Six - The toast

I must have heard wrong.

I had to have heard wrong.

Because unless my ears were betraying me—Killian just said he loves her.

Lia.

His best friend’s mother.

The Godfather’s wife.

My future mother-in-law.

And she… she loves him too.

My stomach twisted—tight and sour and confusing. It wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be. What right did I have to feel anything at all? This wasn’t my business. Killian was a free man. He could love anyone. He could set himself on fire for her if he wanted to.

Except…

Except my mother -in-law was involved.

And the woman he wanted belonged to Ronan Salvatore—a man who slit throats over less than this. A man who killed first and apologized never.

That’s why I was bothered. That’s the only reason I was bothered.

"Alessandra."

My name snapped through the air like a whip.

My spine locked, breath freezing mid-inhale.

I didn’t even have to turn to know—it was him.

Papa.

He stepped into my line of vision, his shadow swallowing the light like it always had.

"Why are you standing here? Where is Jeremy?"

Of course. Not how are you. Not are you okay.

Where is your fiancé. That’s what mattered.

"He should be somewhere around, Papa... maybe by the endless supply of champagne," I muttered.

The sarcasm slipped out before I could catch it—too sharp at the end.

His hand found my elbow.

And squeezed.

Hard.

“Now let me tell you something,” he said, voice low, teeth gritted, like a threat wrapped in velvet. “If you even for a second step out of line today… I’ll kill you. Or send you back to the basement and teach you proper manners.”

His eyes burned into mine, searching. “Or are you finally ready to talk?”

Tears stung my eyes, His grip dug deeper, like he wanted to bruise me. To brand me.

I winced.

My voice broke when I tried to speak.

"I... I already—"

“Is something going on here?”

Jeremy’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unexpected. My father dropped my arm like I’d scalded him, face smoothing out in record time.

Thank God for shawls. I tugged mine tighter, hiding the red mark blooming beneath the silk. I forced a smile. My father mirrored it like he’d rehearsed.

“You’re finally here,” he said, too cheery. “I was just asking my daughter about you. How much I missed her. She barely returned home and now she’s engaged.”

Jeremy looked between us, unconvinced but he said nothing, He turned to me.

“Come on. We should go meet my dad… he wants to see you.”

He held out his hand. I took it immediately, like a lifeline.

We walked past guests who offered congratulations I didn’t ask for, under chandeliers dripping in wealth and secrets. Until we reached him.

Ronan Salvatore.

Age had kissed him but didn’t dare bite. His hair was a perfect mix of gray and black, slicked back . He stood with a circle of men, expression unreadable.

“Dad, Alessandra. Alessandra, my father.”

He turned to me slowly, like a man who already knew the story and was waiting to see if I’d mess up the telling.

“Ah. Nice to finally see you. I’ve been more acquainted with your sister.” He held out his hand.

I took it. I shook it. Like an idiot.

His head tilted, gaze narrowing in something just short of disappointment. Jeremy exhaled beside me, sound dripping disappointment.

The conversation around us stalled. People went silent.

Right. I was supposed to kiss it. Bring his knuckles to my forehead.

Traditional greeting. Mafia etiquette 101.

I’d just failed the class.

“Bring me a gun. A revolver, to be precise,” he said softly to his guard.

My blood turned to ice.

The color drained from my face so fast I felt dizzy.

“Father—she didn’t grow up—” Jeremy started, voice shaky.

Ronan looked at him.

Jeremy shut up instantly.

My gaze dropped to the floor, shoes blurring. What was it with me and nearly dying this week? I guess you can't cheat death too many times before it catches up. Maybe this was it.

A guard returned with the revolver. Ronan checked the chamber like he was inspecting a glass of wine. Fully loaded. Of course.

I felt a tear slip down my cheek. I didn’t move.

“Are you crying?” he asked, curious, like it was mildly amusing.

I shook my head. Even though the answer was yes.

And then—he laughed. Full-bodied. Rich. A complete contrast to the fear that had been clawing at my throat seconds ago.

“Calm down. I won’t kill you,” he said lightly. “My wife would probably kill me after. And this dinner’s for family. Your father has served me faithfully for twenty years. And you’re engaged to my son. I think you have enough immunity to avoid my ire. I’m sorry for scaring you.”

He said it like a joke. Like that wasn’t a loaded gun in his hand two seconds ago.

I nodded. There was nothing else I could do.

From the corner of my eye, I saw movement—Lia stepping out of a hallway, smoothing down her dress, followed seconds later by Killian from the opposite side.

My stomach turned.

She walked straight to her husband. He reached for her instantly, like he couldn’t help himself.

Lia’s eyes found mine. She smiled, soft and knowing.

“Did he pull a prank on you?” she asked, almost apologetically. “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer.

“Dinner is ready,” someone announced from the doors behind us.

People started shifting, some heading toward the outdoor seating, others funneling into the smaller, more exclusive dining hall.

I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until Jeremy placed his hand on my back and gently nudged me forward.

Ronan sat at the head of the table like a man born to command.

Lia, the ever-poised wife with secrets in her smile, perched to his left.

Jeremy, to his right—my fiancé, the future heir, too busy with his phone to notice much of anything.

I sat beside him, and directly across from me—Killian.

Because of course he’d sit there.

Because the universe had a twisted sense of humor.

My father and sister flanked the far end, surrounded by the other families and their eldest sons—the power players in polished suits and bloody histories. It was a table built to discuss business and betrayals, sealed with vintage wine and the illusion of civility.

And to my left…

Mr. Hart.

Apparently, he ran the legal front of the Mafia’s empire in Europe. That is, when he wasn’t busy being an oily, lying bastard with wandering hands.

His stories had holes—subtle ones, like hairline cracks in a glass. But I caught them. So did Ronan. The slight uptick in his voice when cornered, the vague numbers, the overcompensation.

Still, Ronan didn’t press he was too busy watching his wife like he wanted to swallow her whole.

Funny, considering she was probably still tasting Killian’s mouth.

Mr. Hart’s fingers crept higher on my thigh. Again.

I stiffened.

I’d already tried shifting. I moved his hand once with a subtle nudge. He just laughed like I was flirting. Maybe the champagne made him brave. Or maybe he was always this disgusting.

I couldn’t cause a scene.

My father would kill me.

And not metaphorically.

“I want to make a toast,” Killian said, cutting through the low buzz of conversation.

Everyone turned.

Killian was already rising from his chair, slow and deliberate.

“Of course,” Ronan said, nodding.

“Thank you so much.”

His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade.

I hated that I looked at him.

Hated that I noticed how his suit clung to him like second skin. That I could still see the hint of ink curling out from under his collar.

That I remembered what those tattoos looked like up close.

Then Lia cleared her throat.

My stomach turned.

He loved her.

She loved him back.

And here I was, trying to breathe through whatever the hell I was feeling while Mr. Hart’s disgusting hand was on me.

“To Jeremy,” Killian began, gaze sweeping the table, “for finally settling down…”

His eyes landed on me.

“…with the most beautiful woman in the room.”

My heart stuttered.

I told myself I was imagining the tension in his jaw. The shift in his voice.

“If you could please stand,” he said, “I think the whole table needs to appreciate how... perfect you are.”

Perfect.

Right.

I stood. Mechanically.

Pretending the room hadn’t gone still. Pretending I couldn’t feel Mr. Hart’s fingertips still too close for comfort.

“If you could lean toward Jeremy,” Killian added. “At his back. People should take in the view of a perfect couple.”

The fuck?

It was the strangest toast I’d ever witnessed. And the most words I’d ever heard Killian string together in one go.

But then—

He moved.

Quickly like he'd it done a million times

The gun was in his hand before I even realized what was happening.

Boom.

The sound tore through the room.

Mr. Hart’s chest erupted. Blood sprayed across the tablecloth, the wall behind him, his wine glass still in mid-clink.

He didn’t even make a sound before he dropped—slumped like a marionette with its strings cut.

The silence afterward was deafening.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Killian sat down. Calm. Unbothered.

And I realized—

This dinner had just become war.