Page 106 of Vicious Games

Maybe Darius was right. Maybe we’d be better off going back to the orphanage.

“Well, you look about as thrilled to be here as I am,” a smooth voice in a British accent says from beside me, cutting through the tense air surrounding me like a blade.

I jump slightly, turning to find a blond man standing way too close, almost as if he appeared out of thin air.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say stiffly, my guard going up.

“Oh, come now, love. You look like you’re seconds away from tossing your cookies all over your borrowed shoes,” he chuckles.

“Who says my shoes are borrowed?” I shoot him a glare, straightening my spine.

“I do,” he says with an infuriating smirk. “But if I’m wrong and they’re not, then someone must have gifted those Manolos to you.”

I face him head-on, annoyance bubbling up. “And how would you know that?” I snap.

“You wouldn’t like my answer, love. And I’m not sure our hosts would appreciate you punching one of their family members before dinner is even served.” He says it casually, but his blue eyes are dead, eerily similar to Marcello’s, but that’s where their similarities end.

This man, despite claiming to be family, looks nothing like the Romanos. Whereas the Romanos wear their Sicilian roots with pride—dark hair, deep-set eyes, sun-kissed skin—this guy is practically ghostly, all pale, blond hair, icy blue eyes, six-foot-four of arrogance, and a London accent polished enough to pass for royalty. And then it dawns on me that this asshole must somehow be related to Jude’s wife since she has the exact same accent.

When I met Mina a few days ago, she was warm, disarming, and effortlessly gracious. She is everything this man standing in front of me is not. He seems cold, calculating, and dangerous in a way that feels less physical and more psychological.

Still, if he says he’s family, he must be related to Mina. Which means I need to tread carefully. The last thing I want is to embarrass myself in front of Lucky’s family.

“What makes you think I’d hit you? I don’t even know you,” I quip, forcing a tight smile.

When his gaze drops to my clenched fists, my cheeks burn.

Damn it.

“Let me guess… you’re Lucky’s girl?” he asks slyly. “Yeah, you’re her alright. He told me how your go-to move is to hit first and ask questions second.”

My mouth drops open. “Lucky’s talked about me to you?” I ask, stunned.

“You look surprised,” he states with a shark-like grin similar to one that I’ve seen Lucky wear on occasion. “Though you shouldn’t be. He tells me everything. Your boyfriend idolizes the very ground I walk on. There’s no secrets between us.”

“First of all, he’s not my boyfriend.” I seethe, not exactly thrilled that Lucky’s been talking about me—aboutus—behind my back. “And secondly, he’s never once mentioned you.”

The last part is meant to sting, a not-so-subtle dig at how unimportant this man must be in Lucky’s life, considering he never mentioned him to me.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t land. If anything, his grin stretches wider as if delighted for bringing it up.

“Oh, I’m sure he hasn’t,” he says, his voice low and laced with something that makes my skin crawl. “I’m sure he’s kept more from you than you can even begin to imagine.” He leans in just slightly, eyes gleaming. “ButIknow all about the little nun he’s trying to corrupt. And from what I hear, he’s doing a mighty fine job of it.”

My nostrils flare, unable to hide my disdain, but that only seems to please him more.

Who is this guy? And who the hell is he to Lucky?

I’m just about to send this antagonizing asshole on his way when his arrogant grin slips momentarily off his face at the same time that I sense someone appears beside me.

“Remus,” Marcello says, his voice cold and unfeeling.

“Marcello,” Remus mimics, just as apathetic.

“Your presence is better suited elsewhere,” Marcello all but orders, his tone made of steel.

“Is it now?” Remus beams, looking absolutely giddy to have gotten under Marcello’s skin. “And where, exactly, would you prefer I go?”

“I couldn’t give a fuck. Just not here.”

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