“What do you mean?” Jordan said, against his better judgment. He sipped his cold coffee just to appear nonchalant.
“Damiano is…” Her expression became somber before she shook her head and smiled. “He’s so out of my league it isn’t even funny. If only you saw the women who keep his company… Drop-dead gorgeous, every single one of them.”
Jordan had a feeling it wasn’t what she had intended to say, but he pretended to believe her, despite his burning curiosity.
His gaze returned to the man in question, but he quickly looked away when he realized that Lucrezia was still watching him. He hadn’t been staring, damn it.
Jordan stabbed the salad on his plate with his fork. “So is the fight for the top dog position over?” he murmured. “Everyone seems to have bared their bellies and submitted to him like a bitch.”
Lucrezia snickered. “I like English expressions—they’re so funny.” She sipped her tea and shrugged with one delicate shoulder. “It does seem to be unofficially over. Uncle Andrea was the last one who was still trying to go head to head with Damiano, but well… I guess now it’s over. Frankly, the only one who stood a chance to go against Damiano was always Raffaele. He certainly has the strength of character, intelligence, and balls, and he’s the blood heir, but he’s such an American these days.” She said the word as if it were something uncomplimentary. Maybe it was. “If he were interested, things would have gotten… a lot more interesting, let’s just say, but Raffaele has made himself pretty clear that he has no interest in returning to Italy and taking over the family business.”
“So the king is dead, long live the king—just like that?” Jordan said. “Even though most people at the table hate Damiano’s guts?”
Lucrezia gave a small, twisted smile. “Damiano doesn’t want our acceptance or love, Nate. He’s respected, feared, and obeyed—that’s all he wants. He isn’t one for sentiment. He doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body.”
Jordan frowned. Lucrezia’s words confirmed Ferrara’s, but they were still hard to believe. It was human nature to crave social acceptance and affection. How could a normal human being survive without an ounce of affection or positive feeling in his life?
But if Damiano really was a sociopath, he might not even understand affection.
“I saw him with a woman last night,” Jordan said. “But she isn’t here. Does he have a girlfriend?”
Lucrezia snickered. “A girlfriend? I don’t think that word is in his vocabulary. He rarely sleeps with the same woman twice. She’s probably gone already—they don’t spend the night. He doesn’t sleep when there are other people in the room.”
“He’s that paranoid?”
Lucrezia shrugged. “I think the paranoia is justified, considering that people have been attempting to kill him in his sleep since he was a teen. Once it became obvious how high the ‘bastardo’ was aiming, that pissed off a lot of people. But he survived, and the adversity only made him stronger.”
Jordan felt a pang of sadness. Jesus. Trying to assassinate a teenager in his sleep... He could only imagine how that would affect a kid during his formative years.
Jordan looked back at the cold-eyed man at the head of the table, not sure what to feel.
“Zio Damiano!” a childish voice exclaimed before a very short person climbed into Damiano’s lap. The chubby little girl, no older than four or five, pecked Damiano loudly on his cheek, giving him a sweet smile and chattering nonstop in Italian.
“What?” Jordan whispered, staring at the strange sight. Damiano wasn’t smiling at the girl—his expression was faintly long-suffering and irritated—but he was tolerating having a very loud child on his lap with surprising patience.
Lucrezia snorted softly. “Sofia is about the only person in the family that has no fear of Damiano. She likes him.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s Andrea’s daughter. They must have arrived at last.”
Jordan frowned, looking from Damiano’s irritated expression to the little girl’s adoring face. She didn’t seem bothered by his visible displeasure.
Oh.
Before he could fully formulate the thought, there was the sound of adult voices and a man and a woman entered the room.
A strange sort of tension filled the room, all conversations coming to a halt.
Jordan could deduce that the man with an appallingly bruised face was the Andrea person he’d heard so much about. The guy who had tried to kill Damiano—and had been “taught a lesson.” Judging by the careful way he moved, the lesson must have been very thorough. He seemed to have a broken rib or two, but he was putting on a brave face, greeting his relatives with a small smile.
A smile none of them returned, watching for Damiano’s reaction.
“Sofia,” Andrea said at last, looking at his daughter and avoiding the eyes of the man she was seated in the lap of. “Don’t bother Damiano.”