Page 97 of Of Murder and Matrimony

“I feel fine,” she insisted, like she’d been doing all week. “I just don’t want you to go. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too, piccola fantasma.” I kissed the top of her head and stroked her silky blonde hair. “I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can wrap things up with DiSanto.”

“The New York Don?” she asked. “What does he want with you?”

“Probably an alliance,” I surmised, repeating what my father said. “We could use it after everything with the Bratva. The more alliances we have, the less inclined our enemies will be to try to move in on our operations.”

“Your father can’t go? He seems back to himself,” Olesya said, her words laced with sarcasm.

I brushed my thumb across her jaw. “DiSanto asked for me. I’ll call you when I get to New York, okay? I need to head out now.”

“Stay safe and hurry back to me.” She looked up at me, sadness swimming in her watery blue eyes. “Please.”

“You know I will.” I pulled her to her feet and cradled her face in my hands, kissing her thoroughly. I would have fucked her and filled her with my come so she’d have a part of me with her while I was gone if I’d had the time, but I was already in danger of missing a morning flight.

I pulled away, leaving Olesya’s chest heaving and her skin flushed. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she answered, throwing her arms around my waist and holding on to me tightly.

I hugged her back, then gently pried her hands from my body, giving her one last forehead kiss. Afraid I wouldn’t leave if I had to look at her pained expression again, I resisted glancing back as I left her standing there with her arms wrapped around her waist.

My chest ached with every step I took away from Olesya, and I feared I might not be able to focus when I met with DiSanto if I didn’t figure out a way to temporarily lock up my feelings for my wife.

Filippo and Stefano waited for me in the SUV. I tossed my bag across the seat and climbed in, watching my phone in case Olesya messaged me on the way to the airport. My phone screen remained black as I climbed onto the private jet and settled in for the short journey.

When we landed at a private airfield, I was dismayed to discover DiSanto had changed the location of our meeting in the name of hospitality. He sent a limo, which gave my men and me plenty of room. It was a little flashy, but at least the ride to his estate was comfortable.

I took a few minutes to call Olesya, who sounded tearful when she said goodbye. Maybe she was pregnant with how emotional she’d been the last week. I’d buy her pregnancy tests when I returned home to find out for certain. The thought of her carrying my child improved my mood by the time we made it out of the heavy Friday traffic in the city and headed out to Long Island.

We pulled onto a long, tree-lined drive in Nassau County nearly two hours later. Security at thick iron gates stopped us and inspected everybody in the car before allowing us to pass. Sprawling tiered lawns and gardens framed the DiSanto mansion in the middle of the expansive property, easily twice the size of my own home. The drive curved around a fountain at the front, where the limo stopped at a walkway leading up to the massive front doors.

One of DiSanto’s men opened the limo door, and I climbed out, stretching my legs as I waited for my men. They carried our bags and followed as the guard led us inside. I was no stranger to luxury, but DiSanto’s décor was on another level entirely. French-inspired opulence dripped from murals on the ceilings above crystal chandeliers, to the intricate molding, down to the parquet floors.

My father would shit himself if he set foot inside a residence as outrageous as DiSanto’s. But it was impressive in an eccentric way.

“Ah, Dante Neretti.” The vast hall made even the hulking Daemon DiSanto appear average until he reached where we waited. He stood over six and a half feet tall and as wide as a strongman, making me feel short. His tailored black suit could only have been custom to fit his shoulders, with a black shirt and black patterned silk tie. Even his shoes matched in a matte black. “Welcome to my home. Thank you for making the trip.”

“I wasn’t given much choice,” I said drily, shaking his outstretched hand and keeping a straight face as the man tried to crush my fingers in his grip. I didn't find many men imposing, but brushing off DiSanto's presence was impossible. “Nice place.”

“Thank you.” He smiled suavely and waved his hand in the air. “I can’t claim responsibility for it. I bought it like this.”

“Still, it’s impressive.” I pulled my hand from his and subtly flexed my sore fingers behind my back.

“That’s the idea. Dinner should be ready; if you’ll follow me to the dining room.” DiSanto didn’t wait for a response before turning on his heel and walking away, his long legs easily putting distance between us. I scowled, but quickly caught up. “Your men are welcome to eat with mine in the other dining room. I thought we might have some privacy.”

“Of course.” I tilted my head in the direction DiSanto’s men split off. Filippo and Stefano reluctantly left me to continue alone. DiSanto would unlikely harm me, given his need to build connections between the families.

The dining room looked like somebody took a seventeenth-century ballroom and stuck an ornately carved wood pedestal table smack dab in the middle. The matching chairs were upholstered in shades of silver and red. The entire house was like a gothic castle, but on the light end of the color spectrum.

Silver-domed platters of food filled one end of the table, and two place settings were laid out with goblets—yes, goblets—of wine. DiSanto halted at the head of the table and extended his arm, palm up, to the place to his right. “Please, sit.”

So I sat.

“I didn’t know what you liked, so I had my chef prepare a variety.”

As if from nowhere, staff appeared to lift the lids from the trays, revealing roast meat, various kinds of pasta, salad, loaves of bread, and soup. Nobody in DiSanto’s household was in danger of starving.

The server nearest me waited expectantly, and I pointed to some of the foods, taking a little of all the dishes to be polite. It wouldn’t be a chore.

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