Three very large, very terrifying looking men.
Which is basically what I expected, knowing my father, but it still sends fear shooting into my chest when I spot them.
I grew up in this world. My father was a member of the Bruno Famiglia—probably still is, but I really don’t know, we don’t talk—and his friends came around the house all the time. Rough guys covered in tattoos, quick to anger, loud laughter, lots of swearing. Mom told me stories over the years about those friends, and how half of them are dead now and the other half are in prison. Somehow, Dad survived and thrived, and remains on the free side of the bars.
These men don’t look like Dad’s buddies from back in the day though. Instead of rough clothes and sneers, these guys are all wearing black, sleek suits. They look expensive, like they’re the upper echelons of the mafia hierarchy, which I definitely was not expecting. They’re all handsome, and two of them have a similar look, like they could be brothers, and the third is the largest bastard I’ve ever seen—seriously, he’s like a looming giant. The giant sits back, glaring at me with a deep frown, tattoos everywhere but his face.
I step forward, my throat suddenly closing like I’ve forgotten how to speak. For a second, I worry I’m about to choke on my own terror. The man in the middle stares at me intently, leaning forward on his elbows to get a better view. I can’t turn away, even though I want to run back to my car, drive as fast as I can, and get the hell out of here. The man’s gaze is magnetic: dark blue eyes, dark black hair pushed back in a casual wave, stubble on his square jaw, lips pursed in a cocky-angry frown, tattoos poking out of the edge of his dress shirt. He looks like a king sitting on his throne, and he sucks all the attention in the room like the center of a universe. His full lips quirk, and his high cheekbones stand in stark contrast to his long, dark lashes.
He’s beautiful in a way I’ve never seen before and it makes my heart race wildly. I wonder what his muscular chest would feel like if I ran my hands along the front of his crisp white dress shirt—which is like thinking about petting a starving lion. I must have a death wish.
But he’s gorgeous, and he’s looking at me intently like he wants to swallow me with his eyes. It’s not a professional stare either—there’s no calm, safe curiosity.
There’s pure hunger and domination in those eyes. Like he wants to rip me to pieces.
He is easily the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Are you Mirella Bernero?” His voice is soft but resonant and low, so low, like a rumble.
That last name, Bernero, breaks me from my spell. “That’s my father’s name, I go by Falconet.”
He nods slowly, expression twisting slightly like he’s watching a distasteful film and can’t wait for its end. “Mirella Falconet. Your father said you’re a physical therapist.”
“Fresh out of school,” I say, taking a step forward, and reach toward the folder under my arm awkwardly, thinking this is the right moment to hand over my resume.
The giant flinches like I’m about to pull out a shotgun. The gorgeous man frowns at him and waves a hand like he’s giving the giant permission to relax. The big guy shrugs and leans back in his chair, grinning at me viciously, and I wonder how close to death I just came.
I clear my throat, terrified by that little exchange, and take out a resume. I hand it over, but the man on the far right takes it instead. He looks like the speaker, with similar cheekbones and hair, but his eyes are dark and he seems a couple years younger.
“You really are fresh from school. Not much work experience either. Honestly, this is the most pathetic excuse for a resume I’ve ever seen in my life. You want to take a look, Fynn? You probably should, since the girl’s gonna be working so closely with you.” The man grins at Fynn, and my gorgeous devil has a name.
Fynn.
It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Something nags at the back of my mind, but I’m completely spellbound by Fynn. The way he moves, the way he looks at me, it’s utterly captivating. I catch myself staring at his chest and shoulders and arms, and quickly stare at the floor, hoping he hasn’t noticed.
“I’m fine,” Fynn says. “I don’t need to see it. And lay off the girl, Gavino.” He clears his throat and gestures. “Mirella, please sit down.”
I hesitate, but it’s not a question. I glance over at the barista girl, but she’s gone, like my appearance was her cue to get the hell out of here.