I couldn’t tell which twin spoke until Dante replied, “Cosimo.”

Tattoos peeked out from under the collar of his dress shirt and covered his hands. I didn’t remember any of the body art.

“Olesya.” Cosimo’s voice was flat and lifeless, his acknowledgment a mere formality that he clearly despised. My blood ran cold when I noticed him caressing a knife in one hand, running the blade across the pad of his thumb.

“I hope you remember my siblings. Cosimo and Coletta.” Dante motioned to the others. “Romeo and his wife, Riona.”

The couple nodded, and Riona smiled kindly, reaching out to shake my hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

“Niccolò and his wife, Mia.” Dante continued, “My youngest sister Bianca lives in Miami now and couldn’t be here.”

I paled as I took in Niccolò, who wore a pained expression. Dante mentioned he’d nearly been killed at Romeo’s wedding, but hadn’t elaborated. Whatever had happened, it was obvious he was still recovering. His face held little color, and his left hand had a slight tremor. He balled it into a fist when he caught me looking.

Mia didn’t look at me affectionately, intertwining her fingers with her husband’s instead of shaking my outstretched hand. Her smile was forced. “Welcome to the family.”

“Thank you,” I answered, my smile just as tight. I felt guilty, though I was blameless.

Ettore saved me from having to say more when he announced dinner. I steeled myself and resolved to make it through dinner as I listened to the judgmental whispers when Dante led me past the guests and to my seat at the massive dining table. My fiancé didn’t offer me any reassurances. He hadn’t exactly kept it a secret that he blamed me, too.

It was going to be a long evening.

Chapter Seven

Gratuitous violence was the solution to many problems. My brother Cosimo would undoubtedly agree, and that’s why I found myself thundering down the steps at Deception to join him while he interrogated a Russian guest. I’d been on the verge of snapping for the last week. Between the war with the Russians and dealing with my reluctant fiancée, I was stretched to the limits of what I could handle.

A little bloodshed was just what the doctor ordered. Not Doctor Olesya. She’d likely be horrified by my intentions. Doctor Dante. I’d written myself a prescription for punishment and pain.

The hallway was silent, save for the sound of my shoes clipping against the cement. I punched the code into the dungeon door and slowly opened it, calling out to warn my brother. “Hey, Cos.”

“You’re late,” he grumbled in response. He was pacing impatiently in front of the table of torture implements, completely ignoring the man suspended over the tarp in the middle of the room.

I ensured the door locked behind me and shrugged off my suit jacket, hanging it in a locker before proceeding to where my brother stood. I didn’t bother with gloves. I needed to feel the liquid warmth of an enemy's blood flow over my flesh.

“I had to taste wedding cake,” I admitted. It wasn’t the worst thing to happen this week, all things considered.

My brother gave me the side-eye. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“No.”

“I’m sitting here with this guy.” He motioned to the Russian. “And you were playing tea party with the ladies?”

I wanted to turn it back on him, to tell him he’d be in my position one day, but we all hoped that would never be true. The idea of somebody like Cosimo marrying, let alone falling in love, was frightening. His default was too dangerous. The one time I remember him staying the night with a girl he’d picked up in a club, he’d nearly slit her throat when she startled him awake. Covering that up had cost me a pretty penny.

“Women,” I said with a shrug. “You try telling Martina no.”

He grunted, understanding what I meant. She’d been hovering around us like a mother hen since our mother’s death, and I didn’t have the heart to deter her. It was just as much for her good as ours.

I shifted my attention to the man in the middle of the room. He was young, but definitely an adult. Cosimo had stripped him down, leaving him shivering in a pair of bright red boxers. Fitting, considering his body would be stained red with his blood by the time we were finished.

“Who do you work for?” I started with a simple question to gauge his honesty.

“Bratva.”

I planted my fist in his stomach, making him grunt as I knocked the air from his lungs. “Let’s try again. I expect very thorough answers from you, or our time together will be drawn out and very painful for you. Who do you work for?”

“The Zolotovs.”

I clocked him across the face, making him spit blood. “Your position?”