“Fine.”
My father stood at the end of the room beside the fireplace. I knew he’d seen us, but he didn’t let on and remained in a relaxed conversation with Roman and two other guests. But before we reached him, Dominic stepped into our path, his eyes hungrily sweeping over Lucia, making me wrap a hand around the back of her neck.
She was mine.
“Dominic,” I said.
He dragged his eyes away from Lucia, the glimmer of fun disappearing the moment they met mine.
“Salvatore.” He turned to Lucia again. “I don’t think I’ve formally met the beautiful Lucia DeMarco.”
Lucia shrunk into my hold. Dominic held out his hand to shake hers. It took her a moment, but she extended hers.
“Dominic,” Lucia said.
I don’t know why but I liked the fact that she didn’t say it was nice to meet him.
“Dad’s waiting for you. He’s peeved you’re late.”
He took a sip of his beer, his eyes still on Lucia, who looked around the room, defiantly meeting the eye of every man and woman who glanced her way.
“Is he? Better not keep him waiting any longer, then. Excuse us.” I made a point of knocking my shoulder against his and guided Lucia toward my father, who now watched our approach. His gaze, like Dominic’s, traveled the length of her. It made my skin crawl.
I leaned down to whisper a reminder in Lucia’s ear. “Behave.”
She didn’t reply but kept her eyes locked on my father’s.
“Well, well,” Franco Benedetti started, checking his watch. “Glad you could make time for us, Salvatore.”
“Traffic,” I lied, hating how whenever I was around him, I felt like a kid again, that eager–to-please child who never could. He didn’t reply to my lie but turned to Lucia, appraising her dress.
“So nice to see so much more of you today than at the funeral,” he said to her.
Her hands fisted at her sides, and I squeezed her neck in warning. Even though she tried to hide it, I knew she feared my father. It was just that her hatred of him overrode that fear.
“Another year of your life over,” Lucia said, looking at the server who’d just appeared with a fresh tray of champagne. “I’ll drink to that.”
My father fumed. I stood uncomfortably by her side, wanting to shake her. To ask her what part of behave she didn’t understand.
I heard Dominic’s chuckle behind me. Roman placed a hand on my father’s shoulder.
“Well, since my son has finally graced us with his presence, let’s have dinner.”
My fingers tight around the back of Lucia’s neck, I held her while my father disappeared into the dining room. I took her into a corner of the hallway and turned her to face me, held her by the arms, and shook her once.
“If you don’t want me to take my belt to your ass here and now, shut the fuck up, understand? Do not goad him. He is not a man for you to fuck with. He will retaliate.”
“You’re hurting me.”
I looked at my hands wrapped so tight around her arms my knuckles had gone white. I released her, turned away, and ran a hand through my hair. I plastered on a fake smile when someone passed by.
“Why does he have power over you? Why do you care what he thinks?” she asked.
I spun around to face her, making her stumble backward. “Not here. Not now. Just keep your mouth shut. Am I clear?” I squeezed that last words out, desperate. We just needed to survive this dinner. She could go to our room, then, and we could leave early the following morning. But how many nights like this would we have to survive? And what would happen if she didn’t do as I said, and she did goad him into action? What would he do?
Take her from me.
Take my place from me.
Give it all to Dominic.
She had no idea what she was doing.
“Let’s go,” I said.
Her gaze stabbed me, as if by forcing her in there, I was betraying her. In a way, I was. Because I was a coward, I was. But this was the only way.
Twenty-eight sets of eyes turned to us as we entered the dining room, my father’s flat gaze locked on Lucia who, for once, didn’t challenge him with her own. Instead, she kept her eyes on the intricate patterns of the fresco on the far wall, probably wishing she could disappear into it.
Alice in Wonderland. My mother had loved the story, and my father had surprised her with the fresco. Tenderness was not a trait I associated with my father, but he’d felt it. For her, at least. It was almost as though I never knew that version of Franco Benedetti, though, and in a way, it was sad.
My father pulled out the chair beside him. “Lucia.”
Fuck. The only other empty seat stood at the foot of the table, as far from her as physically possible.