I said nothing, just nodding like a good Italian daughter who knew her place even if all she wanted to do was scream and curse and break everything. I had so much bottled-up emotion, so much anger and rage that I wanted to hurt someone, something.
I wanted everyone else to feel my frustration.
“Come passerotta,”my mother said and gently placed her hand on the small of my back to lead me out of my room.
Once we made it to the top of the stairs I could hear deep voices filtering up from my father’s cigar room. I reached out and gripped the banister, curling my fingers tightly around it, digging my nails into the wood. My heart was thundering, my throat tightened and my mouth went dry.
There was a deep rumble of laughter and I felt this tightening in my chest, something that didn’t have anything to do with fear but of anticipation. Was that Nikolai’s voice? Would he be as intimidating in person as he was in the images I was just looking at?
My mother led the way, clicking her tongue for me to get going like I was a show horse. I guess I was to them, in a way.
I realized we were standing in the opened doorway of my father’s cigar room before I realized I’d even moved. My mother’s hand rested on the center of my back, and my focus was on my father first, who held a square-cut glass of amber colored liquid in his hand. He leaned against his oak desk, a cigar between the fingers of his other hand. He laughed deeply and I let my gaze slide to the two men who stood a few feet across from him and beside the fireplace mantle.
And as if our silent presence was a heavy weight in the room, all conversation between the men ceased and their attention latched right onto me. And my gaze was locked on one man specifically, as if we were two magnets and I was helpless to fight the pull.
His short dark hair was in a disarray around his head, brushing his forehead as if he’d been running his fingers through it. Or maybe how he looked when he woke up in the morning, or how he looked after he…
I pushed those obscene thoughts away as I felt my face heat, no doubt painting my flesh crimson.
His masculine square jaw was covered in a dark shadow of scruff, and no man should have lips that full. I wasn’t even ashamed at how deeply I was looking at him, how I took in his straight, angular nose, or how his eyes were so blue they were a stark contrast to his darker tones.
Even if I hadn’t known what he looked like before meeting him in person, his visible reaction to my presence tipped me off that he was my future husband.
His jaw clenched slightly, his nostrils flared suddenly. I saw a tightening of his fingers around the bourbon glass he held, and there was no mistaking the way he checked me out, his gaze roaming up and down my body.
Despite wearing a demure, modest dress, I felt completely naked at that moment as his gaze moved up and down my body.
“Amara,” my father said in a tone that he’d never used with me before. Gentle.
He held his hand out and beckoned me.
I felt a nudge from behind, my mother gently pushing me further into the room. I took a couple steps forward and looked over my shoulder at her. She stood in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, her head down. The perfect submissive Italian wife for my father. It made me nauseous.
“Amara,” my father’s voice turned a little harder, a little sterner.
I knew my lack of obeying him right away angered him, and if the Petrov’s weren’t here right now I’d have a red mark on my cheek in the shape and size of my father’s palm.
I faced forward once more and made my way over to him quickly, finding it hard to breathe the longer I was in the room with these three men. He gripped my upper arm harder than necessary and I couldn’t stop the wince. I noticed the subtle tightening of Nikolai’s shoulders, the slight narrowing of his eyes as his gaze landed on where my father held onto me.
My father turned me so I was facing the two Petrov’s and let go of me. Dmitry leaned against the edge of the mantle, a smirk on his face as he brought his glass to his mouth and took a long drink. But then my focus was locked on Nikolai once more, as if I had no control.
I was lost in his blue eyes, and in his imposing, intimidating demeanor. God, he was big, tall and muscular, broad shoulders and a hard body that couldn’t be hidden behind his leather jacket, dark shirt, and black jeans.
I felt dizzy, woozy even, as if I were staring directly into the sun but unable to look away. Of course I felt fear. But it was more akin to being afraid of the unknown and not so much that he’d destroy me. Although I wasn’t confident the latter wouldn’t happen.
“Amara, I’d like to officially introduce you to your fiancé, Nikolai Petrov.” My father’s voice was even, slightly saccharine. And Marco Bianchi could have never been called sweet or amicable.
I had no doubts these two Russians knew the type of man Marco was, the things he’d done, the lengths he’d gone to get what he wanted. I knew they were well aware of this because they were all one in the same.
My father was brutal and savage in all aspects of his life. That’s how he’d gotten into the position of Capo of the West Coast Cosa Nostra.
I glanced at my father once more, watching as he tipped back the rest of his bourbon. I had a feeling that wasn’t his first and certainly wouldn’t be his last. From the little I knew about the Cosa Nostra and Bratva, I was aware of the tension that had always been between them, the decades long war and strife, vengeance and revenge always seeming to go back and forth.
All the blood that had been spilled by both sides.
And as I saw the glossy look in my father’s eyes, the slightly tint of pink to his cheeks, I wondered if this was what my father looked like when he was happy as he sold-off his daughter in a power-play.
It was just one of the many questions I’d never get an answer to.