His Mafia Queen

A Dinner From Hell

RILEY

The awkward moment lingers like a foul odor before Gabriel stands abruptly. "Come on, let's go check on dinner."

He holds out his hand and I climb to my feet, still unsteady. Once indoors, we almost run into a man in a chef's coat.

"Sir, I was just coming to find you. Dinner's ready, and your father is already in the dining room."

"Thank you," Gabriel says, squeezing the man's upper arm.

We walk hand-in-hand down the long corridor to the formal, gothic-looking dining room. Inside, Gennaro is sitting at the head of the table.

Where Gabriel usually sits.

But my boyfriend — wait, fiancé — doesn't miss a beat. He slides into the seat next to his father, and I take the chair opposite him.

"My son, he is so sensitive, no?" Gennaro muses as he swirls amber liquid in his glass. "I merely tease but he has no sense of humor lately."

I resist the urge to leap to Gabriel's defense. Getting into a verbal sparring match will only make tensions worse. But the mocking, superior tone Gennaro uses when speaking of his only son makes my blood pressure rise.

I take a long pull of the wine that's already in a glass on the table instead. Gennaro's sharp gaze tracks my every move. I set down the glass carefully.

"Shall we?" I ask with forced brightness. After an interminable two hours I'm more than ready for this strained cocktail hour to end.

As soon as we're all settled, a server enters with champagne. I almost groan aloud. More booze? I need food, and fast. The server pours and I catch a glance at the bottle. It's one of the ultra-expensive brands.

Gennaro raises his champagne flute.

"To your engagement. May you have a long and prosperous union." His smile doesn't reach his razor-sharp eyes.

Unease skitters down my spine but I force myself to return the painfully formal toast. As I sip, servants sweep in bearing the first course on silver trays.

Between bites of creamy burrata capped with sweet figs and tart balsamic glaze, Gennaro continues his passive aggressive needling.

"Have you set a date yet? I assume you'll want a lavish affair that befits a Greco bride. Gabriel's mother had seven hundred guests at our wedding."

I nearly choke on a chunk of cheese and grab my water glass. Gabriel's mouth thins to a hard line. "We haven't discussed specifics. But Riley prefers understated elegance, and I agree. Something on the beach, amore? Perhaps here, or on the beach we were at the other day?"

For a flash, I imagine a simple wedding at the place where we picnicked. That would be so blissful. I smile and am about to respond when Gennaro snorts.

"Understated? No son of mine will have some backyard reception."

I shift uncomfortably as Gennaro argues against the idea of a small, intimate wedding. His booming voice echoes off the formal dining room's scarlet wallpapered walls and crystal chandelier.

"A Greco reception must impress! I will arrange for the country club ballroom and call my friend the Archbishop about using the cathedral downtown."

I meet Gabriel's pained gaze from across the gleaming tablescape laden with fine bone china and an excess of cutlery. He takes a fortifying sip of Brunello while I stab moodily at my truffle ravioli, irritation simmering.

Gennaro doesn't touch his own plate. He's too busy waving around his steak knife as he details his grandiose ideas, oblivious to my increasing drunkenness and hunger. I give up and begin eating.