Page 11 of Crimson Fate

“Marco, everything will be fine. Trust me.” I try to reassure him even though I’m not convinced.

“Going to Alexei’s alone... it doesn’t sit right with me,” Marco admits, concern etched on his face.

“I won’t be alone. I will have the beautiful Ms. Martinez on my arm,” I say, smiling at her. She drops her chin, and I see her slightly blush in response. I like that I elicit this sort of reaction from her.

“Don’t worry, if anyone messes with him, I’ll come to his rescue,” Eva chimes.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Marco says.

“We’ve handled far worse situations than a dinner with my sister and her husband,” I reply firmly.

“Yes, sir,” Marco reluctantly agrees, understanding the situation has been decided.

“Shall we?” I ask, turning my attention to Eva and extending my arm to her. She delicately places her hand on my forearm, and we approach the exit. I silently tell myself that if Eva believes in the good intentions of Amelia and Alexei, perhaps I can too—at least for tonight.

As we walk toward the town car waiting at the curb, Eva’s grip on my arm tightens. “Vincent, thank you for attending this dinner with such an open mind.”

My mind races with thoughts of what Alexei might have in store for me, but knowing this is where my mind is will serve to do nothing but make Eva worry. I nod with a tight-lipped smile, hoping she will drop the topic.

She doesn’t.

“I’m certain that Amelia and Alex only want amazing things for you,” she insists, her gaze unwavering as she looks into my eyes.

“If that’s the case, there won’t be any problems,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. I open the door to the town car, and we slide into the back seat. Nico, the man driving for the evening, pulls away from the curb after I give him a silent nod.

Eva shifts gears and starts discussing the party preparations, and I’m relieved to talk about anything other than my sister and her new rival-Mafia-gang husband. “So I was thinking about the music for your party, and I think you should do something different from what your parents always did. I get that your dad was into some of the Italian classics, but maybe it is important to show everyone who comes that there will be a youthful change with you in charge. What do you think?” The question hangs in the air, but I can tell she’s trying to lighten the mood.

I shoot her a small, appreciative smile. “I trust your judgment when it comes to these things.”

“Did you have a chance to get a guest list together?” she presses, determined to keep the conversation going.

“I did. Maybe you can swing by tomorrow and pick it up.”

“Sounds perfect,” she says, visibly relieved to see me engaged in the conversation.

As we continue discussing the party preparations, a sense of calm washes over me. Eva’s presence has always affected me, and for now, it’s enough to keep my mind off the uncertainties that await us at Amelia and Alexei’s home.

Despite my best efforts to focus on Eva’s questions about the upcoming party, my mind wanders back to what Alex might want with me. It’s frustrating. I want nothing more than to be present and enjoy this moment with her, but the weight of responsibility sits heavy on my shoulders, refusing to budge.

“Vincent?” Eva’s voice pulls me back to the present, a note of concern lacing her words.

“Sorry,” I apologize, trying to dispel the lingering thoughts. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you had any thoughts about the menu,” she repeats patiently, her gaze never leaving mine.

“Ah, right.” I mull it over for a moment. “Food. I think it will be perfect as long as it is delicious and Italian.”

“Of course,” she agrees, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “I wouldn’t dream of hiring anything less than the best for my dear friend.”

“Much appreciated.” I chuckle, but my laughter feels hollow to my own ears. Eva must notice too, because her expression softens, and she studies me closely for a moment before launching into an anecdote.

“You know how we talked about what music to have earlier?” She giggles. “Do you remember that one time when we were teenagers, and Amelia convinced us all to form our own band?” she asks, a mischievous glint in her milk-chocolate brown eyes.

I can’t help but laugh at the memory. “Oh God, how could I forget? I was stuck on the drums while you two tried to sing.”

“Hey, we weren’t that bad!” Eva protests, feigning offense.

“Sure,” I teased, smirking. “If by ‘not bad’ you mean ‘completely tone-deaf.’”