Page 22 of Enzo
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded sternly. “Both of you are underage.”
My brothers moved so fast it was almost comical, instantly shoving the bottle of Shiraz my way. “It’s Penelope’s.”
“What—”
“Our sister is training to be an alcoholic,” Armani deadpanned, earning himself a glare. He shot me a blinding smile before he continued. “But we still love her.”
I flopped my hands down into my lap, but I couldn’t suppress my smile.
“Red wine is good for blood circulation,” I told Mama, repeating the words I’d heard Nonno utter a million times when I was a kid.
“It might be good for circulation, but it won’t be good for your head when your papà boxes your ears.”
Amara’s eyes widened in horror. “Me too?”
Mama’s face melted. “No, darling, not you.”
“I bet he wouldn’t box Pen’s ears either,” Armani drawled, smirking, his short hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. Nobody pulled off the disheveled look as well as my brothers. “He’d pour himself one too, and they’d toast to one thing or another.”
“She doesn’t get in trouble like you two.” Mama snorted, somehow managing to make it sound eloquent. “Maybe if you’dstop wreaking havoc everywhere, he’d pour you one and toast to something.”
“How long do we have to be good?” Armani tilted his head. “I could do twenty-four hours.”
“More like twelve,” Damiano cut in. “I, on the other hand, can be better than a saint if I put my mind to it.”
“You mean worse than a devil,” Armani grumbled.
“If you two daredevils are quiet for an hour, there’s chaos on the horizon. Troublemakers,” Mama muttered, shaking her head. “Penelope, your papà needs to talk to you in his study. You boys be good.”
An unspokenor elsehung in the air as I got to my feet, leaving the room before I got lumped in with their conniving.
“We’re going to see them all next week anyway,” I muttered, cursing myself for complaining about Enzo’s lack of effort in meeting me. It was as if he’d heard me and requested my presence, which was how I’d found myself with my feet stuffed into uncomfortable heels, about to meet my fiancé for the first time. “Besides, shouldn’t he have visited us, not the other way around?”
After I left my siblings, my papà informed me that we were invited to dinner with the Marchettis. He refused on behalf of the family, but Enzo wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not willing to divulge that Amara was sick, Papà finally caved and agreed that he and I would meet them for dinner at a public place.
“It might be because I threatened to kill any Marchetti who set foot in Sicily,” Papà admitted sheepishly.
“Ah.” The car door opened in front of a restaurant called Rosa Spinosa, which directly translated toThorned Rose, thatwas owned by Enrico Marchetti. I shifted my leg to get out, careful not to flash the driver, and waited for my papà to come around the car.
“How will that work next week when they’re required to set foot on the island for the wedding?” I questioned when he came to stand beside me.
His expression darkened before he muttered under his breath, “It’d be a good time to follow through with my threat and eliminate them all, huh?”
I smoothed my hands down my cream dress as I followed his gaze, then jerked to a halt.
Three men who looked too much alike not to be family stood in front of the restaurant, dressed smartly in dark suits and looking more like respectable businessmen than the criminals I suspected them to be.
But there was one whose gaze burned hotter than the pits of hell. A cigarette dangled from his full lips, and his dark eyes scanned me from head to toe. My lip curled in disgust, and he raised one dark eyebrow, his attention never wavering from me, and I knew without a doubt that Enzo Marchetti was standing in front of me.
Stronger. Darker. Andpossessive.
So I did the only thing a woman in my position could do: I tilted my chin up, pressed my shoulders back, and let my gaze travel over his tall frame. The outline of a gun was visible under his vest as he shifted forward, but it wasn’t until my attention locked on his face that a small gasp tore from my throat.
I’d seen photos of him over the years, of course, but this close, I could see the beauty in the harsh lines of his face and his dark, glinting eyes. As much as I hated to admit this, he was handsome. Not my type… because, duh, men like him weren’t for me.
All in all, he didn’t hurt to look at.
But then I remembered the whole reason we were here and my mood instantly soured.
