“What thehellare you doing here?” he seethes.
The little girl in me who just wants herBabboand the close family we once were dies a little.
I straighten my shoulders and lift my chin, refusing to wilt and bow at the less-than-loving homecoming. Not that this is my home; I haven’t set foot in it until today, and none of my parents’ houses have felt like home since my father started to change. I miss our small home back in Italy. I miss who my parents were, and I hate who they’ve become. My father, ambitious and conniving; my mother, who craves the elite, lavish lifestyle. Plus, the afraid woman she currently is as she trembles behind me.
“Good to see you too,Dad.” I don’t useBabbo, because screw him, and I don’t use Father as he prefers because it makes him sound ‘more lordly’.
Mom sucks in sharply behind me. In the next instant, my face snaps to the side, and my cheek erupts with pain.
It takes a moment for my brain to catch up to what the hell just happened.
My father just slapped me.
Tears burn in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. The man seething in rage is nothing like the man I used to love, respect, and callBabbo. My heart breaks as my cheek throbs.
I look at Davide, who is standing there, fists clenched. But he just stands there, doing nothing.
Fucker.
I stomp on my urge to cry and defiantly lift my chin and turn back to my father. But before he can say anything or strike me again, he’s slammed against the wall. One of the paintings clatters to the floor, making my mother gasp. A large, scarred hand pins my father to the wall, holding him by the throat.
I’m frozen in shock, staring at that hand. Then my eyes move to his wrist and up the sleeve of a tailored suit jacket that perfectly encases a thick arm and shoulder. To a strong, corded neck and a jaw lined with stubble to the perfect carved features of a god. When he turns to look at me, I gasp.
Crystal-blue eyes that feel like they’re burning into my soul, and the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on. He must be at least six-five, because he towers over my father by a foot.
I know who this man is.Everyonein the mafia world knows who Tommaso Santoro is. All the mafia princesses at school fawned over the idea of him and took bets on who he would marry. Rosa Altera was the most vocal of all, smugly smirking that she’d be the one.
I’ve only seen Tommaso in pictures. With his size and height, plus his ruthless reputation for protecting the Santoro family, he’s not only imposing but a man to be feared. And right now, as he looks away from me and back to my father, his look darkening, he’s downright terrifying.
“We do not hurt women and children.” His voice is low and deep, dark. And my stomach swirls. I’m just not sure if it’s nerves or what exactly my reaction is. “Do. You. Understand?”
My father’s face is a shocking shade of red with Tommaso’s fingers wrapped tight around his throat, and he opens his mouth, but no words come out.
“He can’t speak with how tight you’re holding his throat,” I say, but then I clamp my mouth shut, because what the hell am I thinking? And how is my voice so steady and strong while Tommaso essentially holds my father’s life in his hands?
He looks at me over his shoulder and smiles. That smile makes my knees weak. His startling blue eyes study me, but I don’t feel like he’s judging me for my messy hair or my sweats, and I keep my spine straight and strong.
His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. My toes curl in my shoes, and my entire body feels like it’s buzzing.
What the hell is happening to me?
His smile fades as he turns back to my father and finally releases him. My father drags in a huge breath and sags, clutching his throat.
“Do you understand me, Caruso?” Tommaso asks again about his reminder that the Santoro family does not hurt women and children. His voice is even and calm, but the threat ripples under the surface.
“Yes, Tommaso.”
“Yes, what?”
My father’s eyes dart to me and then back to the powerful man in front of him. “Sorry. Yes, Don.”
Tommaso backs away, looking calm and fully back in control instead of choking my father with one hand in the foyer of their home.
There’s no doubt this man was born and bred for power. And I can’t stop staring at him.
“Welcome home, Gina,” he says.
My mother recovers first, and she steps to my side. “Yes, welcome home,bambina.”
