Page 71 of When She Unravels
Martina slowly moves her gaze from her brother to me. “Will you promise?”
I glance at Damiano. He’s not even looking at me. He’s so absorbed with his damned chicken. “Mhm.”
“She said yes…I think,” Martina says.
Ras makes a move to get out of his seat. “I’ll get that out of your mouth.”
“I’ll do it,” Damiano snaps. He reaches over and jerks the cloth from between my teeth, and Ras sits back down.
I start to cough.
“Give her some water,” Martina pleads, and Damiano pours water in a glass in front of me.
My arms are still tied behind my back. “I can’t reach it.”
He curses under his breath in Italian, picks up the glass, and brings it to my lips. “Drink.”
I take a sip. He’s staring at me so intensely it makes goosebumps erupt over my skin. “Tilt it more,” I say.
When he does, some of the water spills out of the corner of my mouth and drips down my chin. I pull back and lick the water off my lips. He zeroes in on the movement, and a slither of something warm passes through my belly. The moment suddenly feels entirely too intimate.
I turn away and collect myself.
Ras and Martina return to their plates, but every now and then I catch her shooting me curious looks.
It takes her a few minutes to work up the courage, but then she says, “I want to thank you for helping me.”
I give her a weak smile. “I’m happy you made it home safe. Even if you have to live with a don for a brother.”
The temperature in the room drops, as if someone turned on the AC at full blast. Damiano’s lips flatten.
What is it? Is he not the don? He hasn’t said it explicitly, but it was a safe assumption to make after what he told me about his father.
It’s Ras who deigns me worthy of an explanation. “Damiano isn’t the Casalese don. He’s the capo of Ibiza.”
Maybe here these things don’t get tied to one’s bloodline like they do with the Garzolos. Still, I can’t help but feel there’s something Ras has left unsaid.
“You’re probably hungry,” Martina says.
“I’m all right.”
“No need to be shy,” Ras says, taking a sip of his wine. “Have a bite. I’d offer you some of this Tempranillo, but it seems like it might be more hassle that its worth.” He gestures at the half empty cup of water Damiano left in front of me.
Yeah, I could do without spilling wine all over me.
The chicken does smell heavenly. I eye the half-eaten bird. It looks like it’s glazed with honey and there are slices of lemons and fingerling potatoes in the juices on the tray around it.
“I don’t think I can eat that without my hands.”
“I’m not removing the ropes,” Damiano says as he methodically cuts into his meat.
My stomach decides to betray me by emitting a loud growl.
Martina gives me a pitying look. “Dem…”
He looks like he’s about to drag me back down to the basement and be done with this whole charade, but instead he plucks the napkin off his lap, drops it on the table, and jerks me from my chair into his lap.
“What on earth are you doing?”
