Luciano looked at Marcos, who was currently holding a slice of pepperoni mid-air.
"Sir," Marcos said, his voice regaining its professional clip. "We were just... supervising."
"Supervising the pepperoni?" Luciano's voice was like a low-frequency hum, dangerous and silk-smooth.
Andrés didn't move. He just waved a hand toward the pizza. "You're late, Lu. Eloise made enough to feed an army, which is lucky, because Leo eats like three men. Join us. We're at the part where the big bad guy gets his feelings hurt."
Luciano didn't look at his brother. His eyes were locked on Eloise.
His gaze raked over her, and his jaw shifted with a dangerous, rhythmic grinding. Eloise was dressed in a new casual finds: soft, dark high waist denim and a gray crop top that was stylish, comfortable, and—in Luciano's eyes—an act of high treason. The hem of the shirt rose just enough to reveal the pale, smooth curve of her waist, a sliver of skin that was now being viewed by every man in the room.
