Page 68 of Of Murder and Matrimony

“Beautiful.” Ettore’s words slithered across the back of my neck like Satan as a serpent. The devil’s voice was deceptively melodious.

I gulped, gathering my wits. “Antonella had an eye for the best blooms.”

“Mm,” he murmured, standing beside me, watching me. “The flowers are pretty, too.”

Snipping another dead leaf from the plant, I pretended to ignore him. It didn’t deter him. “You know, life as a widower is a lonely existence.”

“You have a whole family to keep you company,” I pointed out, clutching the pruning shears like a lifeline. Not that I’d have the guts to use them against the head of the Chicago mafia.

“So I do,” he agreed, his dark eyes calculating. He was close enough that I could see the shadow of stubble on his jaw and smell the whiskey he’d been drinking. “Perhaps I should take advantage of what I’ve got right here.”

Ettore stroked a finger down my bare arm, the contact chilly against my heated flesh, and I couldn’t stop myself from shuddering at his repulsive touch. I bit my cheek until I tasted blood, willing my body to be still. He grunted, and I made the mistake of looking up.

Anger radiated from his body, his face tight with it. He yanked his hand away from my skin, glaring at my trembling fingers as though I’d stung him. When I took a step back, he advanced on me.

The quiet click of the door saved me. Ettore spun away like he was admiring the garden, hands clasped behind his back, as Diego came into view.

“Mrs. Neretti,” he said, glancing at his Don. “Martina says dinner is in half an hour.”

“Thanks, Diego.” My entire body relaxed, grateful for his interruption. “I’ll head up to shower now.”

He nodded, retreating into the house, and I followed quickly behind.

“Olesya.” Ettore’s voice cut across the patio. I’d almost made it inside. “You forgot something.”

I turned, seeing my discarded towel on the table. “Oh, right.”

As I approached, Ettore reached down and tugged on my underwear, exposing the lacy black thong, and swiped his fingers across the inner fabric lining. I watched, horrified, as he brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled, closing his eyes and rumbling low in his chest.

My face flamed, and my stomach roiled. I snatched the towel and clothing from the table and walked away with my spine straight, head held high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my discomfort. It had to be a test, and I was always an honors student. I wouldn’t give in.

The halls were empty as I rushed upstairs and tossed the clothing into the laundry bin. I stared at the underwear on top and snatched them from the pile, wadding the fabric up and throwing it in the bathroom wastebasket. Ettore’s touch tainted it, and I’d never be able to wear them again.

I stripped, showered quickly, and dressed in loose-fitting white linen pants and a lavender top, hoping I didn’t show any outward signs of my inner turmoil. My father-in-law had the uncanny ability to make it feel like he was embedded under your skin.

Dante was already waiting for me when I rushed into the dining room. He wrapped his arm around my waist and greeted me with a kiss. “Mm, you smell good.”

“I showered,” I answered blandly.

“I can tell.” He ran his fingers through my damp hair. “Hungry?”

Bile crept up the back of my throat at the thought of food, but I swallowed hard, smiling. “Famished.”

Dante pulled my chair out, and I plopped down into my seat. “Martina made shrimp scampi.”

“Sounds delicious.” My mouth would have watered at the promise of shrimp any other night. Tonight, the saliva in my mouth signaled the need to vomit. I took a deep breath and decided to get my worries off my chest. “What’s the deal with your father?”

“What do you mean?” Dante leaned back in his chair and eyed me quizzically.

“He seems… odd,” I supplied, wringing my hands under the table. “Maybe you’d call it lonely. Is he still grieving your mother?”

Dante scoffed. “Fuck if I know. If the man has feelings, he sure as hell doesn’t share them with others.”

“Oh.” I looked down at my empty plate, wondering how much to tell him. “Does he—”

My words died on my lips as the man in question walked into the room like he owned it—because he did. It was like he’d known I was about to expose him to his son. Ettore sat at the head of the table and pulled his napkin from beside his plate, snapping it in the air before laying it over his lap.

Dante sat up straighter, his hand curling into a fist with irritation at the interruption. “I thought you had a meeting.”

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