Page 5 of Revenge & Ruin

I let out a breath of relief at my brother’s words and sit back in my chair.

It’s one thing to convince someone you don’t know to give you something you want.

It’s another thing entirely to confront your sworn enemy when he now holds all the playing cards.

“What about you, Meribeth? You said you traveled from South Africa?”

It takes me a second to realize the Californian mafioso is talking to me. Right. I thumb the place card in front of me. Unfortunately, the real Meribeth Igwe was detained at JFK this morning.

I shoot the Californian a sweet smile. “The journey wasn’t so bad. Like you said, I wouldn’t miss this wedding for the world.”

This seems to appease him enough to begin talking about himself again.

I subtly look down at my Cartierwatch—eight minutes until pick-up. I should really excuse myself and get going.

“Meribeth!”

My smile is plastered on my face before I turn around to see a man approaching our table. I noted him earlier, he’s one of Rocco’s groomsmen—dark features, quiet demeanor, went with the vegan option.

“Hi,” I reply lightly, trying to remember his name.

“Dante,” he helpfully supplies as he gestures somewhat goofily to his chest. “We worked on the shipment a few months ago? I called you a few times?”

I lightly smack my forehead. “Of course!”

“How have you been?”

I glance down at my watch again—five minutes. “You know, actually, not so great. The flight over was a bit rough, so I’m probably going to go lie down for a bit.”

Dante’s face falls in sympathy. “Let me walk you out.”

I stand up, excusing myself from the table, before turning back to him. “That’s all right, I’m sure you’re very busy.”

He holds his arm out anyway. “Allow me to insist.”

Backed into a corner, I meekly reach out to take his arm.

“That’s very kind of you…”

SLAM.

It happens so quickly that my eyes water in shock. One second, we’re standing there; the next, Dante has my arm pinned behind my back and my face pushed into the table.

Shit.

“You know, Meribeth. I know it’s been a while, but I’m pretty sure when we last met, you weren’t Italian. Or blonde,” Dante remarks casually.

“Ever heard of hair dye?”

My face is slammed against the table again.

It shouldn’t be surprising that none of the wedding guests seem to react to this. What's a mafia wedding without a bit of drama, right?

But it still stings to see the Californians looking down his nose at me.

“Help a girl out, would ya?”

He ignores me.

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