“Damiano!” Sergio exclaimed before saying something in Italian.
Jordan eyed the newcomer curiously. So this was the infamous Damiano.
The photograph didn’t do him justice. He was a tall man, his light blue dress shirt hugging his wide shoulders and muscular torso. His features were a little too sharp and angular to be traditionally handsome, like those of a predator, but he was a startlingly striking man. His black hair was thick and luscious, brushed back in a way only Hollywood movie stars seemed to pull off, but this man could pull off that look effortlessly. His attractiveness was undeniable; even Jordan could see it. Damiano wasn’t more handsome than his cousins—Ferrara and Gustavo were more conventionally handsome—but there was something about this man that drew one’s eye, something intangible.
Jordan shifted a little in his seat, which seemed to attract the man’s attention to him. His gray eyes flickered over him impassively before moving to Ferrara at Jordan’s right. A shade of emotion appeared in them for a moment. “Raffaele,” he said, his voice devoid of any sentiment.
“Damiano,” Ferrara said, equally reserved. His hand touched Jordan’s arm. “This is Nate Parrish, my partner.”
Jordan simply nodded in greeting, since Ferrara wasn’t bothering to get up, either.
If Damiano recognized that he wasn’t actually Nate, nothing betrayed it. “A pleasure,” he said, his voice smooth and low. He sat down in the empty seat opposite Jordan and a maid started serving him.
Silence reigned. There was a strange sort of weight in the air, something expectant, almost wary.
Only Damiano seemed immune to the tension, eating calmly. He wasn’t oblivious to it; not at all. This man was perfectly aware of the discomfort in the room. He was enjoying it, Jordan realized after a moment.
At long last, Paolo broke the silence and said something in Italian. Whatever he said seemed to notch up the tension in the room even more.
Paolo’s father said something, and then Ferrara spoke, his voice quiet but full of gravity.
Jordan was sick and tired of being the only person in the dark. He must have made some frustrated noise, because Damiano raised his gaze from the pasta on his fork and looked at him. His lips curled slightly, but the smile didn’t touch his eyes.
“It’s very impolite to speak in Italian when we have a guest who doesn’t understand us,” he said. A pin drop could have been heard in the silence that followed. Damiano took a sip from his red wine. “Why don’t you all repeat your questions in English?”
“But…” Paolo said, glancing at Jordan hesitantly.
“He’s an outsider, Damiano,” Sergio said, surprising Jordan. Until now, Jordan had thought the elderly man didn’t speak English.
“Isn’t he Raffaele’s partner?” Damiano said, looking almost bored but for the hard glint in his eyes. “He’s practically family. We can’t have him feeling neglected.”
Jordan wasn’t sure how he felt about this man sticking up for him. He doubted Damiano cared that he felt neglected, so what was his game exactly?
“Where’s Andrea?” Ferrara said. “Wasn’t he supposed to arrive with you?”
All eyes fixed on Damiano, who shrugged slightly, sipping his wine. “Andrea has taken some time off to reevaluate his priorities.” He looked his relatives in the eyes, one after another.
Jordan watched in surprise and reluctant admiration as every single one of them dropped their gazes—even the men twice Damiano’s age. Even Ferrara. Jordan hadn’t thought there was a man on the planet who could discomfit Raffaele-fucking-Ferrara. Apparently there was.
It made Jordan so very curious about this man. He didn’t bother hiding his curiosity when Damiano’s gaze stopped on him. Gray eyes met his, but Jordan refused to be intimidated. Maybe it was foolish of him, maybe he just didn’t understand how dangerous this man was, but he didn’t feel wary—he wasn’t sure what to be wary of.
“Am I missing something or do you enjoy making your family fear you?” Jordan said, quirking his eyebrows.
The Italian smiled a little, but his eyes remained cold and unfeeling. He had very unusual eyes, the color of the ocean on a stormy day: they could look almost blue at times, and they could look very dark too.
Damiano’s long, sun-bronzed fingers played with his glass idly, making the wine inside it move. “Fear me?” he said. “My family has no reason to fear me if they don’t give me one. Isn’t that right, Gustavo?”
Gustavo’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Si.”
“English,” Damiano said in the same soft tone that sent a chill down Jordan’s spine. There was something off about this man. Something wrong.
“Y-yes, Damiano,” Gustavo stammered.
Jordan was baffled—and more than a little uneasy. He was perfectly aware that all the men sitting at this table were somewhat involved in the family business, even Ferrara, who had grown up in such an atmosphere before moving to America. For these powerful, hardened men to be so visibly uncomfortable around their own relative… What kind of man did it take to discomfit men who were used to violence and murder?