Taking a sip of water, I glance up and lock eyes with Dante Visconti. He’s Alberto’s oldest son, his underboss, and the coast’s bigger jerk. He’s tall, dark, and as much as I hate to admit it, very handsome. Everything about him is chiseled, including that scowl permanently carved into his forehead. His gaze darkens, and I know exactly what he’s about to say, because he says it aloud at every Friday night dinner without fail.
