Page 207 of Rosetti Family New York
The mansion is silent as I open the door, no signs of life. It’s like living inside a luxury ghost town.
I wander down the hall, hair still damp, and peek into room after room. Everything is tidy, spare, impersonal. No one’s bothered with anything cozy or homey. I bet even the cobwebs have a minimalist vibe.
I follow the scent of fresh coffee and find myself in the kitchen. Without the adrenaline zooming through my body, I can take it in properly. It’s massive, more like a restaurant than anything I’ve ever seen in a house. Counters stretch on for miles. Fancy appliances gleam under the lights, totally unused, and the whole place smells of new paint and money. In the middle of it all, like he’s been waiting for me, stands one of the brothers.
He’s taller than me by a mile and wiry, with sharp gray eyes and jet-black hair. He’s the only Rosetti other than Rafe I’ve seen out of a suit. He’s in a hoodie and jeans and blends in so much I almost miss him.
“Uh, morning,” I say, suddenly aware of how loud I’m being in this silent mansion.
He raises an eyebrow and smiles like I’ve just told a good joke.
“Carmela thought you might run for it,” he says in a soft voice. “You were up late.”
“Thought about it,” I admit, wondering who the heck Carmela is. “But the rooms are nice, and Rafe promised me breakfast.”
He cuts into an orange with a knife too big for the job, and the way he slices it is surgical, like he could be an extra in a mob movie called The Kitchen Assassin.
I watch his hands, feeling nervous for the orange.
“And you are?” I ask. “The quiet one? The scary one? The breakfast one?”
He pauses like he’s deciding which one to pick.
“Emilio,” he says finally.
“Well, I’m Sloane,” I offer. “Not scary. Loud. Can’t cook to save my life.”
He looks up, more interested now. “Grad student,” he says like it’s a fact.
“That obvious?”
“Rafe says you’re studying us.”
I laugh, feeling my cheeks go warm.
“He’s a little intense, isn’t he?”
“More than a little.” Emilio smirks, and I get the feeling he’s more dangerous than the rest of them because he sits back and observes, missing nothing.
“Just don’t tell him I said that,” I add. “I’d like to live through the week.”
“Smart,” he says.
He makes cutting look effortless, and I find myself backing away, feeling more jittery than I want to admit. That knife is big and sharp, and I get flashbacks to the last time I was around something that sharp. Emilio doesn’t miss a beat. He peels the orange in one perfect piece and stares at me with those gray eyes like he’s got me all figured out.
“So,” I say, inching toward the door. “The whole family lives here? Just the ones I met yesterday, or are there any other siblings I should know about?”
“Ask Carmela,” he replies with a hint of a smile. “She’ll make you a spreadsheet.”
“Carmela is…?”
“Our little sister.”
Jesus, how many of these Rosettis are there? Maybe I should study them like Emilio suggested, purely from a professional capacity, of course.
The knife makes a slice, and I can’t handle it anymore.
“Right,” I say quickly. “I think I’ll go take a walk, you know, explore the grounds. Find my way around.”
