"It's so nice to meet you," she embraces me, kissing both of my cheeks like we're long lost friends. I return the gesture, force a smile to my lips, and tune the bitch inside me out.You can do this, I assure myself.It's just one afternoon. I could, too, but the notion of themenfolkhashing out their war council right now is still sitting like a rock in my stomach.
"I've heard so much about you," Scarlet prattles on, leading me up the stairs, then more stairs, and thenanother set. Good God, I had no idea I'd be in for a workout.
I wonder what exactly she's heard about me.
"Is it true that you're an assassin?"
I blink a few times in surprise at her forwardness while trying to catch my breath. Walking up endless stairs in high heels and a tight skirt is not part of my workout routine, although, come to think about it, maybe it should be from now on. I'll need all the practice I can get.
"I suppose." I reluctantly respond. Nobody has ever asked me directly like this.
"And is it true that you were an enforcer for your father?" She keeps peppering me, not even slightly out of breath after the second set of stairs.
"Where are we going?" I finally give in and stop to catch my breath. "The bell tower?"
"Oh, sorry. I guess we could have taken the elevator."
Elevator? She's got to be fucking kidding me. My mind is already working out ways to kill her and make it look like an accident. The simplest solution would be to push her down the stairs, which would teach her.
"I'm so used to the stairs, the elevator is on the other side of the house and…"
I tune her out, closing my eyes and entertaining myself with the ways I'm going to torture Stephano for this.
Finally—finally—we reach the last floor. What has to be a renovated attic. Although attic seems the wrong word for this. The space is massive. A seating area, reminiscent of a living room with sofas, a fireplace, and a TV, is set in one corner, separated by a pony wall. Most of the space is open, filled with tables, easels, artifacts, and brushes, resembling a lab.
"I'm a curator," Scarlet explains. "Antonio had this renovated for me so I could have my own workspace, since… since I couldn't go to the museum any longer."
My mind goes through the file I've read on her: Scarlet DeLuna, née Lambert, daughter of a judge of all things. Twenty-five. Museum curator. Married to Antonio DeLuna, capo of La Famiglia. The file was accurate, but what hadn't crossed my mind was the fact that Scarlet obviously had to give up things she loved in her life before becoming a mafia wife. Interesting.Maybe, I allow,maybe this afternoon won't be altogether wasted. I realize that being a curator and an enforcer for the Bratva are two very different things, but if they're both things we had to give up… she and I might have something in common. As much of a stretch as it is. It also seems that Toni found a way to make it possible for his wife to keep working at what she obviously loves.
"Come, the others are in here, but I have to warn you," she drops her voice conspiratorially, making me curious about what in the hell she could possibly be warning me about. "We’re all working on some things… behind our husbands' backs."
Now my curiosity really spikes.
She leads me across the large space where a wall is divided by a short hallway leading to two rooms. "Bathroom," Scarlet explains, pointing at one. "My office," she opens the door to another, and I'm struck speechless.
It's not the office itself or the several women inside. No, it's what's on the walls, on the tables and desks. On computer screens and tablets. This entire room looks like a war or special ops room. One wall is filled with pictures I recognize, Donna Margarita, Igor Pavlov, Edoardo, and Silvestre—although he looks a lot livelier than the last time I saw him in person. The pictures are connected by different-colored tape, and scribbles have been made along the edges.
These women areinvestigatingLa Famiglia, or to be precise, whatever has been lurking from the past. To say I'm impressed is understating it.
"What is this?"
"Let me introduce you first." Scarlet points her finger at each woman in turn as she recites their name, not knowing I've already committed them all to memory. There is Cat, married to Enrico Sartori; Guiliana—Gigi—Toni's sister, married to her former bodyguard, who’s now Toni's second in command; Violet, married to Marcello Orsi; and Marcello’s sister, Sophia, who is—surprise—married to Raf.
I shake each woman's hand; we mumblenice to meet youand size each other up, but not in an antagonistic way.
"Now, this might seem a bit strange to you and overwhelming," Scarlet continues, and again, I control myself from filling her in on what I would callstrange. "But you've probably heard of what's happening right now with Don Edoardo and all the conspiracies." Scarlet watches me, and I realize she expects some kind of reaction.
"I'm aware," I say carefully, deeply intrigued by where this is going.
"Of course she does," Gigi leans back with a sigh full of attitude. "She’s like some superspy-assassin-enforcer hybrid."
I shrug. She’s not wrong.
Scarlet clears her throat, shooting Gigi a don’t-start-with-me look that says those two have definitely caused international incidents together. "Anyway, we decided we’re not going to just stand by and let the menhandle this." She air-quotes dramatically. I suppress a laugh. Honestly? These women are… not what I expected. This might actually be entertaining.
"Or risk it getting out of hand and have brothers pitted against husbands," she adds.
Finally, something I can get behind. Support your husband, protect your family. Good thinking.
