Page 79 of Her Dark Salvation

His powerful body dominated the space around me, and his handsome face filled my vision. I imagined him pushing me up against the wall and sinking his teeth into my neck.

Adrenaline surged into my blood, and desire shot up my thighs and down my spine. Fear gripped my chest, and heat and wetness pooled between my legs. Dizzy with conflict, I blinked rapidly and shook my head.

Marco searched my face, worry etched into lines across his brow and around the corners of his mouth.

“I’m fine.” I laid a hand on his lapel and gave him a reassuring smile, overcome with the guilt of my ridiculous and unfair panic. “I needed some quiet. That’s all. This is a lot for me.”

He squeezed my hip, the pressure of his large hand a warning and a comfort. “I know.” He led us toward the front of the ballroom. “But you’re doing great.” He lowered his lips to my ear. “And you look delicious. Good enough to eat.”

My knees buckled.

“Whoa.” Marco tightened his hold around my waist, keeping me upright, and we continued seamlessly toward the table. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I—I’m just hungry.” I smiled again, hoping to ease his worry.

“Let’s get you something to eat.” He kissed my forehead and rubbed his thumb across my hip, and the tension and panic holding my body hostage started to release.

Faces and raised glasses went by in a blur. Most guests had taken their seats and were chatting with their neighbors, while others like Angelo and Carmine stood behind their chairs, drinking and laughing. Two women I assumed were their wives or girlfriends sat at our table, engrossed in conversation.

Marco pulled out a chair for me, and I gladly sat down. He squeezed my shoulder, then stepped to meet Luca, who’d appeared in front of our table and lifted his chin to grab Marco’s attention.

Servers wearing white gloves and carrying four plates a piece filed into the ballroom. I placed my hands on top of my silverware, anchoring myself, thankful the food was arriving. I really did need something in my stomach. Hopefully the quiet of dinner conversation with Marco would finally settle my nerves.

“Mamma Gina!”

Luca’s enthusiastic voice boomed over the din of the ballroom. A woman who bore a striking resemblance to Marco met the two men in front of our table.

Curls the same color as Marco’s hair were piled atop her head, loose tendrils spilling over to brush her collarbone. Her evening gown was a deep green, and it complemented the tanned tone of her flawless skin. Her eyes and nose were a carbon copy of Marco’s, and déjà vu swept over me like a tsunami. She was clearly Marco’s sister but where had I seen her before?

Marco glanced over his shoulder, and the woman followed his gaze, her wide smile brightening when her eyes landed on me. The woman, Luca, and Marco turned to face me and standing like that, together in a row…

A black-and-white photograph in a newspaper article from 1988. A funeral. Little Luca Moretti staring at a casket, standing in between a man who looked exactly like Marco and a woman who looked exactly like his sister.

My stomach dropped, the shock of the connection making my vision swim. I hung my head and stared at my hands, clasped and sweating in my lap, and breathed through the nausea. I’d convinced myself the man in the picture had been Marco’s father, that he and Marco shared an uncanny resemblance. But his sister, too? Looking identical to their mother? There was only so much coincidence I was willing to accept. I inhaled a shuddering breath and raised my head.

Luca took the woman’s hand, kissed her on the cheek, and left for his table. Marco and Gina walked toward me.

Stay calm. This is Marco’s sister. You need to make a good first impression.

The reflex to mind my manners was so outrageous given the circumstances, it jarred me into action. I braced myself on the table and the back of my chair and stood.

“Anna. This is my sister, Gina.”

She held out both hands, her warm smile and inviting demeanor oddly comforting. “Bellissima,” she said and squeezed my fingers, air kissing me on both cheeks. She muttered something to Marco in Italian, and he grunted behind a wry smile. “Marco has told me so much about you. I hope we get a chance to chat before the night is over.”

The sincerity in her voice helped take the edge off the fear and panic tying my stomach in knots. “I hope so, too.”

A server interrupted us, placing salads on the table.

“That’s our cue,” she said and took the seat to her brother’s left.

Marco squeezed my elbow and leaned in. “I think she likes you.”

My lips quirked in a nervous approximation of a smile, and I was thankful he immediately turned to talk to his sister.

I forced myself to eat, knowing I needed something in my stomach, but old newspaper articles and their pictures played back like a movie reel.

Vinnie Jr. had looked exactly like his father. Maybe he wasn’t a junior at all. Maybe junior and senior were one and the same.

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