Page 4 of Cartel Devil

“I’m dead serious. You’re a family guest.”

“So’s everyone else here.”

“Hardly. They may be guests, but that doesn’t mean they’re here because my family likes them.”

“Business?”

I cock an eyebrow. She already knows the answer.

Her hint of a Boston accent reminds me just how complicated syndicate life is. My new cousin Vittoria’s Venetian Mala del Brenta and just married into the Colombian Cartel. Her best friend, Serafina Mancinelli, is Mala del Brenta on her father’s side and raised in Venice while Sicilian Cosa Nostra on her mother’s side plus American Cosa Nostra by marriage. Patrizia is American Cosa Nostra via Boston.

“We don’t do things like this in Boston. We don’t—uh—mingle.”

The rival syndicates up there don’t attend each other’s festivities. Why would they? They don’t have enough to show off. Boston’s a quaint little town compared to NYC.

We step to the side of the bar as more people walk up and a line forms. If I suggest we return to our table, we won’t be able to sit together and continue talking. I can’t suggest we sit somewhere off the dais since there are place settings at each seat. Instead, we stand together.

“You and Alejandro must be the same age.”

“Close. He’s between Javier and Jorge. I’m just over a year older than him.”

“How close are you and your brothers?”

“Just over a year apart.”

I’m repeating myself. I sound like an idiot, but this is small talk, and I suck at it.

“Wow! Your poor mother.”

“It wasn’t so bad. Mamá says we canceled each other out since we always had playmates. And if we didn’t like one brother, we always had another to play with.”

“What about the poor brother who got left out? Was it always Jorge since he’s the youngest?”

“Rarely. Javier and I would tease him that because he’s the baby of the family, we had to make sure he was never left out. It was pity back then, but we ended up spoiling him. Now, he thinks he needs to be in the middle of everything.”

Hardly, but it’s still a running joke. I’m the one who’s in the middle of everything since I’m the head intel gatherer for the family. I’m not nosy by nature, but I like to know what the fuck our enemies are up to. I don’t like surprises.

I don’t notice the time slip by as Patrizia and I continue to drink and chat. She’s not overly talkative, but I’m happy to let her steer the conversation. We’re already five amaretto sours in with shots of our respective anise-flavored drinks in between when the happy couple slips away for their wedding night. It’s been ages since I’ve been even remotely tipsy, but I’m feeling the booze tonight.

“Would you like to dance again?”

Who the hell am I?

The last time I asked a woman to dance was prom nearly twenty years ago. Now I’ve done it twice tonight. I’ve got liquid courage pumping through my veins, and Patrizia looks glad I asked again. She tucks her hand around my arm before she realizes what she’s doing. She tries to pull away, but I press my elbow against my ribs. It keeps her hand in place until we join the thinning crowd. It’s well after midnight, but I feel like I could go all night.

We dance well together, and she giggles whenever I twirl her. I have to hold her up a couple times as she staggers into me. My dick’s pissed that I’m teasing him. Her body bumping into mine is doing things to me. The fifth time it happens, she doesn’t step away.

Just the opposite.

She presses against me, and instead of putting her hand back on my shoulder, it rests on my chest.

“I think all the alcohol just caught up to me.”

“Do you not feel well? Do you want to sit down?”

Her gaze travels over me before she shakes her head.

“I feel fine, and I definitely don’t want to sit down.”