Page 127 of Peasants and Kings
Hate was better than fear, but I commanded myself to stay calm. No good would come of letting my emotions get the better of me. Hadrian would take care of the situation, and then I’d never have to see these people ever again.
One end of the rooftop deck had expensive lounge chairs nestled underneath a small white tent. A man in a black chef’s coat and hat stood behind a long rectangular glass table with at least ten chafing dishes. A server waited at a portable stainless-steel bar with his hands behind his back in a show of stoic professionalism.
Ingrid had ensured everything was ready for Angelo’s impending arrival. Because money was no object when Hadrian wanted something, it had all been handled quickly and without issue.
“We have everything you could want,” I said to Angelo, guiding him to the bar. “Italian sodas, amaros—”
“I don’t want to eat and drink the same things I’d eat and drink at home,” Angelo said, interrupting me. “I’m not in Italy, am I?”
I blinked, unprepared for such a twist. “I thought you’d want to be comfortable—”
“I’m always comfortable,” he said, his tone dark. “Except when someone tries to think for me.”
He stared at me and I stared back. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Hadrian gesture to the chef. The other men clearly didn’t share Angelo’s feelings and instead took the offered plates.
I looked at the bartender and said, “Two glasses of SINNERS, please. Three drops of water in each.”
The bartender quickly made the drinks and handed them over.
Angelo lifted the glass of scotch to his nose and inhaled and then took a sip. I watched him roll the liquid gold around his mouth, but he still didn’t show any emotion at all.
I took a small sip of my own drink despite the fact that I planned to remain sober. I didn’t want alcohol to nourish my rage. I had to keep my head about me.
Time in Hadrian’s presence had begun to change me, and I now enjoyed the bold, peaty flavor of SINNERS scotch when only a few weeks ago I never would’ve touched brown liquor.
Without a word, Angelo left the bar and went to recline in one of the comfortable chairs. His sons were already sitting with plates of food resting on their laps.
Nico stood at the edge of the rooftop deck, gazing out across the horizon, but then eventually wandered to the lounge furniture and took a seat. Ignoring the men, I went to the table of food and made myself a plate of homemade burrata and heirloom tomatoes. I thanked the chef with a smile and then took the plate to the balcony and rested it on the wall. I was in the middle of chewing when Luca, Angelo’s heir apparent—and my cousin—came to stand next to me.
The ocean air whipped his dark hair and the sunlight highlighted his patrician nose and sculpted mouth. He looked at me and grinned.
I gazed at him, wary.
“Eden,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue, “tell me something.”
I arched a brow and waited.
“You’re not really as compliant as you appear to be, are you?”
“What makes you think that?”
He cocked his head to the side and examined me. “I can see the fire in your eyes.”
I didn’t like that he was attempting to figure me out. “You have far too much Italian charm.”
“An Italian can never have too much charm,” he quipped. “Besides, I get it from my father. DNA doesn’t lie.”
I looked in Hadrian’s direction; he was engaged in conversation with Nico and Angelo.
“How did you meet Hadrian? He’s something of a recluse, no?” Luca asked, pulling my attention back to him.
“Ramsey Buchanan introduced us.”
Luca nodded slowly. “Ramsey. Yes, that makes sense.”
“You know Ramsey?”
“I know Ramsey,” he repeated. “We have…history.”
