“I’m so sorry,” I cackle. “I can’t stop imagining you, all gruff and tough, dealing with me being that drunk.”
It’s true. The thought of steel-faced Allegra Malgeri having to listen to my drunken twittering is hilarious. What did her face look like when I spouted all that crap?
“It was a first. But you were rather entertaining.”
Wiping the tears from my eyes, I pull myself together a little. “I think I’m so dehydrated I’ve slipped into delirium.” My shoulders are still shaking with laughter.
Allegra rolls her eyes before slipping from her chair and opening a door in the cupboard by the window. She pulls out a fresh bottle of water from what I presume is a small fridge. “Drink.”
I drain the entire bottle in just a few gulps. “Thank you. And I promise, that will be the last time you have to deal with me in such a state.”
She inclines her head. “Good.”
She sits back down, and I can tell she has something else to say but is strangely shy about spilling the beans. I sit quietly and wait; a trick taught to me by my dads.
“I, uh, I wanted to say, I’m not a baddie, you know. Despite what you think.”
I wasn’t expecting that. She looks genuinely put out by my assessment of her. In all fairness, though, it was a drunken judgement. Sort of. I recall calling her the Devil in my head earlier. When she first took me from the bookstore, Ididthink she was a baddie, especially after the whole “Kelley getting shot” thing. But whether it’s my raging hormones or something else, deep down, I know she’s not the person she likes everyone to think. I could be blowing smoke up my own arse with those thoughts. Like she said, we don’t know each other.
Mob’s Seductionflitters to mind, and I internally cringe. I’m doing such a crappy job of resisting her villainous lure. No matter how many times I shout at myself, I feel pulled to Allegra. But is it due to her bad girl image, or could I have developed a real connection to the woman that stole me from my life?
16
Allegra
Acornerhasbeenturned. Bonnie and I may never be best friends, but I think she’ll stop fighting me every step of the way now. At least it puts my mind at ease knowing a repeat performance of her drunken wandering ways is unlikely.
She surprised me by opening up a little. It takes a strong person to look inwards. Bonnie has obviously learned from the best. I’m sure her fathers had her practising self-analysis by the time she could walk. It makes me envious. Self-reflection is hard, especially when you don’t like what you see.
In this line of work and this type of family, it’s not something easily practised. The times I try to navigate my behaviours and feelings usually leave me feeling torn, and I don’t know what to do with that. I wish I were as confident as Bonnie. She came in here thinking I was going to tear into her. She held her head high, apologised, and showed a level of self-awareness I could only dream of.
Satisfied Bonnie is safe, and probably back in bed sleeping off her hideous hangover, I contemplate my next move. Rosa has been dealt with. Her lack of attention last night was inexcusable. She took my anger and apologised. Neglecting her post to screw one of the local girls almost came at a deadly cost. I doubt she’ll make that mistake again.
My remaining issue lies with Pete and Kelley. Not so much Kelley, because I think she’s a bit of a sheep—follows the crowd. In this case, Pete is the crowd. He’s the one I take umbrage with. I don’t have to know him well to get the measure of him. He uses avoidance tactics to deal with anything emotional: alcohol, men, parties; they are all used as an escape.
Now, I couldn’t give a flying fuck if that’shisgo-to method; until it affects Bonnie, that is. She’s under my protection, and Pete put her at serious risk last night. I know he was the one feeding her sugary cocktails. I’ve done my due diligence. That’s how I found out Rosa was preoccupied with a good time rather than watching over our guests.
So, what to do? I’m sure Bonnie would prefer I do nothing, but that’s impossible. Unless Pete is put in his place, he’ll continue to encourage reckless behaviour. And that simply will not do.
Taking the gun from its holster, I place it in the safe below my desk. I want to have an honest talk with the man, and arriving with a pistol strapped to my waist will only put him on edge. Although, he’s several cocktails in, so I’m sure he is already buzzed. Regardless, I don’t need a gun to look formidable. Resting bitch face is its own weapon.
Making my way to the pool area, I mentally run through the meetings I have later. The most important by far, is with three other family heads: Francesco Luca, Nico Bosetti and Marco De Salvo. Together we make up the Sicilian Mafiosi. Giani Arello too, but he’s the reason I want the meeting.
Between worrying about Bonnie, Lorenzo, the vineyard, and the import business, I’ve concluded I need to bring the other houses in on my predicament. Giani isn’t someone I can deal with in secret.
His attempt to lure me into a ridiculous vengeance war is proof of that. His backhanded tactics have been low-grade, so far, but my gut tells me he’s ready to escalate.
Simply threatening and seeking out Bonnie is proof of that. If I go toe-to-toe with him, without the other families being aware of the situation, I risk Giani spinning a story that puts the Ferrante family in the wrong. I’ve worked too hard to let that happen. Frankly, I don’t have the time for it. Our businesses are flourishing and we are almost at the point where, if we wanted to, the family could extract itself from the Mafiosi entirely—a discussion Lorenzo and I need to have.
My unrest and ill at ease are becoming harder to ignore. Like I said, meeting Bonnie has somehow changed things for me. If I were able to analyse myself as well as she can, I’m sure I’d have an answer as to why. But I can’t—not yet. Too many things feel like they’re changing, and I need to deal with one crisis at a time.
I arrive at the pool with a million things whipping through my mind. That is, until I spot Pete basking in the sun, music blaring, drinking generously from a glass which contains a blue concoction that is likely ninety percent alcohol.
He’s unaware of my presence. I stand and study him for a moment. Pete Bolton: thirty-six years old, lives in rented accommodation with his flatmate Lisa, and met Bonnie in school, where, to his credit, he befriended her and became her protector. When Bonnie left for university, Pete drifted from one bar job to the next, never really finding his place. He still spends his time living like he’s a twenty-year-old student. He’s had no serious relationships. One-night stands are his flavour. He’s a ship without an anchor.
Adjusting my collar, I take the last two strides over to the portable speaker he loves so much. He spins and glares at me as soon as I stop the wretched noise. His glare turns into something else when he realises who it is he’s trying to intimidate. My hair is in its severe bun, and my clothes are immaculate and imposing. How a blouse and slacks are able to intimidate someone I’m not sure, but I’ve been told enough times my attire adds to the overall “bad bitch” vibe.
“Mr Bolton, may I have a word?” It’s not like me to ask, and in reality, I’m not seeking his permission, but I am cognisant of the fact he is one of Bonnie’s best friends. If I put a foot wrong here, our newly developed ceasefire may fracture, and we’ll be back to trading vicious barbs before we reach dinner.
