Page 18 of Cartel Devil

“Being on the beach. You know I prefer being on the water more than land. It’s nice being somewhere where the water is clear.”

Venetian canals certainly don’t meet that description. I always thought it was funny that a woman who grew up surrounded by water always wants to vacation where there’s more. She would never pick the mountains or desert before an ocean or lake. I didn’t grow up surrounded by water, but I’m the same. I spent short holidays on the Cape in Massachusetts. Longer ones were usually in Sicily or some other part of the Med. Any escape from winter in New England was a welcome one.

My mom grew up in NYC, and she hates the winters even more than a native New Englander. She said her Irish blood wasn’t made for the cold. Funny since she married a man who’s a hundred percent Sicilian. My brother and I are an interesting genetic combination. I look more like my father, but my blonde hair comes from my maternal grandfather, and my green eyes come from my mother.

My brother, Tristano, has Mom’s flame red hair—not what you expect from someone in the Mafia—and green eyes but also looks like Dad. Needless to say, he’s often confused for a mobster. Adding an “o” to the end of his name to make it sound more Italian didn’t help either. The insult isn’t taken lightly.

I watch Joaquin from under my lashes as I serve myself. I wonder if he prefers the mountains or the beach. Colombia has both, so I suppose he could enjoy both. Why I’m even wondering this is beyond pointless. He’s looked at Alejandro and Carmine, but besides them, he’s barely focused on anything but his food. It’s clear he’s annoyed about being here, and I doubt it’s just Carmine’s fault.

“I’ll show you and Sera the photos after dinner. The water was crystal clear, so we went scuba diving a few times. We even went parasailing. Those are the best photos.”

Toria’s still talking, and I know I missed half of it. I’m the one who asked, but I can’t concentrate on what’s happening around me. If anyone’s annoyed, it’s me—at myself. Why the fuck do I care whether Joaquin gives a damn about me?

Because you give way more than just a damn about him.

You give a fuck ton.

Apparently, my penchant for masochism goes beyond kinky sex. I’m driving myself crazy with self-inflicted torture.

“That would be awesome.” Thankfully, Sera steps in when I say nothing else.

“Did you guys enjoy the wedding?”

My gaze meets Joaquin’s for a heartbeat before we both look away, neither of us eager to answer Toria’s question. I wait for someone else to answer, but when it remains quiet, I shift my focus to Toria and realize she was speaking directly to me.

“It was a beautiful service. You were radiant.”

I flicker my gaze at Joaquin, and I see a muscle in his jaw tick. I tried to be tactful and avoid mentioning the reception. But he must think I was dismissing the time we spent together there.

“Sera, you outdid yourself with the cake.”

Joaquin’s fork scrapes his plate when I mention Sera’s confection. I realize too late that it reminded him of my cupcake offer. Open mouth, insert both feet.

“Thank you. You looked like you enjoyed yourself.”

Sera’s comment lands like a bomb. It lands with a bang, then leaves nothing in its wake. No one says anything. Everyone—everyone—focuses on me. It’s not like Carmine, Sera, Alejandro, and Toria don’t know Joaquin and I spent the entire party talking and then left together. It’s not like any of them don’t know we spent the night together.

“I did. Everything about the night was lovely. Beautiful reception site, terrific food, fun music, good company.”

I’m rambling, digging myself deeper into the trench Sera’s comment left. Why the fuck can’t someone else do the talking? Why the fuck can’t Joaquin speak up? He’s letting me drown. He could throw me a fucking life preserver, but instead, I’m going to preserve my dignity alone.

“Alejandro, your parents looked so proud. They make a beautiful couple, especially on the dance floor.”

Alejandro’s gaze darts to Joaquin, and I practically choke on those feet in my mouth. Of course, I would pick the most insensitive thing to say at the most inopportune moment. Joaquin’s mother was alone. She didn’t have her husband to dance with her because he’s been dead for nearly twenty-five years.

Fuck my life.

Even Carmine looks uncomfortable, and the man would normally skip with glee to know his enemy felt even remotely shitty.

“Thank you. They’re very happy to finally have a daughter who won’t put up with any nonsense from me. At least, that’s the politest way I’ve heard my mother put it.”

People chuckle, and it lightens the mood. I focus on my food and pray Sera and Toria will stop trying to play matchmakers because I’m ruining the night with one blunder after another. The conversation moves on, flowing smoothly once I shut up. Joaquin speaks when spoken to, and he’s funny and charming when he does. But he volunteers very little. He steadfastly ignores me. I don’t know how to feel.

Rejected.

Hurt.

Relieved.