milk-chocolate gaze.
I tried not to stare at the men I was related to, but I kept stealing glances in an attempt to take them in.
Hadrian had informed me that no business would be discussed until pleasantries and decorum had been exchanged.
“We have refreshments waiting for you on the rooftop terrace,” I said with a red-lipped smile. “The rain will hold a bit longer. Would you like to take a few minutes and enjoy the view?”
I felt Hadrian’s coiled tension like it was my own.
He turned his attention to Nico, and then Angelo swooped in immediately and offered me his arm in a gesture of old-world, gentlemanly charm. My hand trembled when I touched him.
“Hadrian didn’t mention a woman would be here with him,” Angelo said. We glided away from the helipad toward the other side of the roof.
He didn’t sound upset, but he was clearly fishing for information. “And he definitely didn’t mention it would be a woman that speaks Italian.”
I forced a smile but didn’t reply. It was better to say as little as possible. Fear—and revulsion—were dueling inside of me. This man, Angelo, was my mother’s older brother. Instead of protecting her, he’d gone along with their father’s edict and attempted to marry her off to the Foscari.
I hated him.
Everything about him and what he stood for was vile. I hated that he was the head of the Moretti family and with his power he could control the outcome of my life.
Hate was better than fear, but I commanded myself to stay calm. No good would come of letting my emotions get the better of me. Hadrian would take care of the situation, and then I’d never have to see these people ever again.
One end of the rooftop deck had expensive lounge chairs nestled underneath a small white tent. A man in a black chef’s coat and hat stood behind a long rectangular glass table with at least ten chafing dishes. A server waited at a portable stainless-steel bar with his hands behind his back in a show of stoic professionalism.
Ingrid had ensured everything was ready for Angelo’s impending arrival. Because money was no object when Hadrian wanted something, it had all been handled quickly and without issue.
“We have everything you could want,” I said to Angelo, guiding him to the bar. “Italian sodas, amaros—”
“I don’t want to eat and drink the same things I’d eat and drink at home,” Angelo said, interrupting me. “I’m not in Italy, am I?”
I blinked, unprepared for such a twist. “I thought you’d want to be comfortable—”
“I’m always comfortable,” he said, his tone dark. “Except when someone tries to think for me.”
He stared at me and I stared back. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw Hadrian gesture to the chef. The other men clearly didn’t share Angelo’s feelings and instead took the offered plates.
I looked at the bartender and said, “Two glasses of SINNERS, please. Three drops of water in each.”
The bartender quickly made the drinks and handed them over.
Angelo lifted the glass of scotch to his nose and inhaled and then took a sip. I watched him roll the liquid gold around his mouth, but he still didn’t show any emotion at all.
I took a small sip of my own drink despite the fact that I planned to remain sober. I didn’t want alcohol to nourish my rage. I had to keep my head about me.
Time in Hadrian’s presence had begun to change me, and I now enjoyed the bold, peaty flavor of SINNERS scotch when only a few weeks ago I never would’ve touched brown liquor.
Without a word, Angelo left the bar and went to recline in one of the comfortable chairs. His sons were already sitting with plates of food resting on their laps.
Nico stood at the edge of the rooftop deck, gazing out across the horizon, but then eventually wandered to the lounge furniture and took a seat. Ignoring the men, I went to the table of food and made myself a plate of homemade burrata and heirloom tomatoes. I thanked the chef with a smile and then took the plate to the balcony and rested it on the wall. I was in the middle of chewing when Luca, Angelo’s heir apparent—and my cousin—came to stand next to me.
The ocean air whipped his dark hair and the sunlight highlighted his patrician nose and sculpted mouth. He looked at me and grinned.
I gazed at him, wary.
“Eden,” he said, my name rolling off his tongue, “tell me something.”
I arched