“Oh no.” She waves a hand and pulls a cigarette free from the pack. “We’ve never gone there; I just like to tease him. Smoke?” She holds the cig out.
I shake my head. “No thanks.” Drifting further into the room and feeling like I’m having another out-of-body experience—though this one is far gentler and less bloody than the last time I’d been body snatched—I take a seat on one of the lounges across from her chair.
Leaning back, Bianca undoes the latch and lets the window swing out a few inches before she sets her pack down and retrieves a lighter from her bra. The flame comes to life, searing the end of her cigarette. Putting the thing to her painted red lips, she inhales and blows out the window in a steady stream. Then she looks at me.
“Heard you killed someone.” She smiles my way.
Well, fuck. Did Giulio tell everyone in his family?
I crack my neck to the side and shrug. “Yup.” After all, what else am I supposed to say?
Bianca surprises me with a laugh. She slaps the window ledge with her free hand. “No fucking shit.” She shakes her head, smiling. “You’ve got balls, girl. Brass fucking balls. Then again, I would’ve done the same.” She shoots me a knowing look. “To live around men like Giulio, you’ve got to be a little crazy.”
And just like that, I know she and I are going to be friends. Maybe not as good as Michelle and I, but friends, nonetheless. Crazy is as crazy loves and all that.
Another feeling of security clicks into place. Dante—the brother I’ve never had. This woman… perhaps the cousin I’ve never had, too?
Who would’ve guessed I’d have to marry a stranger and kill someone to find the family I always wanted? Weirder things have happened, I suppose.
I don’t know how long Bianca and I hang out in the drawing room, but at some point, a man stops by and hands over a tray of food for both of us. We eat and continue to watch TV and chat as the sun sets. I fall asleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning only to be woken up by low male voices near the hallway. Grumbling from the interruption, I roll over on the lounge and glance toward the now mostly closed double doors. Bianca stands talking to whoever is on the other side.
I close my eyes, tired and annoyed that Giulio hasn’t even bothered to come see me since he brought me here. Where ishe? What is he doing? Does he miss me? Even half asleep, I feel like my thoughts continue to revolve around him. I try to press them out of my mind and go back to sleep when I hear the distant sound of the sliding doors on their tracks. Warm against the surprisingly comfortable lounge, I remain right where I am, sure it’s just Bianca coming back inside and shutting the door. Then the feel of lips on my forehead jolts me from the foggy dreamscape I’d just been sinking into.
Instead of opening my eyes, though, irritation keeps them shut. I know who it is, and I’m mad at him. Now he comes to see me? When I’m mostly asleep and can’t demand answers from him? Tears prick the backs of my closed eyelids. I should sit up and give him a piece of my mind, but at the same time, I’m still so exhausted that I feel like even if I were to try to wake up and fight with him, it’d be a losing battle. Maybe it’s better to just let things be and talk to him in the morning.
Giulio doesn’t say anything as he presses a kiss to my forehead, and then I feel fingers stroking over my hair. He makes no promises and doesn’t try to wake me up as his touch trails away. I almost do sit up then, just to demand he stroke my hair some more, but in the end, I listen to the dull, quiet creak of the wooden floorboards beneath the carpet as he leaves the room. I never open my eyes. I fear that if I do, I’ll find my vision impeded by a curtain of unshed tears.
Giulio La Rosa is such a prick.
25
GIULIO
Fun fact: Killing people helps the environment.
No.” Stefano Luciani is not just a man that I respect, he is the father of my heart. Yet still, his short, monosyllabic “no” chafes and makes me feel like the rough teen boy I once was is standing in front of me.
Though I understand that Don Luciani always has the Family’s best interest in mind when making his decisions, I still don’t like hearing “no.” Coming from him, it’s usually easier, but today is a different story.
“He’s dangerous,” I say.
Don Luciani cuts a glare my way, cold eyes glinting with warning. “Killing the Cesari head would leave a vacuum of power. Without solid evidence that he’s behind Daisy’s attempted murder as well as—”
I don’t stand up so much as I shove up from the chair I’m sitting in and start to pace. “He came after my wife,” I snap. “Daisy isn’t part of this world. She wouldn’t know what to do if he—” God, I want to wring the man’s neck. What if she’d beenkilled or taken? What if—I try to cut the swarm of thoughts out of my head, but it’s difficult.
Slow, even breaths fill my chest. No, I don’t just want to kill Cesari. I want to torture him. I want to tie him down and demand answers. Why her? Why go aftermywife? Why is he trying to start a fucking war?
It wouldn’t be fast. No. I’d take my time. I can picture the scene now in my head.
Emilio Cesari bound naked to a metal table, his legs and arms spread out with straps tied to each wrist and ankle. A shiver of anticipation rolls through me as I think of all the tools I could use on him. Alonzo, after all, took lessons from me. Scalpel. Hunting knife. Thumbscrews. I can do some pretty creative things with a pair of needle-nose pliers, or even better, a dog’s nail clipper. The ones made for Dobermans are perfect for pinkies and toes.
“Stop plotting the man’s murder and pay attention, G,” Dante says, yanking me out of the fantasy.
I cast a scowl his way, but ultimately, he’s right. I can’t let myself get caught up in my own desire to take matters into my own hands. I face Don Luciani. “Cesari claims that we have a mole in our organization, and that he can provide us with the information that Dante hasn’t been able to uncover,” I say. “After everything that’s happened, it’s too convenient an excuse to want to meet.”
Don Luciani sits back in his seat and pulls the furry mink coat draped over his shoulders tighter around him. The sight of it worries me. They say that the older a man gets, the harder it is for him to regulate his body heat, and it makes me questionPapá’s doctors. Surely, if he’s wearing coats even in the hotter months, something is wrong? He reaches forward and cups his hand over the gleaming wolf’s head on his cane where it rests against his desk.
“A mole, you say?” Don Luciani hums in the back of his throat at my words, and his wrinkled fingers tap against the edge of his massive oak desk.
