It confused Jordan why he wasn’t speaking in Italian, before realizing that one of his relatives must have informed him of Damiano’s order to speak English, and Andrea was trying hard not to piss him off.
Christ. Talk about rolling over and showing one’s belly.
Damiano studied Andrea for a long, charged moment, his expression impassive, before saying, “I’m glad you made it. Bianca would have been upset if you missed her wedding. Sit.”
Andrea and the woman, presumably his wife Emma, sat down hurriedly, strained smiles on their lips.
And then everyone resumed talking, as if people at this table hadn’t tortured or attempted to murder each other just yesterday.
Jesus, this family was so dysfunctional.
Chapter 7
“So is it over?” Jordan asked Ferrara that evening.
They were playing chess in Ferrara’s room, to give the appearance that they had retired for some quality alone time. After Damiano’s comment, Jordan burned to prove him wrong and appear the most besotted boyfriend in the world, who very much wasn’t gagging for Damiano’s cock. He wasn’t even thinking about that asshole.
“What do you mean?” Ferrara said, rather distractedly, as he looked at his phone. Jordan would bet all his money he was texting Nate: only Nate seemed to make Ferrara’s eyes soften in such a way.
“Damiano won, didn’t he? Is it over, then? The assassination attempts on you?”
Ferrara’s dark brows drew together. He set his phone aside and eyed the chessboard between them. “I don’t know. I can sense that something is off.”
“What do you mean?”
Shrugging, Ferrara rubbed between his brows with his fingers. “It’s been years since I interacted with my family, but I still know them well enough to sense that it’s not over. Something is about to happen.”
A sense of foreboding appeared in Jordan’s insides. “When?”
Ferrara’s black eyes met his. “Soon.”
***
The wedding day was cloudless, sunny, and beautiful.
But Jordan barely had time to notice that.
He had overslept.
It had never happened to him; he’d always been punctual to a fault. But Ferrara’s admonishment had made him anxious enough that he fell asleep close to dawn—and overslept.
The wedding was supposed to start at eleven in the morning in Rome. It was almost ten already, and Rome was an hour’s drive away.
Jordan dressed as fast as he could and hurried downstairs. As he had expected, everyone seemed to be gone already.
No, not everyone: there was still a car pulling away.
Jordan ran after it, waving his arms like a madman. “Wait!”
The car lurched to a halt, and the back door opened.
“Thanks!” Jordan said, panting as he jumped into it. “I overslept—” He cut himself off upon seeing the other occupant of the car.
Damiano raised his eyebrows, nursing what looked like a cup of coffee. “You’re lucky my car had a flat tire, or you would have missed the wedding. I’m surprised Raffaele left you behind.”
Jordan glared at him. “He probably decided that I needed my sleep after I barely slept last night. He wore me out.” He knew saying that was utterly unnecessary, but he couldn’t resist rubbing in that arrogant asshole’s face all the amazing sex he and Ferrara were supposedly having.
Cocking his head slightly, Damiano stared at him for a moment before looking out the window at the passing scenery.
Jordan turned to his own window, too, but after a few moments, his gaze gravitated back to Damiano.
The asshole looked unfairly good in a tux. Then again, the “tall, dark, and handsome” type usually did. Still, the guy could have put some effort into his appearance. He could have at least shaved. The dark stubble on Damiano’s lean cheek looked prickly to the touch.
A dimple appeared in said cheek as Damiano smiled wryly. “Are you sure he wore you out? You seem pretty thirsty to me.”
“I’m surprised you managed to get into the car with a head that big. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not gay.”
Gray eyes looked at him with something like detached amusement. “Unless Raffaele changed his gender when he moved to America, he’s in possession of a cock and balls.”
“He’s the sole exception,” Jordan said, kicking himself mentally for his slip. Thankfully, if he remembered correctly, Nate really hadn’t had relationships with men before Ferrara.
“Is he?” Damiano said, leaning back against the rich brown leather cushion of his seat in that quintessential, relaxed alpha-male pose, his legs slightly apart to accommodate his cock and balls—not that Jordan was thinking about this man’s cock and balls.
He mirrored Damiano’s pose and stared him down. “Yes.”
Damiano’s lips curled. “I don’t think—”
Gunshots pierced the air, and the tires screeched as the car spun and came to a halt.
Instinctively, Jordan ducked, grabbing the front seat for support. His heart pounding, he looked at the other man.
All amusement had left Damiano’s face, his eyes hard and focused. “Stay down,” he ordered, opening a compartment under the passenger seat and retrieving a gun and bullets. He said something in Italian to the driver, but he didn’t respond.