Bloody Heart: A Second Chance Mafia Romance (Brutal Birthright Book 4)

I’m so nervous getting ready that my hands are shaking—almost as much as they did after that sniper’s bullet missed my father’s head by a matter of inches.

I wonder if Dante will actually come tonight?

I don’t think he will. He certainly didn’t seem very interested when Tata invited him.

I don’t think he wants to see me again. He didn’t speak to me at all after the shooting. Well—he asked if we were alright. But I think he would have asked that of a complete stranger. It doesn’t mean anything.

He saved my father’s life. I don’t think that meant anything, either. Dante was working security—he was just doing his job.

The redheaded woman was Riona Griffin. She’s the sister of Callum Griffin, the Alderman of the 43rd Ward. Dante must be connected to their family. That’s why he was supervising the event.

They must be dating. That’s the only explanation I can think of.

It’s been nine years. I should have known he’d be taken now. I’m surprised he’s not married already. A man like that, a walking specimen of masculinity . . . he must have women chasing after him everywhere he goes.

I saw it myself, when we were dating. Everywhere we went, women couldn’t help but stare at him.

Every woman wants to know what it’s like to be with a man that big. To be lifted up and thrown down on a bed like you’re feather-light. When you get a look at those hands, twice the size of your own hands . . . you can’t help but think how big the parts of him that you can’t see must be . . .

I already know the answer to that question, and my mind is still racing.

Of course Dante has been with other women since we split.

I’ve had other boyfriends myself. But none of them compared to him.

It’s an awful thing, when the first man you ever sleep with is built like a Greek god. Everybody that comes after seems all too mortal.

I dated photographers, designers, other models. I dated an Israeli banker and a man who owned his own island on the coast of Spain. Some of them were kind, some were witty. But none of them were Dante.

They were just men.

Dante is “the man.” The one who first formed my conception of what a man should be. The one who first made me fall in love. Who took my virginity. And who gave me a son.

The others were barely acquaintances by comparison.

When I’d feel the tiniest flutter for one of those men, I’d ask myself, “Is this love? Could I be falling in love again?”

Then I’d look back through all the pain and misery of those years, to the months when Dante and I were together. They shone as bright as diamond in my mind. As much as I tried to bury them in the mud and dirt of the misery that followed, those memories were still there, as hard and sparkling as ever.

I look at myself in the mirror, wondering what Dante saw when he saw my face again. Did he think I looked different? Older? Sadder?

I was so damn young when we met.

I start making up my face, quickly and fiercely.

I don’t think he’s coming tonight, but if he is, I’m going to look as beautiful as possible. I know he doesn’t want me anymore—he probably hates me. But I won’t be pathetic.

I can hear Mama shouting in the next room. Well, not shouting exactly—but definitely using a more agitated tone than usual. She’s not happy that Tata’s still going to the party tonight.

“Someone just tried to kill you!” she cries. “If that doesn’t justify a night off, then I don’t know what does!”

Henry looks up from his Switch. He’s lying on my bed playing Cuphead.

“Did someone actually try to kill Grandpa?” he asks me.

I know you’re supposed to lie to your kids sometimes. Henry was brought into the world with so much turmoil and secrecy that I didn’t have energy for anymore. From the time he was small, I’ve told him the truth about almost everything.

“Yes,” I say. “Someone shot at him while he was giving his speech.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did the police catch him?”

“Not yet.”

“Hmm,” Henry says, looking back down at his game again.

Kids don’t understand death. They know that adults make a big deal about it. But to them, it’s like a video game. They think they’ll always come back, even if they have to start the level over.

“Is Grandma gonna stay with me again?” Henry asks.

“No,” I say. “She’s coming with us. Carly will be here, though.”

“Can I order room service?”

“Yes. You need to get chicken or salmon—not just fries this time.”

Henry looks up at me, grinning. “Potatoes are a vegetable, you know.”

“I don’t think they are.”

“What are they, then?”

“Uh . . . maybe a root?”

Henry sighs. “They’re spuds, Mom. Spuds.”

I can’t tell if he’s messing with me. Henry has an odd sense of humor, probably from spending too much time with adults and not enough with other kids. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’s smarter than me, so I’m not ever fully confident when I’m arguing with him. He’s always coming out with weird things he just read in some book. And when I Google it afterward, he’s usually right.

I run my fingers through his soft curls, kissing the top of his head. He reaches up briefly to give me a kind of half-hug, with his attention still on his game.

“I’ll see you in a couple hours,” I tell him.

I don’t plan to be at the party late. I want to tuck Henry into bed myself when I get back to the hotel.

Mama’s already dressed when I come out to the main room. She doesn’t look very happy.

“I can’t believe it,” she says, giving me a quick hug. “I told your father we should skip the reception . . .”

“It’s at an event center,” I tell her. “Not out in the open.”

“Even so . . .”

“We’re going,” my father says in his imperious way. “You can come along or not, Éloise.”

My mother sighs, her lips thin and pale with stress. “I’m coming,” she says.

We take a cab over to the Heritage House event center. As soon as my father steps out of the car, he’s surrounded by press and the flash of a dozen cameras. Obviously, the news of the shooting got out. People are shouting questions at him from all sides.

“Do you have any idea who’d want to kill you, Mr. Solomon?”

“Was this the first time you’ve suffered an attack?”

“Is this related to your campaign for the Freedom Foundation?”

“Are you still going forward with your coalition?”

“Do you have a statement for the shooter?”

My father draws himself up to his full height, facing the semi-circle of cameras and microphones.

“I do have a statement,” he says. “To the man who shot at me today—you failed. I’m still standing. And even if you had succeeded in killing me, my cause will never die. This is a global coalition, a global movement. Humanity has decided that we will no longer endure the enslavement and abuse of our most vulnerable members. I will never stop fighting for the end of human trafficking, and neither will my allies here in Chicago, and across the world.”

I don’t know if he had that speech prepared, or if he thought it up on the fly. My father always delivers his lines with the precision of a professor and the fire of a preacher. His eyes are blazing, and he looks like a force of nature.

I find it terrifying. To me, it sounds like he’s taunting the sniper. That man is still running around at large. If he was paid to do the job, he probably intends to try again. I don’t like standing out here on the steps, open and unprotected.

I’m relieved when Tata finishes his statement to the press so we can all go inside.

Heritage House doesn’t really look like a house at all—more like a giant renovated barn with cedar-paneled walls, iron chandeliers, string lights, and picture windows looking out onto a garden. It’s rustic and picturesque, much prettier than your average hotel ballroom.

The band isn’t the usual string quartet either. It consists of a blonde girl in a white cotton dress and cowboy boots, with an acoustic guitar strung around her neck, and three men playing an upright bass, a fiddle, and a banjo. Their music isn’t hokey at all—it’s quite lovely. The girl has a low voice that starts raspy, then soars up high, clear as a bell.

Waiters are carrying around trays of champagne and fizzy lemonade with striped straws. I realize that I’ve barely eaten all day. I’m starving. I head over to the buffet, grateful to see there’s real food, not just canapés. I start loading up a plate with grapes, strawberries, and shrimp, while the heavily pregnant woman next to me does the same.

As we reach for a chicken-salad sandwich at the same time, she turns to me and says, “Oh, hello again!”

I stare at her blankly, confused by how familiar she looks. Then I realize we were on the stage together earlier today—only she was seated on the opposite side, so I only caught a glimpse of her for a moment.

“You’re Callum Griffin’s wife,” I say.

The woman laughs—loud and infectious. “You don’t recognize me, Simone? Is it the belly?”

She turns sideways to show me her pregnant tummy in full, glorious profile.

It’s her face I’m staring at—those bright gray eyes, against the tan skin and the wide, white smile.

“Aida!” I gasp.

“That’s right.” She grins.

She was such a skinny, wild, almost feral child. I can’t connect the image I have of her in my mind—skinned knees, tangled hair, filthy boy’s clothes—with the glamorous woman standing in front of me.

“You’re so beautiful!” I say, before I can stop myself.

Aida only laughs harder. She seems to think this is the best joke in the world.

“Bet you didn’t see that coming!” she says. “Nobody thought I’d grow up to be hot when I was running around like Mowgli, terrorizing the neighbor kids. There was a whole summer where I didn’t wear shoes or brush my teeth once.”

I want to hug her. I always liked Aida and Sebastian, and even Nero. Enzo was warm to me, too. They were all kind—more than I deserved.

“I read your interview in Vanity Fair,” Aida says. “I was checking to see if you’d give me a shout-out, but no such luck . . .”

“God, I hate doing those,” I shake my head.

“Top-paid model of the year in 2019,” Aida says. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”

I feel myself blushing. I’ve never particularly liked the “fame” part of modeling. Luckily, even top models aren’t nearly as famous as actors or musicians. Or as easy to recognize when we haven’t had the benefit of a hair and makeup team. So I can still get around anonymously most of the time.

“Who’s number one this year?” Aida teases me. “Do you hate her guts?”

“I really don’t pay attention to any of that.” I shake my head. “I mean, I’m grateful for the work, but . . .”

“Oh, come on,” Aida says. “I want the dirty details. Who’s nice and who’s a total shit? Who’s sleeping together that I’d never guess?”

I can’t believe how much Aida’s managed to retain the wild energy she had as a child. She’s so animated and playful. She’s got all the joie de vivre in the world, while I don’t seem to have an ounce of it anymore.

I try to play along, to think of something that might amuse her.

“Well,” I say. “There was this one photographer—”

Before I can go any further, Callum Griffin joins us.

“Sorry we didn’t have a chance to meet properly before,” he says, shaking my hand.

“Yes,” Aida says to him, in a pretend-posh tone. “How very remiss of you not to introduce yourself amidst the gunfire, my love.”

“I see you’ve met my wife,” Callum says. I can tell he’s used to Aida’s teasing.

“We actually go way back,” Aida says.

“You do?” Callum raises one thick, dark eyebrow.

“That’s right. You had no idea that I’m BFFs with the most gorgeous woman in the world, did you?” Aida laughs.

“I’m married to the most gorgeous woman in the world,” Callum says, smiling at her.

“Oh my god!” Aida squeezes his arm through his suit jacket. “What a charmer. No wonder you keep getting elected to things.”

“Thank you for coming to the rally today,” Callum says to me. “It’s a good cause.”

“Yes, thanks, Simone,” Aida says solemnly. “I know most people are pro child trafficking, but not you. You’re firmly against it, and I respect that.”

“Yes, I am,” I say, trying not to laugh. Aida hasn’t changed a bit. She may have grown up to look the part of a politician’s wife, but her blithe heart is just the same.

Glancing at Aida’s belly again, I say, “Congratulations, you two. Do you know what you’re having?”

“A boy,” Callum says proudly. I think he would have been proud either way, but I was with Dante long enough to know what a son means to these dynastic families.

“That’s wonderful! I—” I break off mid-sentence. Without thinking, I was about to say that I had a son as well.

“What is it?” Aida asks. Her keen gray eyes are scanning my face. I remember all too well how intelligent she is, and how perceptive.

“I was just going to say how happy I am for you. I’m sure your . . . whole family must be so excited.”

It’s the first time I’ve mentioned Dante, even obliquely.

Aida is still watching me closely, her head slightly tilted to the side.

“They are,” she says softly. “All of them.”

Knowing Aida’s curiosity, I’m surprised she hasn’t asked me about Dante yet. Her restraint probably isn’t a good sign. It means she knows that things between us are still in an ugly place.

“Oh,” Callum says. “There’s Ree.”

I follow his gaze to see Riona Griffin walking into the room, dressed in a stunning cobalt gown. The dress is modest, with long sleeves, but it hugs her figure to perfection. That rich blue against her creamy skin and vibrant hair is far more eye-catching than any amount of bare flesh could be.

Sure enough, Dante follows a dozen feet behind her. My heart goes flying upward, like a quail startled out of the brush. Just as quickly, an arrow pierces through it when Dante’s stern gaze passes over me like I’m not even there.

I wonder if he and Riona came together. They must have, arriving at the same time.

I can feel Aida watching me, observing my reaction to her brother. I wish I could keep my face as still and stony as Dante’s.

“Come on!” Aida says abruptly, grabbing my arm. “Let’s go say hi!”

I don’t have a choice. She drags me over to Dante, with a surprisingly strong grip for someone who is smaller than me and already carrying another human along everywhere she goes.

She practically shoves me right into him, saying, “Hey, brother! It’s me—your one and only sister. Just wanted to show you I’m alive, since you forgot to check on me.”

“I saw Cal pull you off the stage,” Dante says gruffly.

He’s not looking at me. But I can feel the tension between us—thick and electric. It makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I’m terrified for him to turn and face me. And yet I can’t stand being ignored by him.

“You remember our friend Simone, don’t you?” Aida says.

“Aida,” Dante says in a growl so low that it’s more like a vibration. “Quit fucking around.”

Aida ignores him.

“Simone was just saying how much she loved this song, and how she wanted to dance. Why don’t you take her out for a spin, big brother?”

I don’t know how she has the balls to say it, blocking him from getting away while Dante looks angry enough to swat her out of his path with one swipe of his arm.

He turns his glare on me, like I might have actually said I wanted a dance partner.

I try to stammer out a denial, while Aida talks right over me. “Go on! I know you remember how to dance, Dante.”

To my surprise, and without my agreement, Dante puts one huge hand around my waist and pulls me onto the dance floor. It’s the first time he’s touched me in nine years. I can feel the heat of his hand through the thin material of my dress. I can feel the calluses on his palm.

I remember how strong he is. How easy it is for him to pull me into position.

But he never used to be this stiff. I might as well be dancing with a statue. No part of us is touching, besides my hand in his, and his other hand on my waist. He’s looking straight ahead, over my shoulder. His mouth looks grim and angry.

It’s torture being this close to him, yet with so much space between us.

I can’t stand this. I can’t stand being hated by him.

I try to think of something to say—something, anything. Everything I think of seems ridiculous.

How have you been?

What are you up to these days?

How’s your family?

Dante seems equally stumped. Or he prefers silence. The song plays on, melancholy and slow.

I don’t think he’s going to speak to me—we’ll finish out this dance in silence, then part ways.

Then, as if the words pain him to get out, Dante says, “Do you actually love this song?”

“I don’t know it,” I whisper.

I’d been too tense to even pay attention. I look up at the stage now.

The girl is singing softly into the microphone. The song is simple, with a slight country flavor. Her voice is low and clear above the acoustic guitar. She whistles the bridge, pursing her lips and making a sound like a Woodlark.

“It’s called ‘July,’ ” Dante says.

We met in July. I don’t know if he means to remind me of that, or if he’s just making small-talk because he doesn’t want to say anything else to me.

My chest is burning like I’ve been running miles instead of slowly dancing.

I can smell Dante’s scent, powerfully masculine. He’s not wearing the same cologne he used to, but the smell of his skin is the same—heady and raw. I can see his slabs of muscle shifting beneath his heavy suit jacket. He’s a better dancer now. But there’s no enjoyment in his body, or on his face.

God, that face . . .

The dark shadow all along his jaw, visible even when he’s cleanly shaved. The deep cleft in his chin. His black eyes, the darkest and most fierce I’ve ever seen. His thick, dark hair that looks wet even when it isn’t, combed straight back from his brow.

I want him. Just as badly as ever. Even more . . .

It’s like that desire was growing and spreading inside of me all this time, without me even knowing. All the time that I thought I was getting over him . . . I never let go at all.

I can feel hot tears pricking my eyes. I blink rapidly to get rid of them. I can’t let him see me like this.

Dante clears his throat. Still not looking at me, he says, “I read about your sister. I’m sorry.”

I make a strangled sound that’s supposed to be something like, “Thank you.”

“They said you adopted her son.”

Everything slows down around us. The strings lights are a blur of gold. The wood-paneled walls slide by in slow motion. I can tell the song is about to end, but the last bars seem to be drawing out forever.

I could tell Dante the truth right now.

I could tell him that Henry is his son.

But two things are stopping me:

First, I have no idea if Dante is still embedded in the Italian mafia. I’m guessing he probably is. No matter how his business might have grown in the last nine years, I doubt he’s cut out every trace of his former employment or rid himself of his ties to the criminals of Chicago. He’s as dangerous a man as ever—probably even more so.

And the second, more cowardly reason . . .

Dante will be furious when he finds out.

When I first left, I thought of the baby as mine alone. Mine to protect, mine to care for. I thought it was my right to take my child to another country, to a safer life.

But when Henry was ripped out of my arms at the hospital, I began to think differently. Every time I missed a moment of his life because I was working—a first step or an early word—I realized how much Dante was missing, too.

Hiding my pregnancy was awful.

Hiding my son was unforgivable.

So I can’t tell the truth about Henry, because I’m scared. Scared of Dante.

I find myself nodding stupidly. Behaving as if Henry really is my nephew. Continuing my lie because I don’t know what else to do.

The song comes to an end, and Dante releases my hand.

He gives me a little nod, almost a bow.

Then he walks away from me without another word.

And I’m standing there, miserable and alone, every cell of my body yearning for the man disappearing into the crowd.