War of Hearts

“Marco,” Mr. Russo said with nearly the same enthusiasm he’d shown Joseph. “I’m glad you could come. Now, it’s a real family meal. Sit down, sit down.”

He motioned us over to the dining table and resumed his seat at the head. The table was set for seven. To Mr. Russo’s left, I noted a petite, middle-aged woman. Although fine lines were drawn around her eyes, it was obvious where Joseph’s beautiful features and glossy black curls came from.

I gave her my best smile. “You must be Mrs. Russo. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

She inclined her head and returned my smile. “It’s nice to finally meet the girl who’s stolen my son away.” The words were a bit frosty, but she was outwardly polite.

My gaze flicked away from hers as my anxiety spiked. My eyes fell on the man seated on Mr. Russo’s right. I instantly recognized him as Marco’s father. They looked almost exactly the same, only separated by twenty years or so. Mr. De Luca even shared the same cold glint in his black eyes that Marco possessed. That hard exterior had frightened me at first, but I knew Marco better now. I knew he was gentle and kind.

I wasn’t certain there was a gentle, kind soul hiding behind Mr. De Luca’s hard exterior.

He gave me a small nod of acknowledgement. “Miss Meyers.”

That was all he said in greeting. It was even frostier than what Mrs. Russo had offered me. In her case, I could understand the touch of animosity. Joseph had run away from his family and started a relationship with me in Cambridge. Even now, he was living at Marco’s house with me instead of staying at his own home.

But Marco’s father… He simply fixed me with a frozen stare, his cold eyes inspecting me.

Joseph pulled out a chair for me, seating me beside his mother. He settled down at the end of the table, opposite from his father, and Marco sat on Joseph’s left. I wanted to be between them, but I knew that might seem odd. I did my best to smother my discomfiture.

“I’m Matteo.”

I blinked and focused on the final person seated at the table. A young man—he couldn’t be older than eighteen—sat between Marco and his father. His wide smile seemed genuine, and I gratefully returned it. The boy didn’t particularly resemble anyone at the table. He did seem to share Mrs. Russo’s hazel eyes, but the similarities stopped there.

“Matteo is my cousin,” Joseph explained. “He’s been helping my father while I’ve been with you.”

I tried to keep the guilt out of my expression. This boy was being pulled into a life of violence because of me. If I hadn’t been keeping Joseph away, Matteo might be doing something different with his life. He might be enjoying his time like an eighteen-year-old boy should.

But I didn’t want that violent life for Joseph, either. This little family gathering was only making me more determined than ever to get Joseph away from New York. I didn’t care if his mother hated me for it.

That helped me brush off my anxiety over her obvious dislike.

The door opened again, and the young man from the host’s stand stepped in, balancing drinks on a tray. He served Mr. Russo first, setting a glass of red wine in front of him. Mr. De Luca was next—a glass of whiskey. The rest of us received champagne.

“Are we celebrating something?” Joseph asked.

“Meeting Ashlyn, of course,” his father replied, beaming at me. I was baffled. He really did seem excited to meet me. He might be a mobster, but he wasn’t all that scary. Not like Marco’s father.

He picked up his red wine in an obvious gesture that we were all meant to toast. I picked up my water glass rather than the champagne. I didn’t want to drink alcohol. It might calm my nerves, but I needed to stay sharp. No matter how welcoming Mr. Russo might be, I couldn’t let myself forget what he really was.

He frowned at me. “You don’t like champagne?”

“Not really,” I lied, taking the excuse he was giving me. “I’m good with water, but thank you.”

“You have to at least toast,” he told me. “Here. We’ll trade, since you don’t like champagne.”

He passed his red wine to me. I thought about refusing, but Joseph squeezed my hand under the table.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the glass from him and handing off my champagne flute.

He raised the flute, and the rest of us mirrored him. “To family,” he toasted, meeting my eye with a significant glance. It was bizarre, feeling so welcomed by a man I knew was dangerous.

To be polite, I took a sip of the red wine. I supposed I’d have to drink a little more over the course of the meal, since Joseph had grabbed my hand to signal for me to take it in the first place. While his father was jovial, there was clearly some underlying tension. Obviously, no one said no to Mr. Russo.

“So, Ashlyn,” he addressed me. “Joseph tells me you’re a student at Harvard. That’s very impressive.”

I blushed, heat creeping up my neck. “Thank you.”

“What are you studying?”