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But it was easy to see I spent very little time with him and what time we did spend together was mostly in the public eye at events or business dinners.

I was a prop, not a person, on the arm of Dario Ferretti.

Happily, this itself wasn’t rare in Chicagoan high society. There were many old men with younger women by their sides, pretty and vapid and quiet at functions.

The problem was, as people got to know me, it was obvious I was not vapid or quiet.

The death of my family had awakened a fire in my soul I could not and did not want to quench.

I argued tirelessly with Booker, Hank, and Walter about domestic and international politics. I literally threw down with Akira, Finn, and Elijah at the dojo, and I went head-to-head with the other Mafia wives like Renata and Alessia, who were often formidable in their own right.

I was growing out of the soft, untried skin of Sicilian Fiammetta and into a woman who was a warrior, someone who could fight her own battles and state her own mind and endure the consequences of both.

Dario was just not around to see my evolution.

So it was not surprising that I continually felt his eyes on me for the rest of the night as the dinner party finished dessert and moved into the large formal living room for drinks. They burned into me like arctic ice as I laughed with Akira, Elijah, and Hank about my first attempts at self-defense using a switchblade, and they tracked me as I danced around the room with Katya and Gertie when a Lola Young song we all loved came over the built-in speakers.

But the truth was, I watched him too.

I had never seen him in such a casual social environment.

Usually, when he made time for me, it was in order for us to go out on the town for the benefit of being seen at the right charity functions or hobnobbing at the right restaurants with the right people. He always held himself removed, superior and condescending in his secured seat of power. People deferred to him always, even the mayor, and if he felt disrespected in any way, he merely had to lift an inky eyebrow and narrow those cold eyes at his opponent to remind them to mind their manners.

I had never known a man who spoke so little to command so much power.

But tonight, he seemed like a different man entirely.

Even though I was speaking with Alessia and Renata, my gaze kept sliding to the left where Dario was speaking with Walter, Katya, Lily, and Akira in the far corner near the piano. He was doing the talking, using his hands the way an Italian would, something I never saw him do, and everyone seemed riveted by what he was saying.

And what could Dario Ferretti have to say to a group that included a Russian bartender, a biker, a fashion editor, and a dojo owner?

I had no clue, and the curiosity was burning out my lungs.

“For someone who claims to be disinterested in her husband, Fia sure can’t take her eyes off of him,” Alessia murmured to Renata, humor rich in her voice.

I ripped my gaze from Dario just as he made his assembly laugh (!) and glared at my closest girlfriends.

“I can’t take my eyes off of him because he shouldn’t be here,” I explained. “Dario avoids me at all costs, and now he’s at my party? It’s nonsensical, not to mention disturbing.”

“What’s disturbing is how fine that man is,” Alessia muttered over the rim of her wineglass. “Cesare is nothing to sneeze at, but Dario truly puts all other men to shame.”

“Bryson, Akira, Finn, and Elijah are all lovely too,” I noted.

Though she had a point.

Dario not only towered over them, but there was something about him that they lacked, a compelling, arresting quality that made you want to look longer and closer at him. Maybe it was his striking coloring—the Sicilian dark hair and tanned skin matched with those eerie pale eyes—or that overlong hair that waved to his shoulders in glossy sheets. Maybe it was the craggy, almost cruelly carved ridges of his bones, the razor-sharp jaw and cutting cheekbones. Maybe it was the fact that when he looked at you it felt as if he could see through you straight to your bones and marrow. That there were no secrets you could keep or mysteries you could hold under that scrutiny.

He made you feel naked while simultaneously making you wonder if he was the only person who could make you feel safe in that same vulnerability.

It was infuriating.

“He must fuck like a wild thing,” Renata said.

“Ren!” I scolded, and a blush warmed my cheeks. “Don’t be crude.”

“You are such a prude.” Alessia laughed, rolling her eyes. “You’re a married woman, Fia, hardly a virgin, and yet the first mention of sex makes you all flushed and uptight.”

I crossed my arms protectively over my chest and shifted my weight on my Jimmy Choo shoes. Of course, I couldn’t tell them the truth.