Page 77 of Devil's Tulip

Rafael.

I can’t keep the glare off my face as Michael leads us towards him. Even though he’s sitting with us towering over him, he somehow manages to look down his nose at us.

This is a man who’s used to being the most powerful presence in the room. Even here—amongst men I know are arguably the most dangerous in the States—he commands attention.

His silver eyes study me with glacial coldness. “Do you know the trouble you’ve caused Michael? And, subsequently… us?” His voice is low, but it carries. Holds a quiet power that’s quite frankly, terrifying.

“Rafael, don’t,” Michael grits out.

He turns his gaze to Michael, and the coldness thaws, just a little. His eyes aren’t exactly warm—that would be asking for too much—but there’s something there. An unmistakable care for my husband. And in that moment, I realize something else: outside this group, no one could dare defy him without fear of losing a limb, or hell, their lives.

“Welcome to the family, I suppose,” he finally says, and the room seems to let out a collective breath of relief.

Is that him giving his approval then? Not that we need it, considering we're already married, but still… it doesn’t suck to have it.

My glare eases as we take our seats.

Moments later, Gracie walks in with a few guys I haven’t seen before, all carrying steaming platters of food. Her eyes seek mine, and I can almost see the question in them. I give her asubtle nod. She exhales softly, offering me a small smile before directing the guys to set the food down.

Dinner isn’t as bad as I feared it might be.

Romero and Elira lead the conversation, occasionally drawing me in, but it’s hard for me to focus. Because Rafael’s words won’t stop rattling around in my head.

What trouble have I caused Michael and his brothers? While it is true that I’m still pissed and hurt from his betrayal a few days ago, I can’t deny he’s been trying to make up for it in his own way.

He killed Dario, which must’ve stirred up shit in the syndicate since they were allies. He brought me to his home, married me. All that for what?

When I asked him what he’s getting from this marriage, he simply said ‘you’. What the hell does that mean?

And what the hell is the trouble they’re facing because of me?

Michael’s fingers slip around mine, pulling me from my thoughts. When I glance up, his brows are drawn together in quiet concern. That’s when I realize the plates are empty. Dinner is over.

Michael gets up, and I watch him as he gives a short speech. He thanks everyone for coming. Thanks them for celebrating our marriage. And then, in the same breath, he tells them it’s time to leave. Basically kicking them out.

I gape at him as he holds a hand out to me. Still in disbelief, I take it, rising to my feet—and to keep up appearances, I sink into his chest, nuzzling him just enough to make it look like a gesture of affection. Then I murmur into his ear, “That was incredibly rude, Michael.”

He raises a brow at me and shrugs.

One by one, the men come forward to shake Michael’s hand again, giving me polite nods. Romero is last in the line, andjudging by the tiny smirk on his lips, I know he’s about to do more than just nod.

Sure enough, he leans in, pressing a kiss to both my cheeks. “Welcome to the family,sorellina. Even though it’s a little… dysfunctional.” His eyes twinkle mischievously as he pulls back.

I huff a small laugh. “Thank you.”

Before I can take a breath, Elira swoops in, wrapping me in a warm hug, “You’ll be fine, Gia. And if you need anything, you have my number.” She discreetly presses something into my palm, and when I glance down, I see a blank card with a phone number scrawled across it.

Quickly, I close my fingers over it before anyone notices, slipping it into my dress pocket.

Michael and I see the guests off at the front door, watching them pile into their cars one after the other. Their convoy slowly pulls out of our driveway, and only when the last car vanishes from sight does the tension in my shoulders finally ease a little.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Michael asks, draping an arm lazily across my shoulder.

My head suddenly feels heavy, and without thinking, I lean against him, pressing my temple into his chest. He stiffens—just for a second—then his arm tighten around me.

“You made Rafael come here, didn’t you?” The offhand comments from the guys gave it away—the surprise in their voices when they mentioned him coming to dinner over here in New Rochelle instead of hosting in Manhattan. The vibe I got is that he rarely ever goes to any of the other guys’ houses.

Michael is quiet for a beat. Then:

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