The icy assassin who killed the strike team and then stalked me in my own room was gone. Instead, Instagram Alessandro stood in the doorway, carrying a bottle of wine. He wore impeccably tailored brown pants and an indigo blue dress shirt with the sleeves casually rolled up to his elbows and the top two buttons open, just enough to give a great view of his muscular neck. His boots, leather, ankle-high, and expensive, matched the outfit. His brushed then artfully tousled hair framed his face. He’d shaved, and the masculine perfection of his features was on full display; the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the strong, clean line of his jaw, his sensual mouth . . .

My brain did that thing again, the one where I lost all ability to reason and form complete sentences.

Say something. Something smart.

Our stares connected. His eyes were still the same; calculating, lupine, and heated by amber magic from within.

“You’re late,” I told him. Yes! Brilliant. I said a thing and it made sense. It had a subject and a verb and they went together. Catalina Baylor one, Instagram Alessandro a big fat zero.

“Beauty takes time.”

“Oh, get over yourself.” I stepped aside.

He stepped through. “Permesso.”

I almost answered, Avanti, but caught myself. He didn’t need to know how much Italian I understood. Instead, I locked the door behind him, and we walked deeper into the house, through the office, through the hallway, and into the kitchen.

Nobody had started eating yet, but people were passing dishes and fixing their plates. They saw Alessandro.

Everything stopped.

He smiled at them, a dazzling, charming smile, warm and happy and a touch shy. When they said a smile could launch a thousand ships, this was the smile they had imagined.

Grandma Frida put down the salad bowl, raised her phone, and snapped a pic.

“No phones at the table,” Mom said on autopilot, her gaze fixed on Alessandro.

“I’m not missing this shot, Penelope.”

“Buonasera,” Alessandro crooned. “Thank you so much for inviting me to dinner. I haven’t had a homemade meal in weeks.”

When I’d spoken to him an hour ago, he’d had a mere trace of an accent. Now he sounded like he’d jumped out of a Fellini film onto the red carpet.

Bern crossed his arms. Leon scowled. Bug looked like a surprised hedgehog with all his needles up in the air.

Alessandro pretended not to notice and handed the wine bottle to Leon.

Leon took it, baring his teeth. “Keep your filthy hands off my cousin.”

Alessandro smiled again, his face serene, as if Leon had just complimented him on his choice of wine. “Please forgive me, the selection in the local stores is rather limited, but I was able to find a decent variety of Grenache.”

“You can take that wine and shove—” Leon started.

“Leon,” Mom said.

He clicked his jaw shut and went to get the wineglasses.

“Thank you for the wine,” Mom said. “Please join us.”

Alessandro stepped to my chair and held it out for me. Runa leaned on her elbow, clearly enjoying the show.

Grabbing the chair and hitting him with it was out of the question. I sat and let him scoot it closer to the table for me.

A phone flashed as Grandma took another picture. I clenched my teeth and stared straight ahead.

We passed the food around.

“You’re very pretty,” Matilda observed. “Are you a prince?”

“No,” he told her with another dazzling smile. “Only a conte. A count.”

“Hot damn,” Grandma Frida said.

A quiet thud sounded. My mother had set her glass down with some force.

For a brief time, nobody spoke as everyone dug into the food.

Alessandro ate like a starving wolf. His manners were flawless, but the food disappeared off his plate with staggering speed. He finished it all and went in for seconds.

“This is delicious,” Ragnar said around a mouthful of food.

“The chicken is ottimo,” Alessandro said, looking at my mother. “La cena migliore che abbia mai mangiato. Absolutely wonderful. I could eat this every day until I die.”

The chicken was “delicious,” and it was the “best dinner he had ever eaten.” Give me a break. And so much Italian too. He was laying the charm on thick. Oh, look at me, I’m Alessandro, so handsome, so refined, at such a disadvantage because I don’t speak good English and have to reach for my native tongue. He probably had a better English vocabulary than I did. Ugh.

“I didn’t cook it,” Mom said. “Catalina did.”

Alessandro froze.

Ha! Didn’t expect that, did you?

“That’s nothing,” Runa said. “Just wait until you taste her pithivier. It’s to die for.”

I glared at her. She gave me a look of pure innocence and went back to eating.

Alessandro made a short cough that sounded suspiciously like choking. “There is a pithivier?”

“Yes,” I said.

He put his fork down and faced me, his expression besotted.

Do not blush, do not blush . . .

Alessandro opened his mouth. “Marry me.”

“If she says yes, shoot him,” Bern said to Leon, his face completely serious. “She’ll thank us later.”

Bug stirred in his seat. “Catalina, do not marry this dickfucker. There are better birds in the sea.” He turned to my mom and said, “Pardon my French.”

Matilda leaned forward, looked at Alessandro, then looked at me. “Your children would be very attractive.”

Alessandro winked at Matilda. “Thank you. You are most kind.”

Runa covered her face with her hands and made some whimpering noises.

Okay, no. I had to nip this in the bud. “Matilda, picking a husband is more complicated than just selecting an attractive mate. He has to be smart and kind, and he has to be a good person.”

Alessandro glanced at me. The sharp fire in his eyes sparked and vanished before anyone else noticed.

Runa’s cell rang. She took her hands from her face and looked at my mom.

Mom sighed. “Go ahead.”

Runa answered it and frowned. “Uh, Mr. Moody?”

Sigourney Etterson’s financial adviser.

The table went completely silent. Bern pulled a tablet out of thin air and set it to record.

“So you want me to come to your office, right now?” Runa asked, and held the phone out at arm’s length toward us.

“Yes,” a distant male voice said. “It’s urgent.”

“I understand it’s urgent, Mr. Moody. I just don’t understand why. My mother has been dead for four days, and I’m the executor of the estate. Why do I have to see you in person, now?”

“I can’t discuss this over the phone.”

“Yes, but it’s almost seven o’clock, it’s dark, and your office is across town. Can you come here instead?”

“I have documents I need to show you. They’re of a sensitive nature and cannot leave my office.”

“Why can’t I see the documents tomorrow?”

His voice spiked into exasperation. “If you want to see a cent from your mother’s estate, you need to come here as soon as possible. Tomorrow may be too late.”

The call cut off. Runa put the phone down. “He hung up.”

Bern turned the tablet toward us. On it a white, dark-haired, middle-aged man smiled into the camera. He was the type my mom called the “good ole boy in a suit.” He could have been handsome in high school in an I-love-football way, but time, indulgent diet, and money had softened and thickened his features. He looked like he wore suits to work, drove an expensive car, and practiced trustworthy smiles in the mirror to more effectively separate clients from their money.

“Dennis George Moody II,” Bern announced. “Fifty years old, married twice, adult son from the first marriage, two children from the second. MBA from Baylor. Series 7 license from FINRA, which enables him to sell stocks, bonds, options and futures, in addition to the sale of packaged securities. Never declared bankruptcy. One DUI arrest in college, nothing since. Wife sells real estate. Good credit score and a two-million-dollar house, three quarters paid off.”

“Wow,” Ragnar said. “You found all of that in three minutes?”

“No,” Bern told him. “Catalina ran a background check on Moody because he’s mentioned in your mother’s financial documents. I just pulled up the file.”

“How well do you know him?” I asked Runa.

Runa shrugged. “I’ve seen him at Christmas parties once or twice.”

“He was helping Mom to readjust her portfolio in response to the market slowdown and recession,” Ragnar said. “He’s been our financial adviser for four years. I interviewed him for my economics class essay. He doesn’t belong to any House and he’s proud of being a self-made man, his words.”

“So, he isn’t a friend of the family?” Mom asked.

“No,” Ragnar said. “Mom worked with him closely, but I wouldn’t call him a family friend.”

“This is a trap,” Runa declared.

Leon rolled his eyes. “Of course, it’s a trap, Admiral Ackbar. The relevant question is, is he working for them voluntarily or do they have a gun to his head?”

Grandma Frida wrinkled her nose. “He’s a money guy. They waved a check under his nose and he followed.”

“I can’t believe they would think I’m so gullible,” Runa said.

“Not gullible,” Bernard said. “Impulsive and prone to panic.”

She stared at him, mortally offended. My cousin remained stoic.

“Panic?” Runa asked in the kind of voice one normally proclaimed, Do you know who I am?

“You did poison Conway,” Leon pointed out.

“Oh my God! I poison one guy and now all of Houston thinks I’m a raging idiot.”

“Wait,” Ragnar said. “You poisoned somebody?”