A Thousand Cuts (Underworld Kings)

The man was handsome, even though he must’ve been in his seventies. The lines in his face were deep, yet they served only to make him more attractive. He was tall, broad, and it was obvious that he still had a decent amount of muscle underneath his sharply tailored, pinstripe suit. He also looked remarkably familiar, though I couldn’t place him.

The man in question pulled me in for two kisses, one on each cheek. His touch didn’t unnerve me as Greg Harris’s had earlier today. Like his voice, it was warm, comforting, fatherly.

“She is beautiful, is she not?” he asked the woman who had also stood to greet me.

She must’ve been similar in age, but she was utterly timeless. Her skin was flawless, even with the lines creasing it ever so slightly. There had been nips, tucks, but only done by the absolute best in the business. To preserve unadulterated perfection, not try to create it.

Her hair was all white, pulled back into a loose ponytail. She was wearing a white silk blouse tucked into tailored white pants. All of her jewelry was gold. Her fingers boasted multiple diamond rings, her nails painted a soft pink.

“I see she is beautiful, yes.” Her voice was harsher than I’d expected based on the softness of her features. Not hostile. Just strong. “And I also see my husband has been so distracted by beauty that he has failed to introduce himself.” She made this comment in a way that told me she teased him often. But it was also stated in a way that hinted that she had all the power, despite how formidable her husband might’ve been.

“I have my wife to do such things for me,” he returned.

“Who has a name,” she scoffed, grasping my hands in hers. Not a handshake. A caress. A motherly one. More warmth.

Something that could not be produced or faked. They wanted me to feel welcome, comfortable even though they knew the reality of the situation. I felt off balance. I’d come dressed to kill, ready to shoot remarks at Made Men or Wise Guys or whatever the fuck.

I had not come ready for this. For these people. The mafioso version of Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn.

“I’m Sofia.” The woman, still holding my hands, gave them a squeeze. Though her voice was faultless, and her presence strong, something twinkled in her eyes. Something that looked remarkably like despair.

“And this is my husband, Vincentius.”

I blinked.

That’s how I knew him. Vincentius Catalano. The former leader of the various companies connected to the family. He was the head of the family.

The previous head of a fucking mafia family. And he was warm. Friendly. I liked him.

“We’re so glad that Cristian is finally getting married,” she added, squeezing my hands once more before letting go.

The man in question, the one who had stayed in the background during this entire exchange, appeared at my elbow.

He stood close. His fingers brushing mine as he handed me my Old Fashioned, then he pressed them into the small of my back. We’d been intimate in every way people could be intimate, but this felt different. This was him handing me my favorite drink with two people who spoke to him like parents watching on with happiness, approval.

“Have you started planning yet?” Sofia asked.

My stomach prickled.

Yes, I had started planning. Planning my escape and the destruction of the family and the criminal organization it was tied to.

“No, everything has happened rather fast.” I looked pointedly at Cristian. What I didn’t do was pull myself from his embrace. Didn’t throw my drink in his face and scream at the top of my lungs like part of me longed to.

“I can imagine,” Sofia said, a glint in her eyes. They were sharp. Knowing. She was not soft and motherly, not even now in her later years. They were both dangerous, I sensed that.

“Well, don’t worry, sweetheart. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll help you prepare for the wedding. Plan it, if you’d like. You must be so very overwhelmed.”

My eyes went to Cristian. He was already watching me. I felt a jolt of electricity as our eyes met.

“Yes, overwhelmed would be one word for it,” I replied, my eyes never leaving Cristian’s.

We stared at each other for a few moments, facing off, silently challenging each other.

A chuckle punctured whatever bubble we’d momentarily been living in.

Reluctantly, I pulled my gaze from Cristian to look at Vincentius, the source of the chuckle, grinning ear to ear.

“I think this is going to work out,” he nodded, a knowing look of his own coloring his handsome face. “You are perfect for him, my dear.”

I gripped my drink harder, steeling myself against the comment, against the way Cristian’s hand flexed against my waist.

“Yes, he’s met his match, that’s for sure,” I replied, though I kept my eyes on Cristian, making sure he understood what I was saying.