Page 31 of Rosetti Family New York
"I'll help with that," says Matteo, flashing a grin as he reaches for the food. He's quick to wink at me as he tucks his silver coin into a pocket. "Great spread, Mama."
Conversation talks to business, but it isn’t about gems so I tune out. The table is packed with people. Across from me, the older Callahan—the one who keeps watching me like a hawk watches a mouse—stares again. Leonardo wasn't joking; the man hasn't taken his eyes off me all night.
"So," Chase says, not bothering to lower his voice. "We turning this trial into a full-time venture, or what?"
Salvatore leans back, a king in his court. "We split the profits evenly, Callahan. We run the fights, you take care of the bets."
"Fifty-fifty," Dale Callahan says. He looks a lot less polished than his father, with scruffy blond hair and leather jacket, but his green eyes are just as sharp. He's shifty, and I know the type. He reminds me of a man father dealt with once, whom I never trusted.
"Not much business if we don't trust each other," Matteo says, grinning like he doesn't mean it.
"We're partners now," Leonardo cuts in. "Only two months into the trial, and the fighting ring is already the biggest in Brooklyn. We’ve greased the cops’ palms, they love it almost as much as we do." His arm brushes mine under the table, and it's more like a claim than a comfort.
"The fighting ring is just a trial? Where we met? But you looked so at home there," I say. This time, I'm the one raising an eyebrow.
Gianna laughs, a soft sound that could draw blood. "You know how the boys are, Eleanor. If they can't solve things with words, they solve them with fists."
Leonardo puts down his fork. “It’s business.” He shrugs. “Just a bonus that it’s also fun.”
The plates get cleared, and Salvatore pours wine into crystal glasses, some ruby red, some sparkling white. "To peace," he says, raising his glass.
Chase smirks. "And to profits."
"Salute!" shouts Leonardo.
I take a sip, pretending I'm not choking on their testosterone.
When dessert comes out, it’s worse. There’s espresso, cannoli, and fresh fruit, but I don’t have much of an appetite anymore. Chase raises his glass to me, an unsettling look in his eyes. "To the prettiest Rosetti at the table," he says.
I freeze. For a moment, I can't even breathe. The room spins and shrinks, the voices a thousand miles away. It’s happening again. It’s a nightmare. I am fifteen years old, and it is a dinnerwith one of father’s “business partners,” who never looks him in the eye because he is too busy looking at me.
I stand abruptly. Everyone stares.
"Eleanor?" Leonardo growls. "You alright?"
I don't answer. I can't. The air is too thin and too hot and too tight around me. I'm barely out of the dining room when Leonardo catches up to me, grabbing my wrist and pulling me outside. The air is cold. I gulp it in, trembling.
"Are you out of your mind?" he says. He's dragging me toward the garden, toward darkness. "What the hell is wrong?"
"Let me go!" I wrench my hand free, and the rage is gone from his face, replaced by something I don't recognize. Concern.
"What happened?" he asks, softer now.
"He—" I can't finish. I'm shaking. He's holding my arms, pulling me against him, and the heat from his body is too hot. "Chase. He—"
"Looked at you?" He tries to make it a joke, but his eyes are sharp. "He's an asshole. We all know it. But I promised Dad I wouldn’t punch him tonight."
"You don’t understand," I say. "I thought you—" He waits, his fingers curling around mine. "I thought you'd give me to him."
He stiffens, his whole body going rigid. I almost expect him to laugh, to shatter the intensity with that wild bark of his, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets go of my hand, slowly, deliberately, as though loosening his grip on a fragile thing.
“What do you mean?”
I hesitate, not sure how to say it, not sure if I even should. "He complimented me in front of you. He’s a business partner. I thought..."
"You thought what?" His voice is flat, cold like steel in winter, and something frozen slips down my spine.
"You act like I’m a thing to be owned," I say, the words tumbling out. "Why should I think different?"
