Page 14 of Tide of Treason
Just not my sister, if I had any say.
Settling my eyes on the quilted wallpaper above Mamma’s head, I wondered how and when I’d let myself grow so soft. When swirls of the gold and red thread lost their charm, I lowered my lashes and examined the French manicure I’d gotten Sunday morning after leaving the range. The creamy polish matched the table runner and was just the right shape; not too short or sharp.
My manicurist was a sweet old woman who sailed from the Old Country in the sixties. Her shop was on the outskirts of Tribeca. I funded the place, hired her friends, and even supplied the clients. The least Viola could do was make my nails perfect and listen to my bitching about men.
Once, I’d tried my hand at manicuring myself to sparethe embarrassment of being known as the mafiosa who spent her afternoons with a grandmotherly figure, clipping her cuticles. The results had been so atrocious I’d been forced to wear gloves for two weeks until my nails grew out. Now I made the thirty-minute drive once a month, and Viola and her gaggle of elderly friends fawned over my hands the moment I walked in the door.
So, yes. Manicures were my guilty pleasure. Right up there with overpriced Italian handbags, followed by a nice bottle of French wine, and, because I was apparently designed to self-destruct, Brazilian men.
Exhaling, I let the breath cling to my ribcage for safety and decided to pin the latter on the wine.
I’d done everything I could to avoid scratching at that particular temptation, only to find men like Lucius Andrade kept making it itch harder on account of being the most beautiful thing in the room. Then he’d open his mouth, and suddenly, I’d remember why I didn’t do men six years younger than me.
Glass exploded across the floor, and I snapped back to reality. Sixteen-year-old Jair lowered himself into the shards, knees bending in a tremor, mumbling rushed apologies. Papà didn’t say a word, just gave him that look. Pure, unfiltered disappointment. No one else stirred save for the scrape of Braga’s lighter.
Until—
“That happens to me all the time.”
Each head swivelled in unison, eyes coming to rest onthe culprit. My third guilty pleasure lounged back, elbow on the table, knuckles bracing his chin.
“Clumsy fingers,” Lucius added. He pulled an ice cube from the glass of vodka and bit down on it. “Not as clumsy as I used to be, mind you.” Ice cracked between perfect white teeth. “Grew out of it.”
Sergius abandoned his cigar, fixing him with a lethal stare. “I’m sure your padded cell misses you.”
He flicked an ice shard toward the kingpin. “Send flowers,cadela.”
It landed at Braga’s feet and slid across the polished hardwood. Lucius watched it melt, amusement twitching his lips. Then, he set his glass on the table with a decisive clink and stood, strolling around to crouch beside a startled Jair.
I let out a quiet breath of amusement when he started picking up glass splinters with his bare hands. Offering helptothe help was an easy way to invite trouble in this household. Papà had always instilled that particular rule in my mind since birth, because we weren’t running a charity. And Lucius was pushing his luck.
“You shouldn’t kneel,” he said to Jair. He looked the boy square in the eye, picking up a particularly jagged piece and turning it between his fingers. “And you sure as hell shouldn’t apologise. It’s glass,” he mused softly. “Breaks when you drop it.”
A slap on the back sent the servant scurrying to the kitchen, leaving the rest of us to pretend none of it had happened. Forks rose, cigars burned, conversations limpedback to life. The only difference was every time Lucius lifted his glass to his lips, dark eyes caught mine with a glint that could’ve been mistaken for hatred.
I found myself frowning at the thought, the expression so foreign it felt strange on my face, smoothing away the crease with another sip of wine.
But that look stayed with me the rest of the night, burning a hole through my skull.
The door wasopen a foot.
Lavender warmth seeped out, stroking my skin, coaxing me forward even as common sense dug its nails into my ribs. The library was my favorite wing of Il Cigno, but, seeing as a certain person was always there, I tended to avoid it.
Slipping over the threshold, golden light spilled across my shoulders. An old record player stood in the far corner. I pushed the toe of my heel into the plush carpet and slid it off, then the other followed with a muted thud. The carpet was soft, sinking under the weight of my feet.
Relief flickered when I saw it was only Mamma inside. No man with his pants around his ankles. She reclined in her favorite wingback chair, still dressed from dinner, but her skirt was missing, replaced by bare legs draped over the armrest.
“Why the long face?” Her voice swirled with amusement and Campari.
I shot her a look that said what my mouth wouldn’t. “You’re limping worse.”
A sigh leaked from her lips. “Stress from your sister’s engagement,cara mia. Planning these events is never simple.”
The way she said it, you’d think it was my fault Viviana was being shackled to a Cartel prince in the name of family honor. Maybe she even believed it. But I was beyond tired. The last two months had made my eyes ache and my head throb with the same familiar migraine I could never shake.
I closed my eyes. “I wouldn’t know. None of this was my choice, was it, Mamma? I wasn’t the one who sold her off like a broodmare.”
“Viviana will do what she’s been raised to do.” She lifted a brow in warning. “I made her understand that marriage was the sacrifice she had to make for thisfamiglia, even if it meant chaining herself to a brute. It is better than being a lesbian, no?”
