Even if they believe Don Giuseppe DeLuca is still alive and has rubberstamped his approval.
Even with Thomas Barretta, their previousconsigliere, now in the acting underboss-slash-don role.
“I don’t think anyone within The Outfit would be stupid enough to make a move now,” I admit. “I’m more concerned with any relatives that might surface from Sicily as soon as they realize Giuseppe is dead.”
Our father went by the name Joseph Lawson in the US to mask his true identity. He was really Giuseppe DeLuca, don of The Outfit, the man most believed ruled, through Alfredo, from his home in Sicily. But it was all a ruse. All part of the ultimate power play. Father had planned on taking control of the newly reformed Commission and ruling over all Italian Americans in the US as the most powerful mafia don of all times.
But now he’s dead. Shot by Barretta in retaliation for the death of his only son. It would be complete mayhem if the made men of The Outfit discovered DeLuca was dead, so Ben and The Commission have kept him “alive” until the time is opportune to announce his passing. As DeLuca never officially stepped foot in Chicago, and he reigned through my dead husband, the men had no trouble accepting the explanation. As far as The Outfit is concerned, DeLuca is now committed to The Commission and he approves of the succession plan that Gino is in Chicago to enact with acting underboss Barretta.
“I have already hired a PI in Sicily and sent some men there,” Ben supplies. “They will trace the family tree and identify if there are any living relatives. If anyone poses a threat, they will be dealt with.” His sincere eyes probe my face. “You don’t need to worry, Serena. I will take care of it.”
His words go a long way toward reassuring me. I stand, smiling softly. “Thanks, Ben.”
“No one is going to hurt you, sis.” Sierra climbs to her feet and pulls me into a hug. “We will make sure of it.”
5
SERENA
“Do you think, maybe, Romeo should speak to someone? A child psychologist or someone who specializes in grief counseling?” Alesso asks as we are situated on separate ends of the couch in front of the fireplace. He lit the fire while I was talking with Sierra and Ben, and the room is toasty warm.
I swirl the red wine in my glass as I contemplate his question. “Perhaps.”
His Adam’s apple jumps in his throat as he looks at me, his features softening. “Maybe you should talk to someone too?”
My hackles are instantly raised, and all the muscles in my back lock up as I stare at him. “Have you been talking to my sister about me?” The things I told Sierra were private and if she has mentioned any of them to Alesso, we will be having stern words.
A frown mars his smooth brow. “What? No.” Awareness sparks in his eyes. “Has Sierra made the same suggestion?”
I relax marginally, nodding as I take a mouthful of wine.
“She cares about you. I do too, and I can tell it’s been a difficult time for all of you. I only mentioned it in case it would help.”
I gulp over the messy ball of emotion in my throat. “I know I need to speak to someone,” I whisper, staring at the flames jumping and crackling in the hearth. “But I can’t deal with it yet. I’m not ready.” My eyes lower to the floor as my chest tightens in a familiar way.
“That’s understandable, and you should go at whatever pace makes you comfortable.” His words ooze with compassion and sincerity.
Lifting my head, I turn to face him. “I can’t think about it because the pain is too much, and my children need me to be here and present. They are my priority.”
“I know they are, and you’re a fantastic mother.”
Sadness washes over me. “Not so much lately. It feels like I’m barely hanging on some days.”
“Trust me, I know bad mothers,” he says, angling his body and pulling his legs up onto the couch and crossing them, “and you’re definitely not one. What you just said proves it. You are willing to ignore your own needs to ensure your children’s needs are taken care of. That is admirable, Rena. My mom never made any sacrifices for me. First opportunity she had, she threw me to the wolves.” A muscle clenches in his jaw, and he swipes his glass up, swallowing a healthy mouthful of wine.
Alesso has alluded to a difficult childhood before, but he hasn’t gone into details, and I haven’t pressed because it’s hypocritical to ask him to open up when I guard my secrets so closely. I reposition myself with my back against the arm of the couch and tuck my knees into my chest so we are facing one another from opposite ends. Cradling my wineglass against my chest, I say, “I’m sorry you didn’t have a good childhood. My father wasn’t a great parent, but my mom made up for it.” I chew on the corner of my mouth. “Even though he punished her for it.” Tears stab the backs of my eyes as I think of what Mom has gone through for us. Compassion is etched across his face, and it encourages me to be brave. “I knew he hit her, though he was usually careful not to leave bruises where anyone could see. I didn’t know the true extent of her suffering until recently, and it hurts. I hurt for her,” I choke out over a sob.
Placing his glass down on the coffee table, he very carefully slides closer to me until our sock-covered feet are mere inches apart. “I can empathize because I hurt for you,” he quietly admits.
“Don’t.” I swipe at the tears sneaking out of my eyes. “I don’t want to be pitied.” Knots twist in my gut, and I look over at the fire, unable to say this while looking at his face. “The truth is, I was weak. I should have fought back or found a way to leave him. Instead, I stayed and I just took whatever he threw my way.” Self-loathing crawls up my throat as I turn my gaze away from the fire. His warm brown eyes are focused on me, and sometimes it’s hard to breathe when he looks at me like that. The urge to reach out and hold him is riding me hard, even though I know I could never do it. “I swore to myself growing up that I would never let any man treat me the way my father treated my mother, and I ended up in the same situation.” I gulp painfully as I shake my head. “Some days, I don’t know who I hate more. Alfredo for inflicting such cruelty or me for letting him.”
“It’s not your fault.”
I shrug, drinking slowly from my glass. A familiar heavy weight presses down on my chest while inside I silently scream.
“I get why you might feel like it is,” he adds, running a hand through his dark hair. “For years, I felt it was my fault my mother was so neglectful and hurtful growing up. I used to think if I had been more lovable and less demanding she would have treated me better.” He barks out a harsh laugh. “I stayed so quiet I was like the invisible man. Afraid to tell her I was hungry, that my shoes were too tight, or how I’d ripped the side of my shirt in a fight at school. I tried to fix problems myself so I wouldn’t have to burden her. I cleaned the house and used any money I had to buy groceries. I even stole cigarettes for her off the grumpy old man who lived in the condo beside us, but nothing worked. Nothing made her love me, and in my head, I blamed myself for not being good enough.”
I hang off his words, feeling his pain and torment as if it’s my own. A tortured expression splays across his handsome face, and I long to wipe it away with my kisses. But he’ll have to settle for my words instead. “You were only a child, and it was her job to take care of you. She failed, not you. Knowing you now, I can’t imagine it was in any way difficult to love you. In fact, I’m sure it was super easy.” My cheeks heat as the ill-advised words slip from my mouth.
