Page 94 of On Ice

“If you did die, what would happen to me? To your family?”

I grimace. “It would depend on how I died. If my death was accidental, my brother Tony would probably take control of the Barone Syndicate. He’s not really suited for the job, but he’s the next in line. But if it was a hit, then my family’s lives would be in danger, as would yours.”

“Awesome.” He sighs.

“I don’t plan on dying, if that makes you feel any better.”

He meets my gaze and there’s confusion simmering there. “There was a time when I’d have been happy if you died.”

While I don’t like hearing that, I can’t say I’m surprised. “But not now?”

A line appears between his light brows. “Now, I’m not sure how I’d feel if you died.”

“Is that because your life might be in danger?” I smirk. “Or because you’d miss me?”

His eyes flicker. “Probably the first one.”

I’m surprised by how disappointed I am at his response. Evan has no reason to like me, or to want me alive. I’ve threatened him with his life more times than I can recall. But remembering our intense connection when we first met, it’s sad to think he no longer feels that way about me.

I shrug, pretending his words don’t bother me. “Well, as I said, I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.”

The song ends and we leave the dance floor. I deposit Evan at my family’s table and go in search of the bar. I need something stronger than champagne. There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach. I know what’s put it there too, but I refuse to dwell on it. For a man in my position, it’s best not to fixate on things of the heart.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Evan

After we dance, Luca disappears. He’s been so attentive up to that point I’m confused about what changed. Isabella does her best to entertain me, but I’m distracted, wondering where Luca went and why he left so abruptly. Marco has also left the table, and I suspect he’s wherever Luca is.

My curiosity about Luca’s whereabouts turns to irritation when it’s time for dinner to be served and he’s nowhere to be seen. Why’d he drag me to this wedding if I’m going to spend the day alone? I thought it was imperative that we be seen together? Does he think a few dances and a kiss are enough to convince everyone we’re a couple?

I stare at Luca’s empty seat as servers in crisp black and white uniforms weave between tables, placing plates full of food before the guest. Crystal glasses catch the light from overhead chandeliers, and the floral centerpieces are an extravagant explosion of white orchids and peonies.

“First course.” Tony rubs his hands together as a plate of antipasti is placed in front of him. He eyes the paper-thin prosciutto di Parma arranged in delicate folds beside chunks of aged parmigiano-reggiano, marinated artichoke hearts glistening with olive oil, plump olives, and roasted red peppers. “Mangia, mangia, don’t mind if I do.”

I’m starving and too annoyed to wait for Luca. I take a bite of the prosciutto wrapped around a grissini breadstick, anddespite my irritation at Luca, I can’t help but close my eyes briefly at the perfect balance of salt and fat.

“You like it?” Isabella asks, her dark eyes, so similar to Luca’s, watching me with amusement.

“It’s incredible,” I admit.

Marco returns to the table, clumsily setting his crutches aside as he lowers himself into his chair. There’s no sign of Luca though. Isabella jumps up and fusses about Marco, making sure he gets his food and something to drink. He accepts her help appearing pleased.

I finish off my first course, and when I glance up I catch sight of Luca across the room, deep in conversation with a man about my age. The guy is attractive, blond, and well built. I’m surprised to feel jealousy curl in my gut. After all the speeches from Luca about making sure people think we’re a couple, he’s ditching me at the family table to go canoodle with some other guy?

Is he for real?

I find it impossible to take my eyes off Luca and that other guy. My irritation grows when the guy he’s talking to leans in and whispers something in his ear. There’s an obvious intimacy between them that does nothing to quiet my growing resentment. I tell myself that I’m not actuallyjealous. I’m sure Luca’s flirting bothers me because, not only is it disrespectful, but it could endanger my life.

Luca nods at something the guy says and they hug. It’s a long hug, not a short casual one. Once they break apart, Luca heads toward our table. I quickly look away, determined that Luca won’t catch me watching. He takes his seat beside me and he sets a glass of whisky down beside his wine glass. He doesn’taddress me, he simply places his napkin on his lap and turns to talk to Marco.

Seething, I hand my empty dish to one of the servers who arrived to clear the antipasti plates. Luca’s leg brushes mine and I make a point of moving away. He gives me a curious glance, but says nothing.

More waiters arrive with plates of ravioli. A plate is set before me, each pillow plump with ricotta and spinach, swimming in a fragrant sage butter sauce. They also set a smaller dish beside the ravioli, and Isabella explains it’s risotto ai funghi, a creamy mixture studded with wild mushrooms.

“The pasta is made by the bride’s nonna,” Tony explains between enthusiastic bites. “Eighty-three years old and still rolling pasta by hand every Sunday.”

While my appetite has vanished, I don’t want anyone to know that. I take a bite of the ravioli and, despite my grumpy mood, nearly groan. The pasta is delicate, yielding to my fork with just the right resistance before giving way to the creamy filling.

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