Page 43 of Shadow Obsession

The guard stepped back into the shack and the heavy ornate gate swung open. Lincoln proceeded slowly. Even under the moonlight Vivi could see the beautifully landscaped grass. The marble Corinthian columns of the magnificent French-style chateau gleamed under the bright lighting illuminating the two-story mansion. Lincoln parked the truck and turned off the ignition, and two guards came to greet them. Vivi stepped out and held her hands up, and one man impersonally patted her down while the other did the same to Lincoln. They were asked to surrender their phones and they were swept for wires. Only then were they allowed into the Romanelli home.

Lincoln offered her the crook of his arm and she took hold, feeling like she was either going to prom or attending a movie premiere. And since she’d never actually been to a movie premiere, prom it would have to be. Only this time she wouldn’t sneak vodka shots from the flask she brought, until she was slap-happy drunk and flinging her thong panties into the sea of dancing bodies.

She was almost expelled for that little stunt.

Shaking off the memory, Vivi held her head up and marched up the steps behind Lincoln. Yet another guard opened the door for them. White marble flooring and white wainscoting gave the foyer a cold, impersonal façade. A chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, the many crystals sparkling under the lights. A butler waited, shoulders back as he stood stiffly to greet them. She always thought butlers should be old men with greying hair and a sneer on their lips.Thisbutler was the complete opposite of her expectations. Young, kind of handsome, with a face devoid of any thoughts.

“Follow me,” he intoned.

He led them through a huge house, filled with things people shouldn’t touch and furniture that looked downright uncomfortable. The atmosphere was frigid. The air thin with impersonality.

Pietro Romanelli sat at the head of a long mahogany table. The Don was not what she had envisioned a mafia Godfather to look like. She expected Marlon Brando or Al Pacino, not a sexy older version of Sean Bean. He rose to his feet, and the man next to him did the same, whom she guessed was the heir apparent. He looked cold and unapproachable, with brown eyes that had no life in them—only hard, calculating death—and she shivered as they assessed her.

“Mr. Rollison,” Pietro Romanelli greeted with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, the word “predator” came to mind. “Thank you for joining us for dinner. This is my son, Matteo.”

Matteo gave a courtesy nod.

“Please, call me Linc or Lincoln. This is Vivi Wence.”

“Thank you for inviting us to dinner,” she said, smiling. Nerves threatened to take over her mouth so she had to bite her tongue in order not to say a word. The last thing they needed was for her to say the wrong thing. With her propensity to word-vomit, it wasn’t that far-fetched. What was the proper terminology for a mafia hit? Whack them? Pop them? Concrete-shoe them?

It suddenly dawned on her she had gotten lost in her thoughts and missed whatever had just been said. The three men stared at her blankly.

“I’m sorry, I missed half of what was said.” She thought for a moment. “No, scratch that,allof what was said.”

Matteo smirked. She decided right there and then that despite the ice seeping from his eyes, she liked Matteo Romanelli. Although, it was clear he was not a happy man. In fact, he reminded her a little of Cross. Her palms itched with the need to help him, but she refrained. She hedged a bet mafia men didn’t like strangers touching them.

Pietro cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I recognized your last name. Are you related to Zaylah Wence?”

“My older sister.”

“Right. She’s engaged to one of my men.”

“I met him. Zay took on the burden of raising my brother and I when our parents died. It’s time she had her own slice of happy, and that’s all I care about.” All her levity dropped for a moment. “But if he hurts her, I’m going to have to hurt him.”

Pietro tilted his head studying her. “That is noble.”

And that, apparently, was the end of whatever strange tension had gripped them. As soon as they all sat down, servants came from the closed-off kitchen area carrying the first course—antipasto consisting of curedsoppressataon crostini with slices of fresh mozzarella. As the men began to talk, speaking in a type of code that was completely obviously a code, she watched the play of power between the three men. The second course soon followed, with small bites of meat and cheese. By the time the rich tiramisu was served as the dessert, Vivi was almost completely full. Pietro and Lincoln resumed talking and soon, she was bored, so she decided to take up looking at the sinfully handsome man sitting across from her. A shimmer surrounded Matteo Romanelli. Dark. Angry. Or maybe it was … sadness. Yes. The black tendrils of despair clung to his soul like a leech, sucking the life out.

Empathy filled her.

Perhaps her ability to see auras was part of her superpower. How she was able to know how to calm anyone down. Anger. Sadness. Depression. They were the three emotions a lot of people seemed to live with daily, and Matteo Romanelli was no exception.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, his voice flat and devoid of inflection.

“You,” she replied, cocking her head. “You’re very sad.”

If possible, his eyes grew even colder. “Hardly.”

Their brief interaction caught the attention of his father and Lincoln, who threw her a “cease and desist” with his eyes. Wasn’t the first time she’d gotten that look.

“Oh,” she said looking at the Don. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Do you like art, Miss Wence?” Pietro asked.

She blinked. “I recently did one of those drink and paint classes. It was a masterpiece if I say so myself.”

“Matteo, why don’t you take her to see the paintings in the south wing?”

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