Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56365 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 282(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 188(@300wpm)
“I don’t tell you how to manage your relationship with Mother,” I point out. “I would like for you to extend the same courtesy.”
“My father—your grandfather—pledged me to your mother as an alliance to help strengthen the Family. I only met her once before our wedding day. What we did was for duty.”
“So you don’t love her.”
“Don’t get sentimental.”
“That’s not much of an answer,” I press.
Paolo and Allessio grow tense as they drive us through the city. There’s an air of “This isn’t good” stinking up the car. They’re not used to my father and I going back and forth like this. Usually, we agree, at least on matters of business. Regarding how much freedom a Family man should be allowed, that’s a different matter.
“What alliance does your fiancée offer us?”
“You told me to find a wife. I’ve found one. Now you’re criticizing my choice. I’m thinking you’ve set up a losing game.”
“How thoroughly have you vetted her? Are you sure she’s worthy of you?”
I cringe at his choice of words. Worthy, like I’m some goddamn pope or something, and people should line up to kiss my ring.
“She was unsure of which cutlery to use at dinner. She ate bread directly from the basket. Her elbows were on the table, son.”
He says this with complete disgust, as though it’s the most reprehensible thing a person could ever dream of doing. I grind my teeth, hating his tone and feeling sick by how obvious it seems to him. It should provoke the same response in me. If I were a good son, I wouldn’t even hesitate to agree with him.
“She was nervous,” I tell him. “That doesn’t mean she’s a bad person.”
“Good or bad, I don’t care. I want to know she’s one of us.”
“You have some control over my life, Father. I’ve promised to do my best for the Family, but respectfully, you need to get your nose out of this. I’m going to get married, just like you wanted. The rest is up to me.”
“Don’t let things with the Romanos escalate,” he grumbles after a pause, “and if it does, handle it—preferably without my involvement.”
“I wouldn’t dream of involving you.”
“Then we have an agreement.”
I hang up the phone, taking a moment to compose myself. Usually, staying calm isn’t much of an issue. I can bury any feelings deep because I rarely have much to bury. I focus on the Family and what I must do on any given day. If I get freedom, I go to the gym, go for a drive, and maybe even try to get some fishing time. It is—it was—a simple life, at least as much as a mafioso’s can be.
“Everything okay, Dario?” Paolo asks.
“Hmm,” I grunt.
Allessio, who’s known me longer, says, “Your old man giving you a hard time?”
“He thinks my uncharacteristic desire to tear Vincenzo’s head off had something to do with Elena.”
There’s a long pause as we drive across the city toward the poor side of town.
“Go on,” I snap. “Say it.”
“We didn’t say anything.”
“I know, but you want to. Allessio?”
“I was just thinking …” He looks at me in the rearview, chewing the inside of his cheek. I even make my friends afraid. Not seriously, not in a crippling way, but enough to make them cringe away from me just a little. “Is he wrong? You said you only got physical when he started talking about Elena.”
“He shouldn’t have brought a civilian into this,” I grit, “and he pissed me off using the foundation like that.”
They exchange a look. I know what they’re thinking. We’ve encountered far worse during our time in the Family, and I’ve never let my rage fly like that. If I snapped because of Elena, I should call off the sham marriage and find somebody else—somebody who won’t sass me and make me feel…something.
When we arrive at her apartment building, I leave the car and walk over to the other mafioso ride. “Rocco,” I say, nodding to the driver. “Do me a favor and ride with Paolo. I’m going to take my fiancée back to the townhouse myself. You’ll tail us on the way home.”
“Sure, boss,” he says, climbing from the car and tossing me the keys.
I walk to the apartment building and press down on her apartment’s buzzer. I, of course, know where she lives and where she was working before she took this gig. Her voice crackles over the old intercom. “Hello?”
“It’s me. Buzz me up.”
“Manners, Dario …”
Even now, she’s got me smirking. The door makes a mechanical noise and then clicks as it unlocks. I take the stairs two at a time, too full of frantic energy. When I knock on the apartment door, she opens up. She’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, which is no big deal, nothing that should make a man’s mouth water. Nothing that should make a man consider tearing her shirt off to reveal what is hidden.