“Wow, they really invite anyone to these things.”
“Right?”
“Andexpectus to attend.”
I didn’t mean to say that with so much contempt, but it leaked out of me none-the-less. I stare at Settimo, trying to gauge his reaction. His eyes have widened like I surprised him, but then amusement flickers and he smiles. I return it.
“They’re a bunch of assholes, aren’t they? The higher ups,” he asks.
“Finally, someone agrees with me.”Damn, I really am bitter.
“Fuck ‘em.”
His expression softens, and my smile falls with his.
“You actually liked Syrus, though, didn’t you?” I ask.
“Why do you say that?”
I shrug but glance around us, surveying the cigarette butts on the ground and the dirty picnic table that’s old and probably rotting. “You’re here. Drinking away your sorrows.”
“I’m an alcoholic.”
“You’re a liar.”
One side of his lips lift. “That too.”
I smirk and prepare to change the subject, but Settimo’s amusement fizzles and he looks away from me.
“To be honest, no, I didn’t really care for the man. He was arrogant and rigid. Everything needed to be done a certain way, and get in his way… it didn’t matter who you were. You were moving.”
“Isn’t that how all dons are? Arrogant and rigid. With a big ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude.”
He stares at the brick wall and considers this for a moment. “Yes. Probably.” He turns to me and meets my gaze. “Even still, I don’t like change.”
I nod in understanding, and I actually do get it. This changes the entire dynamic of the organization he works for. It would be like if Nikita, the head of the Bratva, died. Who the hell knows what would happen next?
“I guess that makes you rigid, too,” I say, my voice low and kind, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
He lowers his eyes to my dress. It’s black and backless, with a high neckline and short sleeves. It stops at the middle of my thighs and hugs my body tighter than I like, but so does every other item I own. That’s the trade-off for having curves and double Ds. Everything you wear looks like you’re trying to get laid.
My nipples pebble and press into my bra, just from this man’s eyes on me. For a brief moment, IwishI’d chosen something more revealing.
My skin heats, and when Settimo’s eyes move back to mine, he gives me a knowing wink. “I don’t know how rigid I am, but I’m probably not as flexible as you.”
I stare at him, my lips slightly parted, and it isn’t until he laughs that I realize he was joking. I think.
He slaps my knee, and I snap out of it, shifting on the bench and clearing my throat.
“So, who is the lucky guy, anyway?”
“What?”
He nods toward my hand. “The man whose ring you aren’t wearing.”
I touch my hand, the phantom shackle squeezing my finger. I rest my hands in my lap. “Paolo Romano. He’s the son of—”
“Leo Romano. I know him.”