Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 143870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 719(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 719(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
“Why did you tell me the wrong time for the party tonight?”
“I didn’t,” he insists. “You must have gotten confused.”
“Did you forget you invited me?” I press. “Is that why Isobel is here?”
“She just showed up. I didn’t even know she was coming.”
I study him, wondering if he really thinks I’m that stupid. “At least do me the courtesy of being honest, Marco. That’s all I’ve ever asked of you.”
He scrubs a hand over his face like I’m exhausting him.
“Jesus, I can’t win with you. You freak out if I’m too involved in your life, and now you’re being totally irrational. I’ve been in New York for three months, and your imagination is running wild. That’s all this is.”
I almost laugh at his pathetic attempt to twist this around on me, and it confirms he’s lying about something. But I don’t have the energy to care.
“Yeah, you know what, it doesn’t even matter,” I say. “Things haven’t been good between us for a while, and I think we both know that.”
“Things are fine between us,” he argues. “We just need to get back into a routine now that I’m home.”
“Marco—"
A loud, obnoxious knock on the door interrupts me, and a male voice calls out from the other side. “Marco, we need you in the man cave. Sanderson wants to talk about the Chicago merger now, or he’s leaving.”
The color drains from Marco’s face, and a flicker of panic replaces his irritation. I can only surmise this has something to do with his recent stress, which doesn’t bode well for his mood improving.
He calls out to whoever’s on the other side of the door to let them know he’s coming before he turns his attention back to me.
“I have to go deal with this,” he grumbles. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”
“I’m leaving,” I tell him. “You can call me later, and we’ll finish our conversation then.”
“Come on, Chantel.” He softens his tone. “I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone. Just have a drink and socialize for a bit. I won’t be long.”
The last thing I want to do right now is socialize, especially with people who don’t even like me. But I also want to get this over with tonight, so there’s no ambiguity.
“Fine,” I concede. “Come find me when you’re done.”
Marco hands me one of the drinks he poured and rushes from the room. When I glance down, I’m not even surprised he didn’t remember I don’t like scotch.
I leave the library and search for at least one friendly face, but I come up empty in this crowd. Marco’s party friends are the ones he brings me around most often, and they tend to act like overgrown frat boys. When one of them catcalls me from across the room, waving me over, I make an apologetic gesture as I answer a fake call.
With that annoyance averted, I head for the formal dining area and take a seat on the edge of the table where I can sit back and people-watch. Isobel seems to have disappeared, which is strange, considering she’s usually the last to leave the party. But she’s not the only one absent right now.
It’s become a habit to search for Marco’s best friend because I need all my defenses around him. I guess you could call it keeping your enemies close, though I’m not sure how or why we became enemies in the first place. I just know when he gives me one of his disapproving stares or dry insults, I’ve never wanted to fight with anyone more.
He has no logical reason to dislike me, but when Marco and I are together, he makes a point to leave the room.
Oddly enough, we seem to save our mutual torment for when Marco is otherwise occupied. I’d like to say it’s because neither of us wants Marco to know about this animosity between us, but truthfully, I’ve just made it my personal mission to annoy him.
As if I’ve summoned darkness himself, quiet apprehension settles in the air when the guests turn their attention to a new arrival.
A prickling sensation crawls up my spine. It’s the same awareness that always precedes him. He sucks all the oxygen from the room, and I’m not the only one who notices. A momentary hush falls over the crowd as they eye him, clearing a path for Cristiano Vitale.
They all stand a little straighter in his presence, nodding at him politely as they swallow their uncertainty.
In the Cosa Nostra, he’s known as Il Corvo—The Raven. It’s a fitting title for his cold, mysterious personality, and I can understand why some might see him as the omen of death.
In many ways, he’s one of them. A member of their Society, and a cunning businessman in a perfectly tailored suit. But outside the public eye, he’s a titan of Seattle’s criminal underworld, and this is what separates him from the polite company here tonight.