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But my fiancée’s expression is so openly curious, her doe eyes wide. Trusting me. I huff out a breath.
“They’ll be daughters and sisters of the most powerful men in each outfit.”
“Does Seven have a sister?” Brioni asks it casually, but I hate what she’s implying.
“Yes. His twin. But she’s based in London, so she probably won’t be there tonight.”
“But if she is, it’d be good for you to meet her. Maybe you could dance with her.” Brioni twirls her spoon as if to illustrate, but it slips from her fingers. She leaves it lying askew in her bowl. The way she stares at it, the abandoned spoon is a dead kitten.
“No,” I say firmly.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s our engagement party. We’re celebrating us. You and me, Brioni.”
“But we aren’t real.” She lifts her feet onto her stool and hugs her knees to her chest. A tall, stunning woman making herself as small as possible. “You need to find a real wife.”
“Well, I’m not going to do it at our engagement celebration.”
“You don’t have to propose to anyone. Just meet her.” She toys with her ring without seeming to notice.
“So, in your scenario, I’d be meeting my future wife at my engagement party to you?”
“Possibly.”
“That sounds horrible. No woman would want to meet her future husband that way.”
“A mafia woman might.” Brioni rests her chin on her knee, finally looking at me. “A woman who’d make a good mafia wife.”
“You’ve thought about this,” I accuse.
“Considering it’s a main reason for our arrangement, yes. I have.” She makes it sound like that’s all she’s been thinking about.
What about the thoughts that made you moan my name? I want to ask. Or have you shut them away completely?
“Fine,” I say, because I’m done with this conversation.
“Thank you.” She lowers her feet, and her long legs dangle limply as she refocuses on her breakfast. When she’s finished, I take her bowl and put it in the dishwasher.
“How long will you need to get ready?” I ask.
If it’s anything like prom, or Brady and Cora’s wedding, the answer is hours. But we’ve got all day.
“We should go to the range,” I say before she can reply. “I could use the practice myself,” I add, letting her know I’ll be in my own stall. Staying away from her, in control.
“I’m going with Cora in a few minutes,” Brioni informs me. I should’ve figured, but it’s still a slap in the face.
“Gus is going with you.” I don’t phrase it like a question.
“Pete’s driving us,” she says. “He’ll be with us all day, and we’ll meet up with you at the party.”
I slam the dishwasher closed. I feel like I’m on the outside of my own life.
After Brioni leaves, I stand numbly in front of the closed elevator doors. I feel like I’m on the outside of my own penthouse, too.
This is not how a leader behaves, I remind myself.
As I clench my fists, the elevator dings again. Brioni must’ve forgotten something. I glance around for what she might’ve left, but when the doors slide open, it’s my brothers.
