“Car leaves at nine.”
5
Stefan
Once she’s gone, I sit back down and pick up my whiskey. I drink it, lean my head back.
Rafa.
My cousin has lied to me before. I know he lies. This particular lie bugs me.
The question, though, isn’t that he lied but why? Is it because he knew I’d be pissed that he took Gabriela out of the house without protection or permission? Or is it something more?
As far as who he met with, I would be surprised if it was anyone other than his father.
Francesco Catalano was a gracious host to me these last couple of days. I went to personally thank him not because I’m stupid enough to think he helped me out of the goodness of his heart. Gabriela’s question about how he knew, well, that’s my question too. It’s too fucking convenient that some of his people overheard the men from that boat bragging about what they’d done. Way too convenient.
Francesco is my mother’s sister’s husband. He isn’t blood.
My father never liked Francesco. Never trusted him. He’s not Sicilian born, for one thing, and with my father, that alone was enough. But there was more than that and if there’s one thing I learned from my father it’s to always trust your gut.
But my father did love my mother and he loved her family. My aunt Gina, Rafa’s mother, and my father were good friends. He met my mom through Gina. Gina lived with us before I was born. The three of them were all close. She came to my father if she needed advice and all my father had to do to make sure Gina took that advice—even when it wasn’t asked for—was raise an eyebrow.
It was for her that he gave Francesco responsibility over one of our most profitable routes north. And when the first shipment came in short, he turned a blind eye. For her. But then it happened again. And again after that.
He could never prove it was Francesco, though, and Francesco always had an answer.
I’ve never felt particularly close to my uncle. Honestly, I’ve never liked the man. But Rafa and I grew up best friends. I think that was because Gina spent more time here with Rafa than at her own home in Taormina.
What I told Gabriela about the constantly shifting line between ally and enemy, I’ve watched it play out multiple times over my lifetime. I’m watching it play out now.
Rafa. Where do your loyalties lie, cousin?
I finish my drink, put the glass down and look at the ring on my finger. Our family ring. Passed down from father to son. It was supposed to have gone to Antonio.
I twist it. Think about each of them. Each dead and in his grave now.
When I get up to get more whiskey, I see that photo album. Instead of going for the whiskey, I pick it up and sit down in the chair where Gabriela had been reading when I came in. I open it, leaf slowly through the pages.
Strange that so many people pictured in this album are dead. I miss them. I miss my family.
My mom used to say that no one would love you like a mother loves her children.
That thought makes me think of Gabriela. Of what she’d said about her mother’s drowning. Of what I know.
I think about what I said to her just now. What an asshole thing to say. To do.
Her words come back to me, her voice almost an echo.
“Why didn’t you just leave me in that well? You should have.”
I get that whiskey now. Drink it in one swallow.
What I feel for her is strange. Not what I expected or thought. Is that why I was such a dick just now? Spanking her to get the truth, that I’ll do again if I have to. Playing with her, though, laying her down to eat her pussy, I shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have touched her like that. Shouldn’t have made those comments about the tower. About playing house. She’s young and inexperienced, and I’m not fighting fair.
After what happened, it would be normal for her to feel some sort of affection or at least attachment to me. I saved her life. I rescued her.
Princess in the tower.
Princess in a well.
And I mocked her. Put her back in her place after stripping her naked and getting a taste of her.
Or was I redrawing the lines between us for my own sake?
Because the way she makes me feel, this possessiveness that burns inside me when I look at her, think about her, it’s not supposed to be this way.
I put my glass down and make my way to the door. This line of thinking is going nowhere. She’s mine to do with as I please. That’s what it all comes down to where she’s concerned. That’s all it comes down to.
My business with her father, it’s my business with her father. Not her.
She’s a pawn and it’s not like she doesn’t know that. And I’ll use her as I see fit and she will be my wife and if I want to strip her naked and eat her pussy, I will. I will do much more than that.
I spy her panties on the floor and bend to pick them up. I bring them to my nose and inhale.
I’m hard again and tuck the panties into my pocket before heading up to my room, pausing only briefly when I pass her door. I hear the shower. She’s probably washing my scent from her. My touch from her.
I should tell her it’s pointless. I’ll only mark her again tomorrow.
6
Stefan
The next morning, she’s downstairs and ready to go by quarter-to-nine. She’s wearing a somber black dress. Her hair is piled into a neat bun at the top of her head, her bangs secured behind her ear. She’s wearing a little make-up, cover up to hide the remaining bruises and lip gloss, and is standing by the door fidgeting when I get downstairs.
She walks up to me as soon as I’m on the first-floor landing. “Is my brother in danger?” she blurts out.
I’m surprised by this question. Actually, I’m more surprised she didn’t ask it sooner. “Your brother is safe. I have soldiers placed there.”
“You do?” She looks confused. Disbelieving.
“Yes. He’s safe.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It didn’t come up.”
She turns away, scratches her head, then shifts her gaze back to mine. “Thank you.”
“This falls in the good category,” I say. “You just behave yourself and it can always be like this.”
Her mood shifts, a flash of anger crossing her features, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.
“The dress looks good on you.”
She meets my gaze, gives me a cold once-over. “I’m ready to go.”
“You say thank you when someone gives you a compliment.”
“We’re going to a memorial service for my friend who is dead because of me. I realize you could care less, but I’m not fishing for compliments. It was the only thing I had in my closet that was appropriate.”
Her eyes glisten and I see the circles beneath them that she’s tried to cover up.
“He made a choice,” I say. “What happened to him is not your fault.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” She puts on a brave face, but I can see how fragile that surface layer is. “Can we go?”
I gesture to the man at the front door and he opens it. Gabriela flinches when I set my hand at her lower back and guide her out to the waiting SUV. We drive in silence to the airport and within two hours, are making our way up the steps to the small church in a suburb of Rome for the memorial service.