Page 41 of Vicious Games

The dining room looks like it was built for royalty—high ceilings, polished wood, and a table long enough to seat a small army.

Mrs. Romano sits at the head of the table, flanked by two men I recognize from church. Dominic is massive, all broad shoulders and towering height, and covered in more tattoos than I’ve ever seen on a single person. Giovanni, on the other hand, is clearly cut from the same cloth as Lucky and Enzo—same brown hair, same easygoing smile. He’s practically a carbon copy of the twins. Maybe an uncle from their father’s side.

At the far end of the table, directly across from her, sits a single empty chair, its presence quiet but heavy. That seat must belong to their father, Vincent Romano.

Scanning the room for a place to sit, my eyes land on two open seats beside Annamaria and Stella Romano. Stella, I recognize from Sacred Heart. She graduated last year, and even then, she had a reputation for not playing by the rules. She’s got the same striking red hair as her mother, but while Selene Romano’s green eyes radiate warmth, Stella’s hold a glint of rebellion.

There’s also a seat next to Lucky and Enzo, but I’m not nearly brave—or foolish—enough to sit there. I start making my way toward the safer option next to his sisters until a tall, blonde man enters the room and stops me in my tracks.

“That’s where our brother and his wife sit,” he says, his voice unreadable. “You should sit next to Lucky.”

“Oh,” I stammer. “I didn’t realize more people were coming.”

“Let the girl sit where she wants, Mar,” Stella sighs, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like Jude and Mina are flying home for Sunday lunch.”

Still, the dead look in the man’s eyes has me quickly redirecting to the other side of the table.

Marcello Romano.

I remember him from when I was a freshman. I used to spot him around Sacred Heart, always drifting through the halls like he owned the place.

No, not owned, haunted.

Even then, he gave me the heebie-jeebies. He’s handsome like his siblings—annoyingly so—but there’s something cold behind those eyes. Not cold like distant. Cold like dangerous. The kind of eyes that make your gut whisper,Don’t get too close.

I’d honestly take sitting next to Lucky a hundred times over before risking a seat besidethat.

Enzo and Lucky are whispering amongst themselves, not paying me any mind when I take my rightful seat beside them. I don’t say a word and try not to shift in my seat under Marcello’s scrutinizing gaze. I’m only able to regain my breath when his father steps inside the room and pulls his attention away from me.

“Sorry for the wait,tesoro,” Lucky’s father says, pressing a quick kiss to his wife’s cheek before moving toward his seat.

All his children smile at him, except Marcello, who hasn’t smiled once. Instead, he fixes me with another scathing stare, the kind that makes my skin prickle and burst out in hives.

“You must be Frances,” Mr. Romano says, his tone casual. “Lucky’s classmate.”

I nod, keeping my focus anywhere but on Marcello because—holy shit—that look of his could kill a man.

“So, you’re the young lady who taught my son some manners?” he asks with a friendly ease.

“I don’t think I did a very good job,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

Laughter ripples from everyone around the table except Lucky and, of course, Marcello.

“Well, at least you tried,” Mr. Romano says, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “We all have. Nothing seems to stick.”

I give him a sheepish little smile, which he thankfully takes as a sign that I’d rather not continue down this road. He shifts his attention back to the rest of the family.

With the spotlight off me, I sneak a glance between Mr. Romano and his offspring, searching for the similarities—and finding gaps in between. Marcello, despite his dark blond hair and crystal-blue eyes, still carries the strong jawline and sharp cheekbones of his father. Even the way he holds himself—steady, authoritative—makes the connection impossible to miss. As for the girls, it’s obvious they take after their mother. Both Stella and Annamaria have been blessed with Selene Romano’s beauty, each in their own way. It’s only Lucky and Enzo who don’t quite fit the mold. They don’t resemble their father at all. Not like they do the man sitting next to their mother, whose index finger is idly tracing small circles against the back of her hand.

Weird.

But my gaze quickly lifts from that strange moment of endearment to the household staff as they enter the room, each one carefully placing down tray after tray of food along the enormous table.

For a second, I completely forget where I am. The sheer extravagance of it stuns me into silence. If I’d ever imagined what it might feel like to attend a king’s banquet, this would be it.

Antipasti spreads with imported cheeses and cured meats. Handmade pasta swimming in rich, velvety sauces. Freshly baked bread with golden, crackling crusts. Roasted meats that look so tender I wouldn’t be surprised if they practically fell off the bone. Even the salads look expensive—dressed with delicate slivers of truffle and edible flowers like something out of a magazine.

I’ve never seen so much decadent food in one place in my life.

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