Page 32 of The Darkest King

Cade is much taller than me. Six foot two, at least, and broader. Like my entire family, he has dark hair and light eyes. His are bluer than mine.

Today he’s wearing a black suit with a white shirt, but the tattoos on his neck still give him an edge, along with the permanent scowl he has and the single diamond earring.

“Come on. Father is waiting.” He tugs on his shirt, hiding his Rolex, and then wraps a smothering arm around my shoulders.

“Ah,mia figlia,” Joe Mancini says, lifting his head as we walk into the spacious living area. My uncle, who is in an armchair beside him, stands and walks to me.

“Princepessa,” Antonio says, kissing both cheeks.

I wish they’d stop calling me a fucking princess, but the one thing that’s really aggravating me today is the fact they’re all touching me.

It might sound strange, but I just want to feel the memories of Connor’s touch on me.

Not theirs.

The way they manhandle me, it’s like I’m a belonging. I know it’s the Italian way, but today, I hate it.

I step away and drop my Chanel handbag on the table, not greeting my father. I’m playing with fire, and when I turn and see the look in his eye, coupled with the slightly raised brow, I cross the room.

“Papa,” I say, dropping a kiss on his cheek.

Just one.

I’m tired and grumpy.

Cade watches me, and I narrow my eyes at him, a chill running down the length of my spine. Something is up.

Is it to do with my two-year deadline approaching?

Does Cade know something?

“Shall we eat?” Antonio says, breaking the tension. “My stomach is growling at the delicious smells wafting through this house.”

Despite my mood, Iamhungry, and lunch does smell delicious.

“Maria, Maria,” my Aunt Rosa cries, as if she hasn’t seen me for a decade instead of seven days. My father has two sisters, and as Rosa releases me from her hug, my other aunt, Silvia, mumbles in Italian and yanks me into her arms.

They are big women, both widowed. Rosa more recently.

Uncle Antonio’s wife, Ariana, walks in with my cousin Riccardo beside her. They have a daughter, Sophie, who is seven and staying with friends tonight. Likely sent away because no one knew how tonight was going to unfold. Riccardo, though, he’s just turned eighteen and looks like a gangster poster boy, with his black jacket collar turned up.

He and Cade do the man hug as my father’s second-in-command, Gabrielle, enters the room.

“Mia,” he says, a firm grip on my arms as he presses harsh kisses to my cheeks. A reminder of who I am.

The mafia princess.

“Gabe,” I say, only because I know he hates the nickname.

“Let’s eat.” My father stands from his chair in a lazy fashion, and everyone moves into action. No one dares defy him. He walks to me, his arm wrapping around me possessively, and guides me into the dining room.

Something is wrong. I can sense it.

Call it survival.

It’s as if they all know something I don’t, and they’re playing with their food.

That, or I’m tired and paranoid.

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