Santino leads me into his office with great effort, his steps aided by a cane. We settle into the burgundy leather armchairs across from each other and he sighs deeply. “Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to enjoy this little visit?”
I tip my chin in concession. The puffy bags beneath his eyes and yellow-tinged skin give me a pang of empathy for him. The man is being stripped bare of everything he’s ever held sacred, including his life. And I’m about to tell him his son is a dead man walking. Better to just rip off the Band-Aid.
“Did you know that Milo has gone behind your back and made a deal with the Russians to protect their skin trade for a cut?” I observe his expression. Everything stills within him. His breath catches in his unmoving chest. He’s processing this news. He didn’t know.
Then his shoulders sink, and he squeezes his eyes shut. His mouth presses into a thin line. He’s moving through the stages of grief quickly and he’s at anger. “Stupid, stupid goddamn idiot.Not only did he stab me, his own father, in the back…but New York as well.”
Cursing under his breath, he pushes himself out of the chair with effort and uses the cane to hobble to the bar.
I wait patiently.
He shuffles back holding two tumblers of scotch in his free hand.
I accept one and watch as he collapses into the chair, his face pasty, either from the effort or from the news. Probably both.
He takes a mouthful of the scotch and swallows loudly. Then finally meets my eye. “I assume New York has made a decision on this.”
I hold his gaze so he can see the gravity of the decision in my eyes. “Yes.”
His expression falls as he turns his attention to the unlit fireplace. “He always was a problem child. The kid who had to touch the fire and suffer the consequences instead of just taking my word that it would burn. Now he’s burned down my whole damn world.”
I sip my scotch, giving him a minute to process before I get to the real reason I’m here. When he sighs and nods, I know he’s ready to listen. “Do you remember the last time we spoke? You were upset because when I marry Giada my family will absorb all your businesses? It will be like your empire never existed.”
There’s a flash of regret in his eyes. “Yes.”
“That’s not necessarily the way it has to be,” I say softly.
The regret morphs into a spark of curiosity. “Go on.”
I take another mouthful of scotch and swallow, choosing my words carefully. I have to get him on board with this. “There’s a way for your legacy to continue intact. Just not through Emilio’s blood but Giada’s.”
His eyes narrow. “How?”
“Instead of Giada marrying me, she marries Anatoly Romanov.”
“Oleg’s son? A Russian?” he chokes out. “Why the fuck?” His words are halting, filled with disbelief. “Why would Russians want a merger? New York would never allow this.”
I shrug and watch him struggle with the bomb I dropped on him. “Toly has become smitten with Giada, so Oleg is the one who suggested this proposal.” Time for a little white lie. “New York is on board with the union because Oleg has agreed to stop the skin trade in Tampa. Also, if Toly takes over your empire with Giada at his side, the Russians are working for us, we still get a cut of your businesses. For you, that’s good news because your empire stays intact for your grandchildren to take over. Of course, part of the deal will be Oleg himself has to leave Tampa.”
He's glaring at me with a mixture of shock and uncertainty. Then he lowers his chin and stares at the floor. I sip my drink and give him the time and space to think it through.
Finally, he raises his head, and there’s defeat in his watery eyes, in his fallen shoulders. He nods once. I know that’s all I’m going to get.
I rise. “New York will send you the contract soon.”
He walks me to the door. “Alessandro.”
I turn and see pain and regret flash in his eyes. “Make it quick. He may be a fuck-up but he’s still my son.”
I nod and then squeeze his shoulder. It will not be quick or painless. But I won’t burden him with that knowledge.
Chapter 41
Lennon
“Hi, Mom.”
I swipe a line of ants off the cold curve of her tombstone, nestle white daisies in the crook where the ground and stone meet, then sit back on my heels with a sigh. The ground beneath me is hard-packed sand and sparse grass. The sky above is a harsh, cloudless expanse of blue. My internal landscape runs in shades of gray and black.
