressed that you had an answer ready to go that fast,” I say, casting him an odd look, “or unimpressed by the fact you don’t know a spider isn’t an insect.”

“Arachnid, then,” he says with a slight shrug.

“Bravo. The man knows his six-legged creatures from his eight-legged ones. Hey,” I say, swivelling to face him fully and leaning my hip against the table. “Is that what the A on your hand stands for? Arachnid?”

“No.”

“Well, shit. Thought I finally might’ve had you there.”

“Don’t let Uncle Vinny hear you swearing,” Curse advises, his voice a flat, low rumble. There’s no hint of admonition in his tone. He doesn’t give a damn if I act like a proper mafiaprincipessa. He doesn’t have the same penchant for bossing me around like papà and, to a lesser extent, Elio do. I know that in his aloof and cryptic way, he’s simply trying to look out for me. Or at least trying to help me avoid the massive migraine that is my pissed-off papà

“Thank you ever so kindly,” I drawl. “But I don’t need you to look out for me where Papà is concerned. I’ll have ahusbandto do that for me soon.”

We share a look. Curse knows exactly why that statement is such a ridiculous one. Dario Fabbri couldn’t stand up to a man like Vincenzo Titone even if someone reinforced his spine with fucking steel. He’s greasy and weaselly and has this horrible fake laugh and, God, if I think about it anymore I’m going to puke up all those lovely hors d’oeuvres I just ate.

Headache or not, maybe it’s finally time for a drink.

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