Page 12 of Tide of Treason
“Such dedication. Fresh from confession with your nonno, and already playing hostess. Though,” his voice dropped to a velvet-soft warning, “you know how deeply I loathe interference. Spiriting my son out of his cage without permission . . .” He brushed nonexistent lint from his sleeve as if dismissing my existence. “You understand my irritation.”
“Ah. Sometimes I have difficulty discerning what’s mine and what’s not.”
He tapped the portrait of the stern matriarch who’d poisoned two husbands and married a third into power. Nonna’s nonna. “You remind me of this one. Eyes that weigh intentions instead of souls.”
“Flattering.” My eyelashes swept. “She outlived them all.”
“Until she didn’t.” His smile crooned. “Consider letting sleeping dogs lie, Kayla. My son’s temper is hereditary.”
I managed to step out of his orbit for half a second before a new presence stepped over the threshold, the frigid air swirling around a long overcoat and tousling black curls.
“You’re late,” Braga drawled, displeasure saturating the air.
Lucius shrugged, lazy. “Nurses were a talkative bunch.”
I bet they were.
Eyes were the window to a person, and the dark rage that glimmered beneath that blue surface was enough to steal any warmth from my skin. He handed his coat to the maid who happily took it with a swoon and a sigh. He’d bulked up in the years since I’d first seen him, presence pulling at the seams ofhis black dress shirt. However, it wasn’t just his build that snagged my attention.
Faint red marks marred the light-brown skin of his neck. The bite of a straitjacket. And the manic energy buzzing around him could only come from one thing; an antipsychotic drug.
“Who is dat?”
A tiny finger lifted, pointed, insistent. Sophia again, head cocked in wonder.
Likewas an insultingly mild word for what twisted and snarled beneath my ribs every time he entered my orbit. My fixation on him wasn’t about affection, and it sure as hell wasn’t about hope. But I’d give him credit for pulling himself together to come out here for a charade he could no doubt see through. He saw the game for what it was, even with the drugs still burning a chemical trail behind his eyes.
“Pwetty,” my niece chirped.
Papà had just whisked Braga into his study for one of their ominous “talks,” leaving the maid to offer Lucius a seat in the main room until dinner started. He politely shook his head, raking a gaze the length of the hall leading into the heart of the mansion.
He made quite the impression moving through the room. My cousins’ greetings were respectful, even friendly, though they looked a little taken aback by how big he was. Elio had to reach up to pat Lucius on the shoulder. Vito looked ready to throw him on the floor and see where that got him. Francesco, as per usual, didn’t hold back. He’d be the first topull Lucius into a tight embrace.
“A friend,” I murmured to Sophia, “of Papà’s.”
“Is he your fwend too?” her voice was filled with childish wonder.
“No.”
“Can he be my fwend?”
I had the distinct impression the little psychopath was about to follow him. It wasn’t that Lucius was a menace to her—he was a menace to me, and while my irritation was a selfish one, the thought of her tiny fingers reaching for his was enough to propel me into the thickest part of the fray.
With a snapof my papà’s ring-clad fingers, dinner began.
The table was nearly twenty feet long with a marble base and a red-carpeted display of food. The food was in silver chafing dishes. Fresh flowers were in a vase. Plates were of bone china. All the decorations were red and black, and the napkins folded in ornate patterns. On the side, a cart had two ice sculptures that were in the form of two doves, representing the union.
I took my usual space at Papà’s right. Always his shadow, never his heir.
Lucius’s rigid posture throughout the entire first course told me he couldn’t be more uncomfortable, but he didn’t voice his complaint. As for the seating arrangement? All Papà’sdoing. Two inches of elbow room, two giant egos, and a couple of loaded glares. Sergius reclined with his jacket flung open, appearing bored until he dragged his fingers through his scruff. That single swipe was equal parts irritation and amusement.
Viviana’s gaze flicked everywhere but her future husband, which was ironic because he sure as hell wasn’t looking at her either, too immersed in a stare-off with his father.
The doves melted on the cart.
Nonna, in her infinite wisdom, had refused to come down for dinner at all. Said she wouldn’t “sit at the same table as the Devil,” and by Devil, she hadn’t meant Lucius. No. Her scorn had been aimed straight at Sergius Braga. When Mamma told her to stop being dramatic, she made the sign of the cross and muttered something about“puttane e traditori”before slamming her door.
“How long do you think before Enzo starts sharpening his knife collection?” Elio muttered to Vito in dry Italian, just loud enough for our side of the table to hear.
