XI

 

Isabella

 

When I woke up the next morning, the shattered vase was gone, and so was Giovanni. Leaving me alone between the cold sheets, spending the first few seconds of consciousness trying to remember who and where I was. Once I remembered, I buried myself into the silk, squeezing my eyes so tight that it was impossible for tears to fall.

Isabella Vigliano.

The name was unfamiliar to my tongue, the syllables twisting awkwardly.

Not a Vigliano yet according to my new husband , I grumbled to myself. No longer a Lombardi and not yet a Vigliano. Just Isabella.

Well, the second Isabella.

I wasn’t going to lay around all morning feeling sorry for myself. There was a plan in my mind that demanded to be fulfilled.

After showering and changing into a slimming black dress that ended just above my knees, I found my new family–family used loosely–in the kitchen. Marzia was packing her school bag, talking about something. Giovanni listened patiently as he held out her coat and scarf, the man dressed in a dark navy suit that created sinful images in my mind.

“Good morning, Isabella,” she chirped when she saw me. “You sleep a lot.”

I swallowed my laugh. “Oh?”

“Daddy and I have been up for ages,” she explained. Then looked to her dad for support.

Giovanni nodded. “Marzia needs to leave for school in a few minutes.” His eyes went to my wet hair. “Tomorrow, wake up earlier if you would like to shower.”

I scowled. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Marzia and I have already eaten,” he said.

“We had pancakes,” Marzia added helpfully. She glanced at the time and her eyes went wide. “Daddy, we’re going to be late!”

“Isabella will take you now.”

Oh, will she? I opened my mouth to rebut his claim, but Marzia turned her face to me, eyes wide and pleading. She looked genuinely afraid that she would be late for school.

My resolve crumbled immediately. “Let me grab my coat.”

Giovanni looked at me, but it was impossible to tell what he was feeling–if he was feeling anything at all. I ignored him, heading back to the bedroom, and grabbing my favorite black coat. If I was going to traipse around Manhattan, dodging snotty-nose children and nursing an empty stomach, I was going to look damn good doing it.

Marzia was already halfway out the door when I returned. “Come on, come on. We’re going to be late.”

“How long does it take to get there?” She grabbed my arm before I could bend down to put on my shoes, forcing me to hop and skip to slide into the heels.

“It’s a seven-minute walk,” came Giovanni’s voice. He waited by the elevator for us, holding the cage in place. “Marzia, you have plenty of time.”

“Enough that I could’ve dried my hair?” I asked. The soaked strands pressed against my neck, slowly dripping down my back. “Or had breakfast?”

“Breakfast is at 6, Isabella. Wake up earlier tomorrow if you want to eat with Marzia and I.”

I glared at him as the elevator rattled down to the ground floor. “You could’ve woken me up.”

“You’re not an infant. You’re more than capable of waking up on your own.”

Marzia jumped from side to side, her braids swinging in the same movement. She seemed unconcerned with what her father and I were discussing. “Did you know a blue whale is bigger than any known dinosaur?”

I pulled my eyes away from Giovanni to her. “I didn’t.”

She nodded. “A blue whale is 108 feet.”

“Wow, that’s huge.” I didn’t know anything about whales but I did say, “The largest painting at the Louvre is only 10 metres wide. A blue whale would be 11 Wedding Feasts of Cana.”

Her eyes grew even wider. “That would be so much painting. My hand would fall off.”

A surprised laugh tore from my chest. “It would.”

The doors dinged and we stepped out into the marble lobby, decorated with leather couches and golden chandeliers. Heads swivelled away from us, everyone suddenly finding their newspapers and morning coffees extremely interesting.

Gustavo and Daniele waited by a parked car, both bowing their heads in respect. I spotted Giovanni’s driver in the front seat, eyes turned forward. People rushed past but their instincts warned them to give Giovanni a wide berth, creating a small bubble around us.

“Have a good day, my darling.” Giovanni kissed the top of Marzia’s head. “Should I expect another phone call from Mister Burrows?”

“No,” she grumbled. Then added, “Maybe.”

“Behave yourself, please.” He glanced at me briefly as he slid into the car, saying goodbye with a simple “Isabella” and bow of the head.

I didn’t bow back, just sent him a glare before turning to Marzia. She was already starting down the street, Daniele close on her heels.

“Come on, Isabella, or else I’m going to be late!”

I strode to her side, heels clacking against the pavement. Cold morning air ran along my skin, my wet hair not helping keep me warm. “What’s the matter with Mister Burrows?” I asked.

Marzia knew where we were going and led me through the throngs of people, a skip to her step. “He’s the meanest ever,” she exclaimed. “He won’t let me read the purple books because they’re for the big kids. But I’ve read all the blue books and they’re boring.”

“He should let you read the purple books,” I agreed.

She nodded. “I stole one and Daddy made me return it.”

I laughed then quickly reprimanded myself. I probably shouldn’t be encouraging thievery. “You should see how fast you can read the blue books. Challenge yourself.”

Marzia considered it, then her brows furrowed. “No. I don’t want to.”

“Fair enough.”

We reached a red bricked school with a huge sign that read Our Lady of Perpetua Elementary School for Girls. Girls in pinafores and pleated skirts ran up the front steps, their giggles filling the air. A small group of moms haunted the front gates, sparing me a few curious glances.

“No parents allowed in.”

“Okay, well…” I bit my lip nervously. “Have fun?”

Marzia looked like she was going to laugh but she tensed suddenly, gaze darting to the left. I followed her stare to where two girls around her age stood in a pair, both of them sending Marzia cruel looks.

“Who are they?” I asked.

“Hattie and Orchid. They’re in the year above me.”

What kind of name was Orchid? I would dwell on that later. Right now, I wanted to know why Marzia had gone so quiet at the sight of them. “Are they mean to you?”

“No,” she said quickly.

“If they are, you can let me know.”

Suspicion entered her blue eyes. “Why?”

“Because…” Why, indeed? I wasn’t Marzia’s mother, I was her father’s young wife. Marzia and I might be getting along for now, but we were still both very much strangers. “You can let me know. Okay?”

She nodded and opened her mouth to say something when the bell rang. Her eyes popped open like balloons. “Bye!” Then before I could blink, she had spun on her heel and fled into the building, scarf and bookbag flying behind her.

“Bye,” I laughed to myself.

Daniele had disappeared but I wasn’t stupid. He would keep to himself in the shadows for the day, making sure no one with bad intentions came near the school. I knew Daniele would be Vigliano employee of the month–Giovanni wouldn’t let anything less protect his daughter.

Two women in their early thirties stepped in front of me, blocking my exit. The one on the left wore a turquoise yoga matching set, her ponytail sleeked back with no stray hairs. The second woman wore a blue power suit, pearls glimmering around her neck and a briefcase in her hand.

I stood taller despite my no doubt horrendous hairdo. My hair was slowly drying, causing little strands to flick up around my head. I refused to smooth them down.

“Hi, honey,” said the yoga one, voice light and sugary. “I’m Talina Holloway and this is Frances Annesley. We’re the co-presidents for the Our Lady of Perpetua Parent-Teacher Association. We haven’t seen you around before...” She sent me an expectant look, wanting an introduction.

“I’m Isabella Vigliano, Marzia’s stepmother.”

“It’s so lovely to meet you! Marzia is such a sweet girl.”

I smiled tightly. “Well, I better–”

Talina pushed a flyer into my hand. “This is all you need to know about the PTA, hon. We do lots of events to help raise money for the school and to make sure our kids are getting the best we can possibly give them. We have fortnightly meetings so make sure you set aside some time for them–Oh! And our next event is a bake sale. March 29th. Don’t forget!”

“Is this compulsory?” I asked.

Frances finally spoke. “We have a very strong community here at Our Lady of Perpetua. These events help bring parents, teachers, and students together. Don’t you want Marzia to be surrounded by a good community?”

Marzia was already surrounded by a community. Though I’m not sure the adjective good could be used to describe the Vigliano Famiglia .

“And the exorbitant school fees are not good enough?” I inquired.

Talina’s nostrils flared. “The work the PTA does is very important, hon, I can assure you.”

“Community’s very important,” Francis said, voice stiff. “We all want our children to have the best education they possibly can.”

I had gone to a private Catholic school not far from here, so I understood what the PTA was really about. It was cliquey and all about connections, but those connections made sure their kids had access to the best tutors and spots on the team, and in the future, the best access to the best colleges.

Mother had never been a part of the PTA, never giving it a second of her time. I remembered feeling left out when all the other kids had their moms around at the bake sale or Mother’s Day brunch. Did Marzia feel left out as well at these events? I couldn’t picture Giovanni donning an apron and flipping heart-shaped pancakes.

Ignoring all the instincts in me that screamed out in protest, I gritted out, “When is the next meeting?”

Both women beamed.

 

My stomach had developed a furious rumble by the time I returned to the Vigliano residence. I found some cereal in the cupboard, ate three bowls, then wandered around the chic hallways. Wives were meant to run the household, care for the children, but I couldn’t do either of those things.

I longed to paint but there was nowhere to do it. Would Giovanni be angry if I used one of the spare rooms as an art studio? More importantly, did I care? Painting was a part of who I was. He may as well tear my heart out rather than take away my art.

After my third wander around the house, I paused outside Giovanni’s study. Time seemed to slow as I balanced between my two options. Option one: leave. Option two…begin what I came here to do.

Nervousness built up in my chest, but I pushed it down as I slowly turned the doorknob. No armed men jumped out, no pail of water landed on my head. Just cool silence only broken up by the sound of my footsteps.

Giovanni’s office matched the same aesthetic as the rest of the apartment, but unlike the living room and kitchen with their touches of domesticity, the office resembled his bedroom: cold, clean, organized. I ran my fingers over the desk and bookcase, careful not to disrupt the photos of Marzia.

I startled when I reached an old photograph of two young boys. Identical from the shade of their hair to the crease of their cheeks. I knew Giovanni instantly, but the boy beside him? Obviously his twin, but I didn’t know there was another Vigliano brother. Had he died? If not, where was he?

Pulling my gaze away from the photo, I ventured closer to the desktop. Everything was locked, from the computer to the desk drawers. The only piece of information was a sticky note that read:

-  Docks.

-  Hem skirt.

-  Tuesday, 11 pm.

 

I read over the words, not sure what to make of them. Picturing impassive Giovanni jotting down notes because of his old man memory was near impossible. Although, it did bring a smile to my face.

Finding information about the Vigliano mob was going to be a lot harder than sneaking into my husband’s study. I needed his trust, his confidence. But how to get it? Mother had believed just being his wife was enough, but it was clear I would need to do a little more than show up to a church in a white dress.

I sent one long look around the room before leaving. It would take time to–

Vincent Montalti stopped when he saw me, eyes narrowed. He was coming down the hallway, coat tucked under his arm.

“Vincent.”

His eyes flickered from me to the study. “Isabella.”

Shit, shit, shit . Day one of spying and I had already been caught.

“I’m looking for Giovanni. Have you seen him?”

Vincent continued to stare at me, gray eyes cold.

I added, “While I have you, can I get Lucrezia’s number? She promised me a dinner.”

A muscle twitched in his cheek. “I’ll let her know.”

“Thank you.” I went to step past him but Vincent’s arm snapped out. His fingers held me like steel. “Let go of me.”

“What were you doing in Giovanni’s office?”

“I told you. I was looking for my husband.”

His eyes never left my face. “I don’t trust you, Lombardi.”

A strange near manic laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. “I don’t trust you either, Montalti. Now, let go of me before I scream this house down.”

Vincent released his iron grip but didn’t step back. He didn’t like me and was Giovanni’s underboss–which meant he could make my life that much harder.

“Vincent, Isabella.” Giovanni’s voice commanded the small space.

We both turned to see him stepping into the hallway. His blue eyes darted briefly between Vincent and I, accounting for the space between us. I took a few steps back.

“Vincent, the meeting is starting. Isabella, a word.”

The underboss obeyed his commands but briefly stopped as he passed Giovanni, leaning over to whisper in his ear. I didn’t catch what he said and from how little Giovanni’s expression changed, it was impossible to guess.

“If I told you Vincent and I were having an illicit affair and that’s why we were sneaking around in the hallway, what would you say?” I kept my tone light, joyful, despite the fear that was slowly creeping down my spine.

Giovanni regarded me. “I would kill him.”

A surprise laugh tore from my chest. “Lucky for Vincent–”

“What were you doing in my study?”

New dislike for Vincent welled up in me. “I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to ask if I could use the spare room as a studio. Or maybe have some money so I can rent a space.” When he said nothing, I added, “If you think I’m temperamental and emotional now, wait until I don’t have a creative outlet.”

“There is no need for threats, Isabella.” Giovanni gestured down the hall. “I assumed someone would’ve told you but the room on the left is yours.”

“Mine?” My brows furrowed. “To...to sleep in?”

“No.”

Giovanni walked past me. I followed behind him, faintly confused. My confusion evaporated into bewilderment when he opened the door to a spare room and revealed a small painting studio. My own paintbrushes, my own canvases and easel and sketchbooks. It had been set up almost identical to the way it was set up in my parents’ house.

“My paints.” My voice wasn’t louder than a whisper.

I wandered further into the room, feeling lighter than I had in days.

“This room is for you. Marzia and I will steer clear.”

“I don’t mind if you come in,” I said airily. “Art is meant to be seen.”

Giovanni didn’t reply, just made a noise from the back of his throat.

I looked over to him. My husband stood in the arch of the doorframe, dark and looming, impassive gaze trained on me. The sunlight that tilled through the window seemed to avoid him. A part of me wanted to copy the ray’s example and avoid him as well...but another part of me wanted closer, wanted more .

“Thank you, Giovanni. This means a lot to me.”

He blinked and seemed to stand taller. “There’s no need to be so thankful, Isabella. This room wasn’t being used for anything else.”

“Am I allowed to paint you now that we’re married, or will that end in a bonfire?”

“One day, perhaps, but not this day.”

The image of him and his brother entered my mind. Two heads of black hair, four ocean blue eyes.

Giovanni went to leave but I called out, “Does Marzia get bullied at school?”

His eyes narrowed. “What would make you say that?”

I hesitated. If Marzia hadn’t said anything, then it wasn’t my place. “No reason.” I scowled. “Thank you for the warning, by the way.”

“Warning?”

“About the PTA.”

Giovanni cringed. It was the most human expression I had ever seen him make. I suddenly pictured Talina and Frances swooning over his beautiful face, their manicured hands dragging him into the meetings like hyenas dragging away a carcass. “Ah, yes.” A man called his name down the hall. “I’m sure you can handle some bake sales, Isabella.”

I laughed again, the noise resounding around the room. “You might change your mind when I poison half of Marzia’s class.”

He inclined his head and left. As I watched his back, I realized suddenly: that was the first conversation we’d ever had where I hadn’t hated him .

It didn’t last long.

 

XII

 

Giovanni

“We found Junior.”

Vitale Junior, principe of the Lombardi mob and once upon a time, its heir. We had been looking for him just as long as we had been looking for his parents.

“Where?”

My underboss passed me a tablet with a map on the screen. “He was at a Lo Duca residence.” Disapproval rung in Vincent’s voice. In his mind, if you were going to hide, at least hide somewhere that didn’t have any connections to your family.

I glanced at the location, nodding in affirmation.

“He’s being transported by Domenico and his men.”

“Any sign of Vitale and his wife?”

Vincent’s brows furrowed. “His wife?”

“Maria Lombardi. You should know that.”

Wariness entered my underboss’s expression, and he shared a glance with Quintus. I waited for them to share.

“Sir, we haven’t been looking for Maria. We assumed because we have Isabella–”

“You have Isabella?” I hadn’t meant to sound so dangerous but something about his words irked me.

Vincent blinked in surprise before his brow creased with confusion. “I doubt Maria will be a threat, sir. It is unlikely that the Lombardi allies will unionize with a woman–they hold no real power, especially in more conservative organizations.”

“I’m well aware how our world treats women, Vincent.” I recalled Maria Lombardi, a traditional beauty who came from a good family. She spent her days running Vitale’s household, spending his money, and raising his children.

“I’ll divvy out some soldati to look for her–”

“It would be a waste of resources,” I said dismissively. “She would have gone directly to Vitale.”

They all nodded in agreement.

“Are you going to let Bartolomeo in on our search?” Quintus asked, voice wary. He was one of the few who were unsure about the merge, but he would come around. Eventually, they all would.

Except for me.

To me, there would always be Lombardis and Viglianos. There would always be those I trusted and those I didn’t. Some Lombardis would prove themselves to be trustworthy and some Viglianos might prove the opposite. Only time would reveal the truly loyal.

I thought of my new wife, the dark-haired beauty who had stolen the blanket in her sleep. Even unconscious, she had let her presence known. I thought sleeping beside someone else for the first time in decades would bother me a lot more than it had.

“No,” I disrupted my thoughts mid-sentence. “Bartolomeo cannot be trusted fully yet, especially when it comes to his brother.”

“He doesn’t seem torn up over losing Vitale.”

He didn’t. To him, Vitale had been an obstacle in the way of him becoming don . Now, I was that obstacle.

Vincent’s phone buzzed. “That was Domenico. They’ve taken him to the docks. Should we go?”

“What state did they leave him in?”

“He’s pretty roughed up.”

“Give him the day to heal. He will need all his strength for what I have in store for him.”

My underboss and capo grinned, their eyes gleaming hungrily. Hunting down errant Lombardis had been my men’s favorite thing to do these past few months, just after taking our enemies to the docks and sending them down to the homes of the fishes.

Capo Quintus left shortly after but Vincent hovered.

“You don’t trust Isabella,” I said before he opened his mouth.

He didn’t deny it. “I found her in your study, sir. She may be Vigliano in name, but she is still a Lombardi.”

“I agree.” I tilted my head as a sudden thought came to me. “I do not think she is a threat, but she is definitely not to be trusted. She will have to prove her loyalties, just like everyone else.”

“It’s harder with women–”

“It won’t be this time.”

Vincent sent me a strange look. “Giovanni, she might stab you in your sleep.”

A strange thrill went through me at the thought. “I doubt it. She is much too emotional for that. I am just as safe sleeping beside a lamb.”

“Sir, I–”

“Don’t concern yourself with my wife, Vincent,” I said, tone harsh. “Not when you have much larger problems.”

He tried to hide his cringe. “Yes, sir.”

Vincent had been gearing up to ask me for Lucrezia’s hand in marriage for the past few months, but he hadn’t said the words out loud. I wasn’t in the mood to grant him any favours though I wasn’t sure why. Was it because he hadn’t found Vitale yet? Or had it been his comments against Isabella?

It didn’t matter because he never asked. I was struggling to understand why it was taking him so long. He knew he wanted Lucrezia, what was stopping him from getting her? When I wanted something, nothing got in my way.

Guilt , Leo had told me when I had mused about the situation with him. Vincent’s suffering from guilt .

I knew nothing about guilt. I doubted I ever would.

Once the meeting had ended, I stepped out to find Isabella loitering. She was sitting at the kitchen bench, pretending to enjoy a coffee, and read the newspaper, but from the inclination of her head, I could tell she had been trying to eavesdrop. I wished her the best of luck; the doors were soundproof.

Vincent said his goodbyes but not without sending a caution glance to Isabella. She ignored him.

“Were you trying to listen in?” I inquired outright.

Isabella snapped her head to me, eyes blown wide open. “What? No, no–”

I strolled closer, feeling both satisfaction and annoyance when she stiffened. “You’re very curious about mob life for a principessa . I thought the beauty of being a woman in this world was the ignorance that came along with it.”

“There is nothing beautiful about being a woman in this life,” she reminded me before adding, “There is no beauty in this life.”

I rose my eyebrows at her dramatics. “Interest or nosiness?”

“What?”

“The reason why you were listening. Are you interested or are you just being nosey?”

Emotions I didn’t recognize passed rapidly over her face. Finally, she said, “Interested.” She lifted her chin up, dark hair sliding over her shoulders elegantly as she did so. “I know you like to pretend that only men can be mafiosi, but this life affects us just as much. And God knows I would make a formidable mafiosa .”

“Would you?”

“I would, yes. Much more formidable than that lovelorn idiot you have for an underboss.”

“Perhaps I’ll put you in a ring with Vincent to find out just how formidable you are.”

Isabella lips pressed together. “Is that another joke or are you being serious?”

“A joke.” I pictured Vincent’s hands on Isabella’s skin and felt something twist low in my gut. Perhaps I had eaten something bad this morning.

Her face bloomed at the humor, frown switching into a smile. “I never knew you were so funny, Giovanni.” There was a slight tease to her tone that made me frown faintly. Only Leo spoke to me with that same tone.

“I’m not.”

“You can’t lie to me. You’ve told a whole two jokes since we’ve met.” Isabella laughed. “The Apollo better watch out.”

I waved a dismissive hand at her. “The meeting is over so you can go back to your painting.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “I was taking a break.”

I had seen the look in her eyes when she had taken in the studio. Though I didn’t entirely understand what she was feeling, I knew she had been touched and seemed heartfelt in her gratitude.

“Try not to break this gift,” I told her as I turned on my heel. “Renovations are much more expensive than glue.”

Isabella spluttered her response, but I had already entered my study when I heard her yell out, “Maybe I will use that lock!”

 

Night provided cover for my men and I as we moved through the shipping crates. Shadows twisted and turned around the shipyard, but I knew my way around this labyrinth. I had always seen the beauty in committing evil deeds in a place that was ever changing. There was no evidence to find because the evidence was moved onto trucks or ships, never to be in the same place again.

Capo Domenico Giordano stood in front of a faded red crate, his eyes tracking the world around him. When he spotted me, he bowed his head in respect.

“We didn’t rough him up…too bad.”

I inclined my head. “Did you find any evidence of Vitale Senior?”

“Nothing, sir. I think it’s fair to believe they separated ways.”

As did I. Smart but it made my job harder. “Let me see him then.”

Domenico yanked open the crate, the door groaning. It was a large crate but narrow in diameter. A torch dangled from the roof, casting a spotlight over a slumped figure. In the darkness, a small table stood with a collection of torture devices spread over it.

Domenico and Jacopo stepped inside with me, resting against the doors and remaining in the darkness. Junior wasn’t leaving but it was always good to minimize how many faces we let our enemies see.

Vitale’s son wasn’t a remarkable young man. He had gotten his mother’s more classical features, giving him a forever boyish look. He had tried to look older than his thirty by growing a beard and allowing scarring to form over his skin, but his cheeks remained chubby and his eyes wide.

I stared down at him until he lifted his head. Blood stained his face and his right eye was puffy, but other than that, he was in good shape.

Not for long.

“Bastard,” was how he greeted me.

“Vitale Junior,” I greeted in return. I didn’t care about him enough to trade insults. “Where is your father?”

He set his jaw stubbornly. It was the same way Isabella set hers.

Silence reigned.

Whether he answered or not didn’t matter to me. If he answered truthfully, I would spend my time hunting for his father. If he lied, I got to torture him and then go and hunt his father. Either way, I could not really lose. The only loser here was Junior, even if he was having trouble coming to terms with it.

After another moment of silence, I headed towards the table, rolling up my sleeves as I did. An array of weapons were laid out before me. I had favorites but this situation called for one of the more chilling items. The longer Vitale was free, the more support he would gain.

I picked up the needle and made my way to Junior. He went pale at the sight of it, scrambling backwards.

“Not even your sister has shown such fear,” I said to him, a little bit disgusted in his terror. This was the man they wanted to rule instead of me? Lombardis had let traditionalism warp their common sense.

“Leave her alone,” he hissed. “This is between the men. Not Izzy.”

Izzy . I grabbed his right hand, letting him struggle before tightening my grip. “She disagrees.”

“She is a child–”

“And no longer your concern.” My tone was hard. “But do you know what your concern is now?” I pressed the point of the needle beneath his fingertips, the skin giving way as his scream pierced the air. “Me.”

When I removed the needle, he shuddered in relief and pain. Needles under the fingertips did hurt. My brother used to do it to Leo and me when we were children. But out of all his torturous methods, a needle under the fingertips had been on the softer side of things. I never would’ve shown such a visceral reaction in front of my tormentor–it would’ve delighted Gasparo too much.

“Where is your father?”

Junior choked out, “Go fuck yourself.”

I pierced the skin again, watching the point of the needle darken his nail beds. His scream grew higher.

“Where is your father?” I asked again.

No answer. Another fingernail. Another scream.

The process went on for hours, until his nails were a bloody mess and the needle was unusable from damage. Junior proved to have more grit than I originally gave him credit for. However, we had only just begun.

After the needle, I took out a knife. I warmed it on a match, letting the silver blade glow a faint orange.

“Where is your father?” I asked once more.

Junior was shaking but still managed to hiss.

“Very well then.” With little ceremony, I pressed the knife through his pinkie, slicing it off. You would be surprised how much strength you had to put into cutting off a finger. The bone and muscle gave way, blood squirting over the floor.

Junior screamed once again, his vocal cords giving out halfway, so he looked like a silent gaping fish.

“Where is your father?”

His body let out involuntary shivers as the shock and pain spread throughout his body.

I heated up the knife once more, the yellow gleam illuminating the entire crate. Junior was the color of concrete but when he spotted the other torture devices, he seemed to go even grayer.

I posed the knife over his other hand, angling it–

“Sicily,” he blurted. “He’s….Sicily.”

“Where in Sicily?”

“Enna. The city of Enna.” At my silence, he continued. “Where…where our family is from…His uncles are there…”

No doubt Vitale went to gain support and manpower. It was best to believe he had been successful and that I needed to prepare for the worst.

I laid down the knife and Junior gave a sigh of relief.

Domenico stepped forward, gun palmed.

“No.”

My capo sent me a bewildered look. “No, sir?”

“His death doesn’t belong to you or I.” I wiped my hands with the paper towels we kept with the torture instruments on. “Keep him alive until I return.”

 

“Let go of me!” Isabella’s howl disrupted the quiet hush of waves and distant sounds of traffic. She let out another furious scream as Gustavo yanked her out of the car, his face flushed with frustration. Claw marks grazed his cheek.

“Calm down,” he hissed.

Isabella managed to get free of his grip and went sprawling to the ground. She was dressed in a silk dressing gown, paired with feathery slippers of the same color. Beneath her unbound hair, her eyes were round with hatred, but beneath the anger, fear lurked.

“Leave me–!”

“Isabella,” I commanded.

She snapped her head to me, face paling several shades before she curled her lip back. “You’re going to kill me, Giovanni Vigliano?”

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Isabella paused, wariness entering her expression. “Then why have you pulled me out of bed in the middle of the night and taken me here?” She glanced at the boats that surrounded the docks and shrunk away. “What are you going to do to me?”

I stepped closer, crouching down to her level, and twisting my shoulders so she had some privacy from my men. She looked up at me, eyes filled to the brim with feelings I couldn’t even name. Fear and anger I knew, but the desolate sadness was new to me. Almost like she felt betrayed.

“I’m not going to kill you, Isabella. Gustavo shouldn’t have given you that impression.” He would be punished, I decided, though I wasn’t one hundred percent sure why.

Isabella wrapped her arms around herself but kept her chin high. “What are you going to do then?” Her eyes darted over my shoulder, taking in the half a dozen soldati that surrounded us. I knew the fears that were running through her head that moment.

I shifted on my feet, not liking the sensation of my stomach turning. “No harm will come to you tonight, Isabella.”

“Provided I do everything you tell me?” She hissed.

“No. This night will be an anomaly in our marriage.” I leaned closer, watching her pupils grow wider. “Tonight, you are free to make any decision you want. But know that this decision will alter the rest of our lives together…for better or for worse.”

She took a deep breath.

“Do I make myself clear, Isabella?”

Isabella narrowed her eyes, pulling up her shoulders. “What’s the decision?”

“You’ll see.” I rose back to my feet, offering her a hand.

To no one’s surprise, she completely ignored it and scrambled to her feet. She made an effort to brush the dirt off her dressing gown, before drawing herself up to her full height. Isabella often wore dark and expensive outfits with nosebleed heels to accentuate her strength and majesty, but she needn’t have bothered. Dirty and in her pyjamas, the power and regalness she emanated was undeniable.

Obviously, Vitale and Maria had never taken the time to teach Junior the same stance.

I gestured her forward with a hand, and she joined me by my side as I led her through the labyrinth of shipping containers. Her eyes darted around nervously but she didn’t flinch or shudder, didn’t scream or beg for mercy.

When we reached the crate, I held the door open for her. Isabella let out a gasp when she saw her brother but didn’t resist when I pushed her forward and into the darkness. I left the doors open so my men could watch.

“Junior!” She dashed to his side, grasping his cheeks. “Junior, are you okay? Oh God.” Her head snapped to me, eyes blazing. “What did you do to him?”

“I only subjected him to some enhanced interrogation techniques to find out the location of your father.”

“And did you?”

“I did. Your father is in Enna.”

“Where our family is from.” She glanced back to her brother. An emotion I hadn’t seen on Isabella’s face before transformed her features. Disappointed . She was disappointed with her brother for succumbing to torture. “It’s okay, Junior. I would’ve told him too.” Her tone didn’t sound so certain.

“We found Junior at a Lo Duca residence,” I said. “Adriano and Jolanda both claimed not to know.”

“They wouldn’t. Valentino had lots of secret residences.”

I inclined my head.

Isabella’s eyes continued to roam over Junior, her hands delicately stroking his face and hair. His eyelids struggled to open but he did manage to breathe, “Izzy.”

“It’s okay, Junior. I’m here.”

“Izzy…run…go to Enna...”

The nickname annoyed me. He was the first person I had heard use it. Not even Uncle Angelo, Isabella’s closest family member, called her Izzy. He always called her fragolina , which meant little strawberry.

Isabella wasn’t looking at her brother. She was looking at me. “What are you going to do to him?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do.” I stepped back, revealing the table of weapons to her. “It’s what you’re going to do.”

Her face dropped. “I’m not killing my brother.”

“I am giving you a chance, Isabella, to become a Vigliano, to become a mafiosa . Consider this your induction. Prove your loyalty and give me your Omertà .” I plucked a knife off the table and held it out to her. “What will it be, Isabella? Lombardi or Vigliano?”

 

XIII

 

Isabella

 

The blade gleamed silver beneath the torchlight, beautiful but vulgar. I stared at it as Giovanni held it out to me, unable to move or think.

Lombardi or Vigliano?

I turned my head to my brother. Junior, who had scared the monsters under my bed so I could sleep and who had taught me to dance in our living room. Junior, who had always tried to keep me out of trouble at family dinners. He had already lost one sister and now he was about to lose another.

Tonight, you are free to make any decision you want. But know that this decision will alter the rest of our lives together…for better or for worse.

Giovanni had given me a very clear decision.

Consider this your induction. Prove your loyalty and give me your Omertà.

If I killed him, I would be a part of the Vigliano famiglia . Giovanni had noticed my interest and curiosity in mob life. He knew this was something I wanted.

My mother’s words played on repeat in my mind. All you need to do is gain his trust and be privy to his secrets .

Killing Junior would give me everything I wanted and everything I needed to bring Giovanni down. He couldn’t deny my loyalty to him if I killed my brother.

How would my parents react when we had won, and they were down another child? Would they create another son like they had done with their first daughter? Would their second son live up to the memory of the first?

My wants were also linked to Junior’s death. I could spend the rest of my life free from expectations and comparisons if I achieved what my mother wanted.

Yet…to kill my brother? To kill my own flesh and blood?

Junior peeled his eyes open, his dark Lombardi irises peering at me. He spotted the knife and then looked back to me. His lips quivered. “Please…Izzy, don’t.”

I swallowed, feeling tears well up behind my eyes. I had decided what I was going to do the moment Giovanni had given me the choice.

Now, I would live with the guilt.

Giovanni released the knife into my hand as soon as I gripped the blade. I couldn’t bear to look at him and meet his eyes, fearful of the emptiness I would find.

“How do I do it?”

“Izzy, Izzy, Izzy,” begged Junior. “Please…I’m your brother.”

Giovanni took my hand, angling the knife so it pressed against the side of Junior’s throat. Whimpers escaped his mouth, but I forced myself to shut them out. “The common carotid artery is the best place to cut,” he said. “He won’t scream if you do it just below the larynx.”

I nodded. I didn’t want any screaming.

“It will require a lot of strength, Isabella. You have to cut through a significant amount of tough muscle.”

“Is it easier to slice or…or puncher?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Puncher. You will be able to use more strength.”

My cheeks were hot with tears.

Junior’s cries grew louder, my name in his mouth becoming a repetitive sound with no end.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Giovanni didn’t reprimand me on my weakness though I’m sure he wanted to.

Do it fast , I told myself. Don’t make this any more painful than it must be .

I reared my arm back, gathering my strength.

For your family. For revenge.

With everything I had in me, I arched my arm forward, blade out. I knew the moment it pierced skin and muscle, feeling the cartilage tear through the knife with resistance. It was like trying to push through wads of leather. Then something hot and sticky was on my hand, causing me to rip my hand back.

My brother slumped, gasping and twisting. His chains rattled with his jerky movements.

It took no longer than thirty seconds for his body to slump, eyes going dull. Blood continued to spill.

I stared.

A voice in my mind was chanting. For the Lombardis, for the Lombardis, for the Lombardis. It sounded like my mother.

Giovanni grabbed my arm and pulled me up to my feet. His hands pressed to my cheeks, forcing my gaze to meet his.

Something like pride shone in his blue eyes.

“You are a Vigliano. Your heart is mine, your blood is mine. Forget how to write Lombardi, forget how to pronounce the syllables. There is only one name you need to know and that is Isabella Vigliano.”

Isabella Vigliano.

I had played with the name a few times since we had gotten married, feeling awkward when people called me Mrs. Vigliano. In those moments, I had still been a Lombardi. But when Giovanni said Isabella Vigliano, suddenly it sounded right, like it had always been that way.

It sounded like my name. Not hers, mine.

I tore myself from his grip and fled out the crate. I didn’t make it two feet before I bent over and released my guts. Sobs and vomit left me, much to the disgusted groans of the soldati . There was blood everywhere, it was all over me, I could feel it sticking to every inch of my skin–

I braced my hands on the ground, ignoring the stacks of pain from the gravel pressing into my palms. God, in this moment, I could really use a cigarette.

When my stomach had relaxed, I looked up. Giovanni was crouched down beside me, face devoid of emotion, despite the vomit inching closer and closer to his thousand-dollar shoes.

“You’re a monster,” I breathed.

A strange look passed over his face. “Indeed, I am. But for you, I could be a man.” He leaned closer. “For you, I could be a husband.”

It was the most terrifying thing I had ever heard in my life.

[washing blood off in shower scene]

 

The next morning, I was waiting for Giovanni when he came back from the gym. I nursed my cup of coffee as he strode into the house, hair plastered to his forehead and breaths ragged. It was the most exerted I had ever seen him, and it was difficult peeling my eyes away.

“Good morning,” I greeted.

Giovanni’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “Good morning, Isabella.”

“I didn’t want to miss breakfast today.”

He inclined his head and went to shower. When he returned, he was dressed in nothing but low-cut sweats. I tried not to look at the exposed skin, the hardened muscle and the pink scars that decorated his torso, but when he turned his back to me, I couldn’t stop my eyes from scorching his back.

Something inside of me seemed to warm up as I took him in. Images of him pressing me up against the counter, hands branding my thighs, formed in my mind.

He made you kill your brother , a voice hissed in my mind. He destroyed your family, your life.

I placed down the coffee cup with too much force, causing some to spill.

“Do you need a paper towel?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He passed me one and I quickly mopped up my mess.

“I need to inspect a club tonight,” he said. “Be ready by eight.”

I was too enamoured with the idea of going to the club to be upset by his command. “A club–like a nightclub? Where?”

“Onirico.”

I had never heard of it but that wasn’t surprising. I had never been allowed to go nightclubbing, which had driven me to sneaking out with Lisa Gruenfield, Harry’s big sister. She had taken me to some clubs that were so loud my ear drums had taken days to recover and only let me have a sip of her martini before taking me home.

I recalled the flush of bodies, the heat and sweat and noise. It was like being in a sauna, if that sauna was filled with hairspray, booze, and sticky floors.

“Can I wear whatever I want?”

Giovanni lifted his head up at my voice. “Of course.”

Before I could ask what type of business he was doing there, Marzia stumbled into the kitchen. She pushed up her hair, causing the strands to stick up. I couldn’t stop my hands from smoothing them down.

“Morning,” she yawned.

“Good morning,” her father and I said at the same time. I sent him a glare; he ignored me. “What do you want for breakfast, my darling?”

Marzia mumbled something that sounded like pancakes.

To be surprise, Giovanni took out the ingredients for the batter. I kept expecting him to ask for my help, since all women of my standing should be able to cook, but he never did. Maybe he didn’t trust me not to spit in it.

Although, technically, we were all Viglianos now.

Recalling the night before made me shudder. I knew the things I had done would forever haunt me in my dreams, but I did have some control over what I let haunt me in my day-to-day life. I did what had to be done, even if the sensation of sticky blood over my hands hadn’t gone away, even with relentless scrubbing.

“What do you want on your pancakes, Isabella?” Giovanni asked.

I looked to Marzia. “What are you having?”

She began listing immediately. “Strawberries, blueberries, maple syrup…”

“I’ll have the same.”

Giovanni made up our plates and set them in front of us. Breakfast was informal and relaxed, no rules about being quiet or harps playing in the background. Marzia talked happily about her life while she chomped away, only being reprimanded by Giovanni when food fell out her mouth.

The biggest crisis in Marzia’s life at the moment was the Bookfair. She had circled all the books she had wanted in the magazine and was giving Giovanni obvious hints. I listened with rapt attention even if bookfairs felt like a world away from the violence I had committed.

“I forgot to ask,” I said as we put our plates in the dishwasher. “What’s your favorite cake?”

Marzia’s nose scrunched up. “My favorite?”

“Yes, for the bake sale. I may as well make your favorite.”

“What bake sale?”

“To raise money for the school–I’m not entirely sure. It’s put on by the PTA.”

“Ohhh,” she laughed. “That bake sale.” A little cute frown formed on her face. “You’re going to that?”

“Since I don’t want to be hunted down by the PTA and murdered in my sleep, yes.” I sent her a sideways smile. “Unless you don’t want me to?”

“No,” she said quickly. “You can go.” Marzia sent me a strange look before looking to her father. Giovanni’s eyes roamed over us but whatever he was thinking was hidden behind his impassive expression. “I like red velvet.”

“Red velvet it is.”

“Mrs. Holloway made a cake last year with a mote,” Marzia told me excitedly. “There was a little bridge and horses.”

I cringed. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“It was soo cool. It tasted super yummy.” Her eyes were bright. “Can you make a red velvet castle?”

Definitely not . “I’ll try.”

Giovanni made a noise that sounded like a huff. I cut my eyes up to him, but he had turned away.

On the way to school, Marzia talked about bake sale without taking a breath. When we reached the school, she spotted Orchid and Hattie, stiffening immediately. Before I could demand an answer from her, she darted into the building, her little dark head disappearing into the building.

I ignored waves from the other parents, keeping my eyes trained on the eight-year-olds. Was it socially appropriate to go up to them and demand an answer as to why Marzia was so afraid of them? I couldn’t see me threatening a child going over well with the headmaster–or the other parents.

Marzia would share when she was ready. She was a smart kid and had been doing fine before I came along. I’m sure my suspicion was misplaced.

And yet…

A nagging feeling continued in my brain. It would have to wait, however. Tonight, I was being taken to one of Giovanni’s establishments and I wasn’t leaving until I had learnt some vital information.

No use growing attached to Marzia , I comforted myself as I continued to glare at the little girls. You will only break your heart .

And hers.

XIV

 

Isabella

 

Onirico was an entire new world.

As soon as you walked through a nightmarish hallway, you stepped into a universe light-years away from our own. Purple and blue strobe lights illuminated the huge space, fashioned with square-shaped levels like a sci-fi opera theatre. People looked over the balconies at the huge dance floor, which was overwatched by a glowing blue sphere, which had little bolts of electricity dancing off it.

The furniture and bars were all modern in design, with cube-shaped couches and barstools in the shape of a Z. Everywhere I looked, I was bombarded with lights and people, and the deep sounding bass that shook the walls with each pulse.

Giovanni took me to a private elevator, and we went to the very top. I immediately went over to the side, slightly annoyed when I discovered the sphere light was too far away to touch but immediately forgot when I looked down and saw the thousands of people that huddled together as they moved in a single form to the music.

“Isabella,” Giovanni called.

I turned to find him gesturing.

“We have a meeting.”

“Can I go dance?”

His brow arched slightly. I was quickly learning all Giovanni’s tells. He might be a man of few emotions, but he reacted to things just like the rest of us. A raised brow meant amusement.

“We’re here on business.”

“After?” I casted a longing look back to the dance floor. I had never liked crowds but I had never seen one like the one below us. It didn’t seem as fake as the people that surrounded me at mob events.

“If you insist.”

Giovanni led us to an enclosed room which was significantly quieter than the outside, but you didn’t feel separated. A huge glass window revealed the twisting sphere, and if you craned your head, you could see the other patrons loitering around the bars and balconies. The room, itself, was a soft lilac color with white couches in the shape of rectangles.

Two men were already waiting, their bodyguards lurking against the walls. Eyes latched onto me, roaming over my exposed arms and legs.

My dress had the shortest hemline I had ever worn–even compared to the dress I wore when I was eighteen and following Lisa Gruenfield around the clubbing district. It was red silk, the fabric like water to the touch, and held up by two straps. The fabric was so tight I had had to individually put in each boob into the bodice.

Giovanni hadn’t said anything when he saw it. His lack of reaction had made me spit fire. But Marzia had called me pretty before she had been sent to bed, so I had decided to let it go. I had never considered myself vain, I had grown up under the comparisons of perfect Isabella, who was too beautiful for words, so I had never classified myself as anything but severe and angular in appearance.

Yet something about Giovanni’s dismissal set my temper alight. Maybe it was because he was my husband–or maybe it was...something else. Something I didn’t want to name due to the vulnerable and embarrassing nature of it. I could hear my mother’s reprimanding in the back of my head; stupid girl, stupid girl, stupid girl.

Now, he pressed a hand to my lower back, the touch scorching through the silk. Unlike our wedding, I didn’t try and scootch away.

“Gentlemen.” Then to my surprise, he said, “Isabella, meet Conor Rogan and Sweet Paddy. They work for the Ó Fiaich mob.”

Introducing me to them instead of the other way round was an insult. A harmless one but one all the same. Both men knew it too, as did their bodyguards who shared looks. They didn’t say anything; it was clear to me that my husband was the most powerful man in this room.

What did that make me? Second most powerful? I laughed to myself.

Giovanni led me down to the couch opposite them, before laying an arm on the headrest behind me. The claim was undeniable. I refused to acknowledge the thrill that danced through me. Stupid girl, my mother’s voice snapped.

“Thomas sends his regards,” the one called Conor said. He had a mouse-ish look to his face, with a button nose and beady eyes.

“Has he given a reason as to why he’s not here?”

Conor and Sweet Paddy shared a look.

“Business, sir.”

Giovanni’s features did not move but I could tell he didn’t believe a word they were saying. “And both of you are fit to negotiate in his stead?”

Conor reared back in offence. “Yes, sir.”

My husband inclined his head. I had also learnt that in Giovanni language an inclined head meant agreement or was a signal for you to continue talking.

It took a minute but eventually Conor and Sweet Paddy realized Giovanni was waiting for them to state their case. Both sent me suspicious looks, but they didn’t insult Giovanni by claiming his wife was untrustworthy.

Perhaps they should’ve.

“We’re having trouble getting shipments through Long Island. The Tarkhanov Bratva and the Chen Triad are stretching their territories as you well know, and while it is…amicable, their presence has caught the attention of the Feds–who are making it very difficult to get shipments through.”

Giovanni nodded slowly. “And Thomas wants my help.”

When he was the king of Maine, Giovanni had known every (illegal) shipment that exported and imported into the East. It was said that if you wanted to get something across the ocean, you had to go through Giovanni. Arms, drugs, exotic wildlife–all of it was at the command of my husband.

I didn’t realize he had brought that over to Manhattan, and in extension Long Island.

“He does.”

“How much does he care about these shipments?”

Conor and Sweet Paddy shared a look. “A lot, sir.”

A waiter slipped into the room, shaking so much the ice cubes in the glasses rattled. He placed tumblers of bourbon in front of the men and a glass of wine in front of me before scurrying away.

Giovanni took a sip of his drink, his silence captivating all our attention.

“If Thomas cares so much about these shipments,” he said finally, “then why did he send two soldiers to negotiate the terms?”

Insulted , I realized. Giovanni was insulted.

Maybe he wasn’t as secure in his reign as he had led me to believe.

“Uh…sir…”

“And why…–” He took another sip, the picture of calm. “–…do you stand with your men, Tommy?”

I didn’t have time to ask what Giovanni meant. A young man broke away from the wall of bodyguards and stepped forward. He was handsome with hair the color of dull flames and eyes of emerald green. His features were brawny, like mountains of rock lay beneath his fair skin.

I knew him instantly. Thomas Junior–AKA Tommy–heir to the Ó Fiaich Mob.

“Is this how your father asks for help?” Giovanni asked. It was impossible to tell how he was feeling from his tone of voice. “By disrespecting me in my own territory?”

Tommy took a seat opposite us, Conor and Sweet Paddy darting to the ends of the couch to make room for their prince. To the his credit, he didn’t show any fear at Giovanni’s questions. I would’ve been shaking with nerves by now.

“My father and I are happy to support you, Vigliano, but we don’t trust you.” His eyes went to me. “Even if you have a Lombardi wife by your side.”

I blinked at the bluntness, snapping my eyes to Giovanni to see his reaction. There was no point. My husband’s features were still, completely devoid of emotion.

The beat of the bass continued to thrum through the floor and walls, like a gigantic heartbeat.

“I don’t trust you either, Tommy,” Giovanni said. “But if you want your ascension to be supported, then you might want to show me a little more respect.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Whatever rumor you’ve heard…”

“I don’t worry myself over rumors–they’re too fickle. But I do find myself believing the word of doctors.” Giovanni’s eyes seemed to gleam a little brighter. “How long does your father have left to live?”

Thomas Sr. was sick, near death by the sounds of it. It was expected that Tommy would take over his father’s mantle, but it had been believed he would do that in ten, twenty years. If Tommy wasn’t ready and failed to rule over the Ó Fiaich’s, then other mobs would take his territory and New York would be plunged into a gang war.

When Konstantin Tarkhanov had seized the Falcone organization’s territory, he had avoided a gang war by removing the Falcone’s entirely. My husband had done something similar, but instead of a cull that would have led to a more blood, he had married me to join our two mobs together. Two gang wars successfully avoided.

But could we avoid a third?

Tommy surprised me by answering honestly. “The doctors are not optimistic. He’s not going to leave the hospital–alive.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“I am not a child, Vigliano,” said the Irish Prince. “We need our shipments and you’re the only one who can move through water undetected.”

Giovanni took another sip of his bourbon. I hadn’t touched my wine, too engrossed with the back and forth. “It will be costly.”

“I know.”

Negotiations began, outrageous amounts of money being discussed as casually as the weather. Tommy wanted to know how Giovanni kept the merchandise away from law enforcements prying hands, but my husband did not reveal his cards. I latched onto every word, absorbing everything like a sponge.

When the meeting came to an end, Tommy and Giovanni shook hands.

“Shall I give my father your regards?”

“No.”

I swallowed down my laughter, especially when Tommy inclined his head to me. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Vigliano.” To Giovanni, he said, “You’re a very lucky man. She is a beauty.”

“She is right here,” I hissed. Tommy looked at me in alarm.

“Of course. I meant no disrespect.” He left before I could say another word.

Giovanni seemed unconcerned with my rudeness, taking another sip of his drink. I thought he was waiting for me to say something but then he cut his eyes to me and said, “You listened to every word that was spoken.”

I tried not to tense. “What else was there to do?”

“Did your father encourage such curiosity?”

I snorted. “Not at all.”

Giovanni nodded like I had confirmed something he already knew.

“What do you think?”

The question almost made me startle from shock. “What do I think?”

He just nodded.

“I–” What did I think? The thing was, I had a lot of opinions and thoughts, but no one had ever asked me about them. No one had ever inquired “What do you think, Isabella?” It had always been “Smile more, Isabella” or “Be like your sister” or “no one cares what you have to say .”

“I...”

Giovanni waited.

“I think that the Ó Fiaich’s have never liked my family, especially my father, so they would accept you despite your lineage...or lack thereof.” His eyes twinkled so briefly I thought it was the light catching. “I think they need you right now, but Irish and Italian mafias have an infamous history of not getting along.”

“We do.”

“What do you think?”

Giovanni paused, his tumbler inches away from his lips. “I don’t trust ambitious young men, especially ones with fathers so close to their deaths. But money is a better motivator than family.”

I snorted. “You would choose money over Marzia?”

“No, but I am not an ambitious young man whose father is on his deathbed.”

“Just an ambitious old man whose father is in his grave?”

Giovanni took a sip of his drink. “No grave. My brother and I threw him into a landfill and let the rubbish of other people’s lives swallow him.”

For a second, I had forgotten who I was sitting next to, who was speaking to me with such little restraint I had felt comfortable.

“I’m sure he had it coming,” I said casually.

His brows arched ever so slightly. “As much as your father does.”

I looked away, taking in the neon blue sphere. It resembled the sun–if the sun was man made and powered by lightning.

“Do you think your father deserves worse?” Giovanni asked. “Or mercy?”

I turned my head back to him. His eyes were almost as bright as the sphere. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“On the contrary, Isabella–”

“Don’t say my name,” I blurted. “You say it wrong.”

He didn't. He said my name like he was picturing me and not the sweet girl who I was named after. I hated it.

“Now you’re angry,” he said, voice contemplative. “Excited, curious, uncomfortable and now angry. Isn’t it exhausting?”

My anger grew hotter, and I scowled. “Isn’t it exhausting having no emotion? Going through life as blank as a piece of paper?”

“You’ve confused apathy with disinterest.”

“You think you’re interesting?”

His lips twitched. “You certainly do. Why else would you watch me with such intense focus?”

“Maybe I’m waiting for you to kill me.” I tried to keep my tone dry and simple, even though I felt like I was sinking slowly into quicksand. “I’m watching you for the same reason the deer watches for the wolf.”

“I’m glad to know you have a semblance of self-preservation. I have found myself questioning your instincts often.”

“Likewise,” I mumbled as I sipped my wine.

Giovanni leaned back, feigning relaxation–or maybe he was relaxing. I might be getting better at reading his face but most of what my husband did was still a mystery to me.

“Are you relaxing?” I asked outright.

He glanced at me. “I’m never relaxed, Isabella. Especially outside my home.”

I scrutinized him, trying to understand what was happening in that head of his.

“Many have looked at me like the way you’re looking at me now,” he said.

“I pity everyone who tried to figure you out before me.”

Giovanni’s lips twitched. “There is nothing to solve. I am everything I present to the world.” He tipped his glass to me. “Just as you are.”

“That’s even more horrifying.”

He huffed. A laugh , I noted. His huffs are laughs .

Thread by thread, Giovanni Vigliano was slowly being unravelled. He had inducted me, made me a Vigliano, but I didn’t believe he trusted me. I couldn’t imagine a man like my husband ever trusting anyone, even those closest to him.

I thought about the picture in his study, of him and his clone. Did he trust his brother? Or had he killed him the same way he had made me kill mine?

My stomach twisted as I recalled the sensation of tearing through muscle, the sticky blood on my hands.

I gulped down my wine as the memory hit me.

“What are you thinking about now?”

“How you made me kill my brother,” I snapped.

Giovanni’s features didn’t move. “I didn’t make you do anything, Isabella. You chose to become a Vigliano, to become my wife. Don’t blame me for your own actions.”

“Your wife? You won’t touch me.”

I should not have said that.

The wine in my stomach turned sour.

I should not have said that.

I stared down at the glass, refusing to look at him. I couldn’t bear to see the impassiveness, not when my organs were slowly twisting themselves like vines inside of me.

“Look at me, Isabella.”

A muscle in my jaw twitched at the command.

“Now, Isabella.”

I didn’t move.

Giovanni grabbed my chin, not roughly but with enough strength to turn my head. I met his eyes, not backing down.

He let go of me, before tipping his head back and finishing his drink. Then with a powerful move, he smashed his tumbler, the shards of glass scattering over the table and onto the floor.

I gasped. “What the hell, Giovanni? Are you going to clean that up?”

He spared me a glance before plucking a large shard of glass from the pile. It was the shape of a shark fin.

“Put your wine down.”

My fingers tightened around the stem.

“I’m not going to tell you again, Isabella.”

I was shaking slightly but I did as he told me. I wish I could say it was fear that made me jolt and shiver, but my body wouldn’t let me forget the real reason. My thighs pressed together.

“Are you going to hurt me?” I asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Giovanni leaned back, throwing an arm on the backrest behind me. He balanced the shard in his other hand. “A little bit.” His voice was cool, passive. “You have two choices, Isabella. Either you can stand up, go dance and then we can leave.”

“Or?”

Something hungry and dangerous flickered in his pupils. “Or you can take off your panties and spread your legs for me.”

Adrenaline thrummed through my veins. It was hard to breathe, to think. But it was instinct that drove my shaky hands under my skirt and caught my panties. I pulled them down, wiggling and blushing, but Giovanni’s expression never changed.

He held his palm out.

“You…you want my…?”

“Give them to me.”

“Bossy.” I gave them to him anyway.

Cold air brushed up against me and I shuddered with vulnerability. I had done some rebellious things in my life, but I had never been in public without underwear. My little Catholic soul hadn’t even considered it.

But now, here I was, panty-less, at the command of my archnemesis.

“Spread your legs.”

I gulped but peeled my thighs apart.

Giovanni’s hand came up, his palm caressing my face. A part of me flinched at his touch, but another part of me, much louder and more dominant, leaned into his hand.

I thought he was going to kiss me but instead of the press of his lips, a sharp stinging erupted on my cheek. Giovanni lightly pressed the glass down.

“Does that hurt, Isabella?” He crooned.

It stung but it didn’t hurt. I shook my head.

“Say it.”

“N-no,” I forced out, my voice faltering as heat rose within me.

“No?” Giovanni trailed the glass further down until he reached my neck. Instead of the sting of the glass, I felt his scarred fingers trace the chords of my neck. Firm dominant touches that would’ve bruised me if I had softer skin. “For once, you’ve been rendered silent.” His hand tightened but it was still easy to breathe. The ache between my legs was growing more painful with each touch. “Tell me, Isabella. Do you like my fingers around your throat?”

I swallowed loudly. Admitting the truth felt like I was peeling off a piece of my skin and exposing my insides to him. Being vulnerable in front of a man like Giovanni wasn’t smart and it was survival instincts that kept my lips pressed firmly together.

“Isabella,” he warned, eyes flashing dangerously. His thumb pressed down on my pulse, which was no doubt flickering at a rapid speed. “Tell me or I’ll leave your little wet pussy aching and sore. Is that what you want?”

My chest rose and fell, thoughts growing blurry and yet sharpening. I nodded. Damn it all to hell, but I did like the feel of Giovanni’s hands on me, I did like the firm but gentle touches against my flesh.

The corner of his lips twitched. “Was that so hard to admit?”

“Yes,” I forced out.

“Prideful girl,” he said. “I’m going to enjoy hearing you scream out my name, Isabella. I’m going to enjoy having the Lombardi principessa beg for my bastard cock.”

I grinded my molars together. “I won’t beg.”

“Oh, you will.” His grip tightened around my oesophagus. “If you want me to give you what you ache for, you will beg.”

Before I could deny it, his hands dropped to my breasts. My nipples tightened with pleasure, visible through the tight fabric.

Giovanni took the piece of glass and slipped it under my strap. With a fast movement, he cut through it, allowing him better access. I could only shudder as he pulled down the dress top, allowing my boob to spill out, already painfully heavy with arousal.

He rubbed his thumb over my nipple, giving it a squeeze.

My lips parted on their own accord and a surprised moan escaped me.

Giovanni pressed the glass to my tight nipple, pressing down enough to cause pain but not split the skin.

“Is this the place you want me to take the blood I was owed?” he asked. “Or should I go lower?”

There was no way I was answering. Even if I wanted to, the cloud of lust that had taken over my brain made the world too hazy to create full sentences.

I reached out to touch him, to feel him, but Giovanni caught my wrists, pulling them away. “No touching, Isabella,” he warned, voice losing its sexy touch. “Do as you’re told, or I will leave you here, wet and unsatisfied. Is that what you want?”

The lusty fog cleared just long enough for me to whisper, “Why can’t I touch you?”

“No questions.”

I scowled, opening my mouth to argue, when Giovanni dropped his hand to my inner thigh. All thoughts went straight out my head as I watched his fingers dragged up higher and higher until they disappeared beneath my skirt.

With a quick movement, he brought the shard down, cutting my skirt from below my belly button to the hem. It split open, revealing my exposed olive skin and dark curls.

“I like this dress,” I hissed but there was no venom in my voice.

“I’ll buy you a new one.”

Giovanni’s attention narrowed on the apex beneath my thighs. Without his instruction, I spread my legs further, letting him get a better view. Another flush of vulnerability went through me but the look in my husband’s face inspired confidence low in my gut.

A strange faraway thought noted; Harry Gruenfield hadn’t looked at me like he was going to eat me alive.

Giovanni’s fingers traced around my sex, close enough I could feel his body heat. He made a sound from the back of his throat. “Look at you,” he said softly. “You’re dripping all over my couch, Isabella.” Giovanni’s voice had gone oddly tight.

My cheeks heated and I went to close my legs, but his arm snapped out, pinning me in place.

“Don’t move,” he commanded, voice guttural.

Giovanni ran a finger over my seam, the touch setting me on fire. I let out an involuntary moan. He didn’t let up, instead moving his fingers in a teasing circle over and around my clit.

“Giovanni,” I gasped, clenching my thighs.

He met my gaze. “Do you touch yourself like this beneath the covers in the dark?” he inquired. “Or…is it more like this?” He caught my clit between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a pinch.

The pain and pleasure crashed into each other, and I let out a soft whimper.

“I didn’t know my wife was so greedy.” Giovanni continued to move his fingers around my pussy in swift brutal movements. I caught his wrist, trying to force his movements to bring me closer to the edge but he pushed them away, giving me a warning look. “Did I say you could move your arms?”

I shook my head.

“No, I didn’t.” He suddenly removed his hand from my sex. I cried out as cold air brushed up against me. “Do as I say, or I’ll leave. Understand?”

“Fine,” I pushed out. In that moment, I would have agreed to anything just to feel his fingers against my clit again.

Giovanni brought the shard up, the glass catching the light menacingly. I knew what was going to happen before it did, but I still jumped in surprise as the cold sharp edge of the glass met my sensitive hot pussy. A shudder moved through me but I couldn’t take my eyes away from the shard.

Giovanni traced it gently over my pussy. “Are you afraid, Isabella?”

“A little bit.”

“Good. You should be.” Giovanni continued to move the glass. My breaths were coming out in short gasps. “I was promised blood when I agreed to marry you, Isabella. An untouched virgin, they called you.”

“Oops,” I said.

His lips twitched. “Oops, indeed.” Electric blue eyes met mine, darkened with lust and something else…something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. “Virgin or not, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll have what I was promised.”

He brought his other hand down to my clit and began his practised but hard circles again. My insides clenched as pleasure built up higher and higher–

A sharp piercing pain erupted from my pussy, but before I could finish my cry of pain, he took my clit between his fingers–

My neck tipped backwards, a cry emitting from deep in my chest.

“Giovanni–!”

The sensations grow more and more intense, and I’m suddenly tethering on the edge of a cliff, so close to feeling the final pleasure. Giovanni inserts a finger into me, letting out a strange noise when he feels my insides clench against him. The pain of the glass cutting me grows more intense–

I fall over the edge, lost in my pleasure and orgasm. My hips bucked, my knees flinched, and a quiver swallowed my entire body. There is no thought, no understanding, just me letting out a high and piercing cry that is swallowed by the pounding of the bass.

Afterwards, I sagged like a ragdoll, trying to regulate my breathing. My husband removed his finger from inside me. “Look at the mess you’ve made, Isabella.”

I looked down at my thighs. Cum and blood cover my sex and dripped onto the couch. Giovanni made a small cut that would heal quickly but not quick enough to stop the blood that continued to trickle down my legs. I didn't move to clean it up.

Instead, I only stared as Giovanni lifted the shard of glass to the light, peering at the illuminated red ichor. The corners of his lips curled upwards.

“Even your blood is striking,” he remarked.

I couldn’t speak or think or breathe.

Giovanni continued to observe the glass. Then he brought is closer to him, his lips parting–

His expression changed faster than the club lights around us. His eyes went black, his expression darkening into cold fury.

So much anger, so much emotion I had never seen before–

“It looks like we have a peeping Tom, Isabella.”

His words slapped me awake and I snapped my head to the side. In the shadows, the waiter had returned, eyes wide and a tray of drinks balanced on his hands.

Giovanni regarded the waiter, twirling the glass between his fingers. “Did you see my wife orgasm?”

The waiter's face grew pale, his answer clear on his face.

Embarrassment flushed through me, hot and burning. My entire body warmed with it.

I didn't see Giovanni throw the glass until it was impaled in the waiter’s throat. Blood poured and drinks shattered. When the waiter fell to the sticky club floor, his eyes were lifeless and unseeing.

Giovanni just said, “We're going to have to reorder our drinks.”

 

XV

 

Isabella

 

I was sitting on my childhood bed, sheets-stained rainbow from all the times I had snuck crayons in after bedtime. A little girl sat in front of me, her long dark hair framing an angelic face and her white dress pooling around her. Both of us were drawing but I couldn’t tell you what the image on the paper was.

“You should leave,” the little girl said. “You’re too big for the bed now.”

I looked down. My legs were hanging off the single bed. “It’s my bed.”

“You’re too big,” she insisted. “You need to leave.”

I got off the bed. Standing up, it seemed so much smaller. Like I had somehow crammed myself into a dollhouse, with miniature furniture.

“The door is over there,” she pointed.

I followed her direction. The bedroom was open, but I couldn’t see the hallway beyond. I wandered closer, squinting.

“I’d rather stay here,” I said. “I don’t know what’s out there.”

“You can’t stay here. You don’t fit.”

I scowled. “I fit.”

“No, you don’t.” Her eyes implored. “Go now. Quick. Before Mama makes you stay.”

My legs moved on their own volition. One second, I was peering down at the bed and the next I was stepping through the door. Where the bedroom had hard flooring, the hallway didn’t. In fact, I felt the floor give away–

Water swallowed me whole as I plunged into blue depths. It filled my lungs, filled my chest. I stretched my arms out, searching for the door, or anything to latch onto. My fingers felt nothing but more water.

Help! I screamed but bubbles left my mouth instead of noise. Help me, help me!

I looked around for the bedroom but there was only blue. It rose above and below me, left and right. More water was constricting my insides–

My chest felt like it was being torn out and I was going to die–

I jolted upright, my breathing harsh to my ears. A light sheen of sweat coated my skin and the blankets were twisted around my legs.

“Isabella? Are you okay?”

I looked up. Giovanni stood in the bathroom’s archway, dressed in nothing but a pair of slacks. His toothbrush was halfway out of his mouth.

The feeling of his fingers against my clit, the piercing pain of the glass, the orgasm that had nearly made me blind all shuddered through me at once. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe again.

My cheeks heated. “Fine,” I forced out. “Just…just a bad dream.”

“You sounded afraid.”

“Don’t worry. You weren’t the starring lead in this one.”

Giovanni’s brow arched. “Who was?”

“Jealous?”

“Yes.”

Everything stopped. Time, oxygen, the axis on which the world turned.

God, it was so hot.

Must be the weather , I comforted myself, ignoring the fact that it was only mid-March.

I peeled off the blankets and got to my feet. Giovanni turned back on his heel and disappeared back into the bathroom. My eyes latched onto his back, on the powerful muscles that moved beneath his scarred skin.

The weather , I repeated as I gulped down my water. It’s just the weather .

 

 

“Can I stay home today?”

I glanced down at Marzia in surprise. The busy street of Manhattan surrounded us as everyone went to work or came back from their night shift. We were a few metres away from the entrance of Our Lady of Perpetua and Marzia had stopped suddenly, digging her heels into the concrete. Some people sent us filthy looks as they were forced to alter their walk.

I sent them filthy looks right back.

“You love school,” I said to Marzia. “Yesterday, you were going on and on about the space unit you’re learning. Don’t you get to create a model solar system?”

She cringed. “I feel sick.”

I pressed a hand to her forehead. She didn’t feel warm. “Sick? What’s the matter?”

“Uh…” Marzia looked down at her shoes before back at me. “My belly hurts. And my throat. And my head.”

“I’m surprised you got out of bed this morning,” I said dryly. I pulled her over to the side, crouching down in front of her. Daniele and Gustavo sent me questioning looks but I ignored them. “Why don’t you want to go to school?”

Marzia shrugged, refusing to meet my gaze. “I just don’t want to.”

“Does it have anything to do with your teacher or–” I sent her a meaningful look “the other kids in your class?”

She mumbled something under her breath.

“What was that?”

“Just don’t wanna go,” she said a little louder.

I looked back at the building. A congregation of parents huddled together like a pack of vultures, comparing cars and houses and Pilates teachers.

“If your father asks, you threw up.”

Marzia snapped her head to me, eyes wide. “What?”

I rose back to my full height, giving her a pat on the shoulder. I meant it to be affectionate but it kind of looked like I was patting a dog. I pulled my hand away, tucking it in my pockets.

“When your father asks why you didn’t go to school,” I clarified, “lie and tell him you were sick. Then tell him to come talk to me.”

“I thought lying was bad.”

“Do you want the day off or not?”

Marzia immediately changed her opinion on lying. She seemed much happier than she had thirty seconds ago when she asked, “What are we going to do?”

We strolled back the way we came. “I’m not sure. What do you want to do?”

I knew the moment an idea popped into her head because she smiled endearingly, batting her dark eyelashes up at me. “Can we go to the museum?”

 

For a Tuesday morning, the Metropolitan Museum of Art was oddly quiet. A few patrons and tour groups passed us, but for the most part, Marzia and I got to stand in front of the exhibits without elbowing any innocent passers.

“We can look at the dinosaurs,” she told me, taking this very seriously, guide in hand, “and then the art.”

“Something for you, something for me,” I agreed.

A few people sent Marzia looks when they noticed her in her school uniform, but no one approached us. I think the towering and intimidating bodyguards helped with that.

Marzia and I made quite the pair. Her in her pleated pinafore with pigtails and dinosaur backpack, and me towering above her short stature in my white midi dress and matching six-inch heels. Eventually, she got tired of carrying around her backpack and made me hold onto it. When I spotted myself in the mirror, purple book bag hanging beside my Valentino handbag, I thought: God, I look like a mother.

We took a seat in front of a huge brontosaurus skeleton, the dinosaur pulled back on its hind legs like it was reaching up to the ceiling. Marzia read out the plack that had all the information, decided it was too brief and gave me a detailed rundown on the giant herbivore. Eventually, she fell silent and sat down next to me, staring up at the bones.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on at school or you’re not ready yet?”

She swung her legs, not meeting my eyes. “Not ready.”

“Okay.” I wasn’t happy about it, but I could wait until she was. Well, I could try and wait. Patience wasn’t my strong suit. “I’m here when you want to talk about it.”

Marzia glanced at me. “You’re not my mom. Why do you care?”

“You’re right, I’m not,” I said, trying to soften my voice. She was right, I wasn’t her mother. I wasn’t going to overstep into her life, especially when I was helping bring down her father. “But I do care about you and want you to know you can always come to me. For anything.”

“You care about me?”

“Of course.” I sent her a grin. “You think I go to the museum with just anyone?”

Her lips twitched but she wasn’t ready to start joking yet. Her brows furrowed as her mind moved behind her large eyes and I could almost hear the thoughts that were going on inside her head.

I nudged her with my knee. “I’ve never been a mother before, so I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

“That’s why you let me have the day off. Kids are meant to go to school.”

“I was going to offer ice cream for lunch but apparently I’m talking to the only seven-year-old in the world who would say no.”

Marzia stared at me. She had the ability to be strangely sullen and thoughtful for someone so young. I imagined she got that from Giovanni- I couldn’t picture him playing chasey or swinging on monkey bars. Childish , I could see him telling the other children. Childish and stupid . I almost laughed but Marzia’s seriousness stopped me.

“I’ve never had a mother before,” she finally said. “I don’t know what I’m doing either.”

Out of all the things I thought she would say…I blinked rapidly. “We can figure it out together.”

Marzia nodded in affirmation before looking back up at the dinosaur. A tempestuous mixture of emotions swirled through me as I stared at her. Guilt, affection, responsibility. I had never had to care about anyone other than myself, never had anyone to defend because they couldn’t defend themselves.

“We can go look at the art now,” she said, “if you’d like.”

“I would love that.”

We meandered to the art hall where Marzia patiently listened to me. I told her about the Our Lady of Valvanera , and how the artist’s name had been lost in time, and I spoke at length about Mary Cassatt as we stared up at her paintings, enamoured with the domesticity and complexity of the canvas.

When we reached the Marriage of the Virgin by Jose Sanchez, I stopped to a halt. It wasn’t my favorite oil on canvas but in that moment, looking up at the woman’s face, her eyes casted down to hide the turmoil in her mind, I felt a strange feeling dig itself up from my stomach to my throat.

“She looks sad,” Marzia chirped from beside me. “I like the little angels. They look funny.”

“They do look a little funny.”

Marzia wandered off to the next painting, giggling as she spotted more weird looking babies and cherubs. She had called the baby in the Madonna and Child by Simone Martini a gremlin and I had had to hurry her along when the curator sent us a foul look.

I continued to assess the painting when a patron joined me. She wore a black peacoat paired with a blonde wig and sturdy leather boots. Still fabulous–even though she was in hiding.

I looked over my shoulder. Daniele stuck close to Marzia, while Gustavo stood by the entrance to the wing, noting everyone who came in or out. When I turned my head back to the painting, I asked, “Are you okay?”

“Don’t stress yourself out, Isabella,” Mother said, voice harsh. “Your father and I are fine.”

She didn’t mention my brother. I didn’t bring him up.

“What have you learnt?”

“Thomas Senior is on his deathbed,” I breathed, my lips barely moving. “His son is gunning for his spot.”

Mother made a noncommittal sound. “Anything else?”

“The Ó Fiaichs cannot get their merchandise through Long Island because the Tarkhanov Bratva and Chen Triad are expanding there, and law enforcement is paying closer attention to all shipments. They want Giovanni’s help.”

“Has Giovanni said how he can bypass the FBI?”

“No, not yet.”

We continued to stare up at the painting. A part of me wondered what Maria saw when she looked at Jose Sanchez’s art. Did her chest tighten to the point of pain like mine did? Or did she react to it the same way she did a blank wall?

“He has a twin brother.”

“Alive or dead?”

“I’m not sure.”

Mother leaned closer to the painting like she was inspecting it. I caught a glimpse of her face. She looked exhausted, heavy bags beneath her eyes, but her makeup and hair remained perfect. If anyone was going to get a blowout while running from her enemies, it would be my mother.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “for killing him. I didn’t have a choice.”

My parents had made no secret about who their favorite child was but after my sister, Junior had come in close second. He had been the future of the Lombardi mob, the continuation of their bloodline. Now my father had no heir.

When the Lombardis took back Manhattan, who would rule after Vitale?

You could , a voice whispered in my mind.

The Lombardis were struggling with their new don ’s legitimacy, a female don might just break them.

Maria leaned back, hiding her expression from me. “You did what you had to do. It was better he died at your hand than a Viglianos.”

He did die at a Viglianos hand , I almost said but wisely bit my tongue.

“Does he trust you now?”

“In his own way, yes.”

“Isabella!” Marzia called out to be, her voice too loud for the space and making everyone flinch. “Come look at this ugly man!”

“That is William Duguid, young lady,” an older woman snapped.

Marzia blushed furiously.

“And he’s ugly,” I retorted. The woman glanced at me in alarm. “Marzia, I’ll be right there.”

When I turned around, my mother was gone. The only sign she had ever been there was the faint cloud of Chanel perfume that hung in the air, but I doubted Gustavo could identify my mother on scent alone.

Seeing my mother had reminded me as to why I was here. It wasn’t my goal to befriend Marzia or let Giovanni touch me in ways that made me see stars. I wasn’t a Vigliano, not really, and one day, once I had helped my parents bring down Giovanni and his famiglia , I would be able to live a peaceful and uninterrupted life.

I didn’t know what would happen to Marzia. She would be motherless, fatherless. She would be alone.

When I reached my stepdaughter, she was giggling hysterically. “Isabella, come look at this man. He looks like you.”

I laughed but it fell off awkwardly. I’m going to make her an orphan , my soul whispered. I’m going to destroy her life .

“I’m just joking,” she said, misinterpreting my reaction. “You’re much prettier.”

“I know. I know.” I forced a smile to my face. My cheeks ached beneath the strain. “How about we go and get some lunch?”

 

XVI

 

Isabella

 

Easter came and went, the families once again coming together to celebrate a death. I oversaw Easter Sunday and spent the day fending off passive aggressive comments about hiring a chef. If I hadn’t, there would’ve been a citywide lockdown due to food poisoning.

Giovanni seemed to enjoy the event as much as I did, spending the day with a glass of bourbon in his hand and a mask so cold no one dared approach him for small talk. Eventually, he and the men retired to the study while I fought for my life over dessert. Everyone wanted to know when Giovanni and I were welcoming a son into the Famiglia– and seemed happy to ask me about it every thirty seconds.

Even the Lombardis were excited over the idea of a baby. It had been a few years since there had been a new arrival to the family, and a new baby was always exciting, even if it would be a Vigliano. Since the night at the club, Giovanni hadn’t touched me, so I dodged their questions with sharp remarks, too humiliated to tell the truth.

My husband doesn’t want me , I almost shouted over a plate of tiramisu. He made me cum so hard I saw stars, then left me wet and wanting–and he hadn’t even gotten hard!

It was only decades of being glared at by my mother for my big mouth that had me staying quiet. That and my pride.

The only person who seemed to enjoy herself was Marzia. She gathered up a basket full of chocolate eggs before going to her room to hide. I found her asleep under her bed hours later, in a candy coma, with a book about dinosaurs splayed open before her. She hadn’t resisted when I carried her to bed but she had conveniently woken up when I had taken a bite of one of her eggs.

The three of us had entered a familiar peace. I had quickly become accustomed to how Giovanni and Marzia lived their days, and my adaption had been seamless. I was at breakfast on time, took Marzia to school before coming home and filling my days until 3.15pm when I went to pick Marzia up. The only issue that arose came in the form of a painting.

I had worked for days on a medium sized canvas, trying out my new oil paints and letting out everything I had felt in the past few weeks. Confused, aroused, miserable and happy and…other emotions I couldn’t name but just the thought of them made my heart clench and cheeks warm.

It ended up being a recreation of one of my dreams, with heavy Princess Tarakanova inspiration. A woman stood on a bed, pressed up against the wall, as the ocean rose from the floor and threatened to drown her. The blue waves had already soaked the pillows and blankets and were inching closer to her feet.

She looked a little like me but when Marzia had asked, I had lied and said it was a random woman.

The issue occurred when I hung the painting up in Giovanni’s study. I had already covered the bedroom, dining room, and living room walls–his study was the one place that was without a painting. He called me into the room as I walked past a few hours later.

“Isabella, what is this?”

Giovanni stood in front of the art, but his head was turned back to me.

“A painting, Giovanni. Surely you’ve seen one before.” I gestured behind me. “They’re all over the house.”

He didn’t entertain my sense of humor.

“This is my house too, isn’t it?” I asked. “Am I not allowed to decorate?”

Giovanni faced burred with a strange look before smoothing back out into an empty mask. “It makes no difference to me what you do or what you hang on the walls, Isabella.”

“Really? You’re acting like it bothers you.” I was pressing, I knew it, poking the sleeping bear with a stick. But there was something addictive about trying to spot glimpses of humanity in Giovanni’s expression. I would stab him with a real stick, straight into his fleshy side, just to get a hint of emotion from him.

My husband eyed the artwork. “I suppose the woman is you.”

“No. I never paint myself.”

“And yet you insist that each canvas is the cure to your insanity,” he remarked. “I can almost see it. Your anger, your fear, your delight, all mixed within the paint.”

I pulled my shoulders up as I bristled. “You cannot.”

His blue eyes snapped to me, something gleaming in the sky-colored irises. “The painting is in my domain now, Isabella.” He copied my earlier tone, his mocking too cruel to be funny. “Am I not allowed to analyze it?”

“A thank you would’ve sufficed,” I said stiffly.

“I didn’t realize it was a gift. Should I toss it over the balcony?”

The floor was shifting beneath my feet as I tried to find my words. “Do that and I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

“You’re too sweet for such a thing, Isabella.”

“I am not sweet,” I implored. “My sister was the sweet Isabella. I’m the imperfect one.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I wished I could eat them back up. I didn’t need to give my enemy, the man I was working to destroy, any ammunition against me. My insecurities were my own; his ever confident and arrogant ass was not welcome to them.

Giovanni’s brow rose. “Your sister was called Isabella as well?”

“Technically, I am the ‘as well’ . She’s the first Isabella.” I added, “I’m the second.”

What I didn’t say was I’m the second daughter, the angry daughter, the daughter who could never act passive and beautiful and polite. I always had my heart on my sleeve and my teeth at the ready. Years and years of my parents trying to make me soften like an overripe fruit had left me a stranger in my own skin.

But now…now I am The Daughter. The Saviour. The Lombardi principessa who will have brought down the Vigliano Don .

Not if you let him into your heart , a voice implored in my mind. Not if you let him wriggle his way under your skin.

“Your parents named you after your deceased sister.”

“I just said that.”

Giovanni looked faintly disturbed.

I had the sudden inclination to defend my parents. “Well, who did you name Marzia after? Your mother?”

“No. It is a common Italian girl name...and I liked it.” I wasn’t surprised that Giovanni had chosen something suitable, not too traditional but not a name that his siblings would’ve shared. I was surprised to hear he liked something, liked something as soft and precious as a baby name.

A giggle escaped my lips as I imagined Giovanni pouring through baby name books, writing down examples on a piece of paper and trying out the names with his surname. “It’s a nice name.”

“It is,” he agreed.

He eyed the painting again. It was difficult to figure out what he thought about it. I was disturbed by how much I cared about his opinion. My art was an expression of myself and my soul. I wasn’t bothered with critics, but I longed to hear what went on in my husband’s mind when he looked at the woman trying to stay afloat. If my mother could hear my thoughts...

“Are you two done arguing?” a small voice asked.

Giovanni and I both turned. Marzia was bracing herself on the doorway, swinging to and fro with an annoyed expression. She hadn’t changed out of her school uniform, instead just taking off her shoes and letting her hair swing freely. I could already spot pen marks on the white shirt.

“We’re not arguing,” I told her.

“Isabella just speaks loudly.”

I shot Giovanni a furious glare. “That is not true.” With a toss of my hair, I strode forward. “Besides, I’m on my way to Lucrezia’s for dinner.” I tugged lightly on Marzia’s sleeve. “Can you please change and hang your uniform up? Or else it’ll be all wrinkled tomorrow.”

She frowned. “I don’t wanna.”

“Marzia,” Giovanni’s warning tone cut through the room. It was nothing like the tone he spoke to his men–or even me–with but it was firm all the same. “Do as you’re told.”

Surprise flickered through me at the backup. Marzia sighed dramatically, swinging off the doorway like she was an actor dying in front of a crowd.

“Fineee.” She drawled out the vowels, but I watched as she clambered to her room, making sure we all heard her exaggerated footsteps.

To Giovanni I said, “Thank you for the backup. I know I’m not her mother–”

“You’re the only other adult in her life who disciplines her,” he said. “I would much prefer you be firm than let her walk all over you.”

“Marzia wouldn’t do that.”

His lips twitched. A smile , I realized, feeling both a mixture of delighted and shocked at the sight of it. “She is goodness itself, but she is my daughter. She is a Vigliano.”

I smiled primly, not sure how to respond.

“I’ll be late, so don’t wait up.”

“Are you and Lucrezia going to a restaurant?”

“No, she said she wanted to stay in.”

Giovanni nodded curtly before turning his back to me. “Good.”

On my way out, I peered into Marzia’s room, and found that she had attempted to hang up her uniform, the pinafore and button-down shirt hanging awkwardly from the coat hanger. I thanked her for doing so even if I did fix up the uniform, so it didn’t end up more wrinkled than if she had left it on.

 

 

Lucrezia had moved back in with the Montaltis after the death of her husband, Michele. She had been their ward since she was fifteen and her parents had passed away. With no other blood relatives to take her in, she had gone to her godparents house. Not long after turning eighteen, she had fallen desperately in love with Michele Veneziani and the two had been happily married until his death a year ago.

A twenty-four-year-old widow , I thought whenever I saw her. So young and yet condemned to a life of grief and misery .

Lucrezia did try to be friendly and engaged, but I saw the lost expression in her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

“Lucrezia, Lucrezia,” I called over the dinner table.

She blinked at me before forcing a laugh. “I’m sorry, Isabella. I was lost in my head. What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you knew how to make red velvet cupcakes,” I said.

“Red velvet cupcakes? Why...?”

I took a sip of my wine and narrowed my eyes. We were at the Montaltis dining room table, but both her guardians had taken a holiday in the Hamptons to recover from the stress of the–and I quote–‘move to Manhattan’. If the move hadn’t involved destroying a family, killing a bunch of people and forcing a marriage to secure peace, it probably wouldn’t have been so stressful.

“Are you okay?” I asked outright.

Lucrezia had been pushing her Arancini balls around her plate in a thoughtless movement. She paused now, her watery eyes blinking rapidly. “Who, me?”

“Yes, you. And don’t tell me you’re fine.” I gestured to her dinner. “You’ve barely eaten and you’re not listening to a word I say.”

Her cheeks pinkened. “I’m probably not the best company...It’s just that tomorrow is the anniversary...”

I stiffened, guilt rushing through me. “Oh, God, Lucrezia. I feel like a bitch. Why didn’t you anything? We can do dinner another time–”

“No, no. I prefer...not to be alone.”

I settled back in my chair, my guilt warping into sympathy. I topped up her glass and nodded.

Lucrezia smiled gratefully. “Mr. and Mrs. Montalti are in the Hamptons and Vincent is God-knows-where.”

“They left you alone?”

“I said it was fine,” she said quickly. “None of them really liked Michele and it’s hard to mourn someone your family didn’t love.”

My muscles tensed but I forced myself to stay relax. In that moment, I was looking at my future self, who was speaking with grief about Giovanni and Marzia to my parents–or any Lombardi who would listen. You don’t love them , I snapped to myself before my thoughts could spiral out of control. You won’t mourn them, you don’t love them .

“I will mourn him with you,” I murmured.

Her face broke into a smile. “You didn’t even know him.”

“You can grieve for people you don’t know, Lucrezia,” I reminded her gently. “What was he like?”

Lucrezia looked to the wall, but she wasn’t seeing the plaster and wallpaper and art décor, instead her mind had gone a million miles away, sucked back into the past. “Michele was...he was a good man. We got married young and he wanted me to have everything I wanted. He woke up every day and went to work, rain or shine, but always made sure he came home and spent time with me. He–” Her voice broke off, a corrupted sob coming from her chest.

I patted her shoulder affectionately. “We don’t have to...”

“No, it’s okay. I–I haven’t spoken about these memories in years. I haven’t even let myself think about them.” Her expression turned wistful. “He was an associate of the Vigliano Famiglia . He used to work in the public defence office as a lawyer, which is where we met. Vincent got arrested and I went to bail him out, and Michele was there. He wrote his number down on the plastic bag with Vincent’s shoes and belt in it.”

For the first time since knowing her, Lucrezia didn’t look seconds away from tears. Instead, a sunshine-type happiness had brightened her features. If I painted her in this moment, a sun would be shining behind her, the rays casting gold light over her blonde hair.

“Vincent hated him, and his parents disproved, but Michele got Giovanni’s permission, so it didn’t matter what they thought. We were in love, and we were going to build a life together but then...”

Within seconds, her expression crumbled again. But for a moment in time, I got to see the lightness that lay deep in her soul.

“I guess he defended the wrong client,” she said. “He was shot in his office. Vincent found him.”

“Oh?” Vincent had quite a few fingers in the Lucrezia and Michele pie, but I kept that observation to myself. I had one mission and it didn’t include getting my nose into other people’s business.

Lucrezia nodded, top lip quivering as she held back tears. “I moved back home after that and then we came to New York. I think Vincent is hoping some new scenery might help me get over Michele.” Her appetite returned and she cut into her dinner. “The Vigliano mob is a lot more relaxed than the Lombardis, but I know the Montaltis would prefer I get married soon. I don’t think they want to put up their adopted adult ward.”

“Who would you marry?”

“I’m not sure.” I’m sure Vincent had an idea . “Do you know any Lombardis?”

I laughed. “I think Adriano Lo Duca is the best option.”

“Vincent mentioned him. Apparently, Giovanni’s taken a shine to him.”

I didn’t know that. “Really? He’s a Lombardi?”

Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “He’s taken a shine to you , and you’re a Lombardi.”

“That’s different,” I said, then at her grin, snapped, “And Giovanni has not taken a shine to me. We’re married for the sake of peace. If I wasn’t here, he would’ve married Nonna or Adriano.”

Lucrezia laughter was as light as a butterfly wing. “I’ve met your nonna, Isabella. Any of us would be so lucky.”

That sent me into a laugh that ended with an unflattering snort. “She certainly agrees with you.”

My phone buzzed and a quick glance revealed who it was.

Giovanni: Come home now .

Ice spread through my veins. Giovanni had never texted me before, I honestly didn’t even know the man knew how. Thoughts of doom immediately swarmed my brain. Did he know I had met with Maria? Had Gustavo put two and two together? Was my cover blown?

“You’ve gone pale, Isabella,” Lucrezia said. “Are you okay?”

I rose to my feet, forcing a smile, and flashed her the text. “Duty calls.”

She nodded in understanding. We embraced, said our goodbyes and then I began the walk upstairs.

Why had Giovanni sounded so serious in his message? In his defence, Giovanni usually sounded serious. But there was nothing inviting about come home now . Had something happened with Marzia? He would’ve rang me then, surely.

My panic had reached unbearable heights by the time I reached our front door.

All I could think was: what would Giovanni tell Marzia once he killed me?

 

XVII

 

Isabella

 

The apartment was dim, only the hallway and dining room light on. Voices came from inside the dining room but a quick peak through the gap in the doors’ revealed Giovanni wasn’t there. I looked at the clock: 7:30 . I could fault Giovanni on a lot of things but his consistency when it came to Marzia was not one of them.

I slipped my shoes off before tiptoeing down the hall. Marzia’s bedroom door was cracked open, allowing me to spy on the pair of them.

Marzia was tucked between her purple blankets, her dark head visible amidst the pile of soft toys and pillows. She was peering over at her father, her blue eyes illuminated by the lamp.

Giovanni was sitting on a chair made for a child, his knees up to his chest. He wore a suit, his hair perfectly neat, but that didn’t take away the fact he looked like a giant sitting in a doll’s house. A book was open in his lap and his soft voice resonated around the room as he outlined the characteristics of an Ancient Egyptian tomb.

I watched them, not interrupting. Story time was for Giovanni and Marzia only, and while I was sure Marzia wouldn’t mind if I interrupted, I didn’t want to twist myself into the knots of this family any more than I had to. There was going to be pain in Marzia’s future, at my own hand. The least I could do was let her have these moments to remember.

Neither of my parents had ever read to me. Uncle Angelo used to tell me stories after I badgered him, but they were usually filled with wicked witches stealing babies and eating them alive. While Marzia read books above her age level, I don’t think Giovanni would be too pleased if I told her gruesome tales filled with blood and pain like my uncle used to tell me.

Another thing I’m taking away from her...and from him.

I rested my eyes on my husband. Giovanni seemed lighter when he was with his daughter, his lip twitches a lot more common and easier to summon. Even when he was working late, he was here at 7.30 every single night to read her a few chapters of whatever she was interested in until she fell asleep.

There wasn’t a lot of goodness in the life of a mafioso so it had to be preserved and kept safe where it could be found.

Fifteen minutes later, Marzia’s eyelids grew too heavy and she fell asleep. Giovanni placed the book on the bedside table and watched his daughter for a bit. Then, with a gentleness I didn’t think he was capable of, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead before smoothing down the blanket.

I was too enamoured with the vision to remember to hide. Giovanni caught me instantly.

I waited for the anger to hit his features, the accusation. Instead, he nodded in greeting and murmured, “Go to the dining room. I’ll meet you there.”

“Why?” I whisper-hissed back.

Giovanni caught my arm and led me into the hallway. I ignored the way my body reacted to his touch, the goosebumps and tightening gut and images of him pressing me up against the wall and–

“You said you wanted to be involved with the business. There’s been an issue.” He didn’t seem pleased but then again, when did he?

I nodded and made my way to the dining room. Giovanni’s men filled the chairs around the dining table as well as some Lombardis, including Uncle Bartolomeo and Adriano Lo Duca.

“This is mob business,” Quintus said, a capo who spent most of his time making sure Maine remained in Giovanni’s grip. “It’ll be a few hours before we give you back your dining room, ma’am.” He sent me a charming grin.

I ignored him and went to sit by my uncle. At his shocked look, I clarified, “Giovanni said I could sit in.”

The word of my husband was enough to stop the questioning looks. There were still a few murmurs about a woman being involved in mob business, but no one told me to leave. I would’ve sent them splintering glares if they had.

“What happened?” I whispered to my uncle.

He sent me a disapproving look. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“Something with the Feds,” Adriano supplied. I was surprised to see him here. We had grown up together and used to have playdates–though in my adulthood, I realized those playdates were just an excuse for my mother and his father to have their affair without any prying eyes. “I’m not sure what yet.”

I sent him a grateful smile.

Giovanni stepped into the room, his presence instantly forcing the men into respectful silence. He strode to the empty chair at the head of the table, his eyes roaming over the gathered people. When his eyes reached me, they stopped.

“Vincent, swap seats with my wife.”

Breaths caught.

It took me a second to absorb what he said but his underboss rose to his feet and walked around the table. From the look in his gray eyes, Vincent wasn’t pleased.

“Lucrezia thinks you aren’t in Manhattan,” I murmured under my breath as I left my seat.

His jaw tensed but he didn’t reply. Asshole .

I held my head high as I took the underboss’s old seat. I was the youngest in the room by a few years–besides Adriano–and obviously the only woman, but I wasn’t going to let myself be underestimated or patronized. I was the daughter of Vitale and Maria Lombardi, the doom of Giovanni Vigliano. I had just as right to be here, genitals be damned.

My husband didn’t spare me a glance, just said, “The FBI has taken a hold of the Ó Fiaich’s shipment.”

Groans and swears spread throughout the room. I felt a shiver of relief; I was safe for now. But then I absorbed what Giovanni had said.

Out of everyone at this table, only I had been at the Ó Fiaich meeting.

Fuck .

I didn’t reveal anything on my face. There was no reason to think Giovanni suspected I had told anyone about the shipment. As far as I knew, Giovanni was still in discussions with the Irish Prince regarding prices and other issues. Technically, there was no link between me and the FBI; my mother wouldn’t have left any traces.

“What happened?” Someone asked.

“The details remain unknown,” my husband said. “However, we do know that the Feds have taken control of the shipment and moved it to an unknown location. It is safe to assume they’ve found the drugs hidden within the teddy bears.

There are no direct links between us and the shipment, or the Ó Fiaich’s. But now there is more risk with our future shipments. The Feds still don’t know how we export and import into the city, but they are closer than they have ever been before.”

Questions rose from all directions, but Giovanni held a single hand up, commanding them all back to silence.

“I am meeting with Tommy tomorrow,” he said. I felt embarrassed for him–losing a shipment after being so confident in keeping it safe? It couldn’t be an easy thing to admit to, especially in a boss as inexperienced as the Irish Prince. “From all of you, I want one thing.”

“Anything, boss,” a few capos said.

“Only a handful of people knew about the shipment.” Giovanni’s voice was calm, detached, but I caught the undercurrent of wrath clinging to his words. Or maybe I was projecting, pinning more human characteristics to him with the hope of making it easier to be around him. “I want the rat, and when you find him, I want him kept alive.”

Him . I clung to the pronoun. Giovanni didn’t suspect me–or at least, not subconsciously.

“Do I make myself clear?”

All the men nodded.

These capos and high-ranking soldati were larger than life, predators amongst prey. Yet when sitting across from my husband, they were nothing more than yes, men and lambs. Living with Giovanni had clouded my opinion of him. I had seen him with hair mused from sleep and watched him tie his daughter’s shoelaces.

Though he didn’t change particularly when leading his men, remaining the same emotionless psychopath who made me pancakes for breakfast, his actions were more withdrawn. He wouldn’t tie Quintus’s shoelaces or make Vincent pancakes, that was for sure.

I felt a hint of smugness at this revelation but quickly shoved it down. There was still the chance that Giovanni would discover my treachery–and I didn’t doubt he would treat my disloyalty the same way he would treat any of his soldati . A shudder rocked through me just picturing it and it took all my control not to let my expression reveal my thoughts.

Vincent’s gray eyes cut to me. “Isabella was in the meeting with you.”

You fucking asshole , I thought. “And ?”

“What are you implying, Vincent?” My husband’s voice was hard. Even Uncle Bartolomeo sent Vincent a scowl.

“We need to be thorough with this investigation,” the underboss said. “This is the first time in decades we have been caught so obviously by the Feds. We have never had a rat until this moment–the moment we have merged with the Lombardis and let them join our organization.”

Uncle Bartolomeo looked pissed. “Are you implying my niece is disloyal to her husband? That I, or Adriano, have betrayed our don ? I’ve killed men for lesser insults.”

Shouts went up at the threat but no one moved, not with Giovanni’s cold eyes pinning everyone to their seats.

“I am just saying that the timing is suspicious.”

“In their defence,” Domenico Giordano begun, “we are also now a New York crime family. Our organization is under the microscope now more than it ever has been before. Perhaps there isn’t a rat–maybe we’re just being surveyed more.”

Vincent didn’t look convinced.

Giovanni trusted Vincent, and he was his underboss. The bond between the two of them had withstood decades–and they had been friends longer than I had been alive. However, I wasn’t going to give up that easily.

Besides, I had something Vincent didn’t.

“We could discuss who we think is the culprit all day,” Quintus said. “That doesn’t change the fact that we’ve potentially lost an alliance with the Ó Fiaich mob.”

The conversation shifted towards the Irish Mob and how they suspected Tommy would react. Beneath the table, I slipped off my shoe and rubbed my toe up and down Giovanni’s leg.

I honestly had no idea how he would react. Would he be interested in me after already trying me out at Onirico? Would he see through the distraction and know that I was the rat immediately? To my utter delight, Giovanni didn’t do either of those things, instead resting his hand against my thigh under the table.

I forced myself to face the other men, nodding every now and then to feign interest. After years of being dragged places with my mother, I liked to think I had the pretend to be listening act perfected.

Under the table, I lifted my leg higher until I could press my foot gently against Giovanni’s crotch.

He caught my ankle, squeezing in warning. It didn’t matter; his erection pressed into me.

“–with Thomas Sr being in hospital, lots of Ó Fiaich enemies are coming back. There are whispers of Gallaghers who survived the Great Cull gathering support underground–”

I pressed lightly on his boner. Giovanni kept his hand wrapped around my uncle.

A smile was trying to grow up my lips and I faked a cough to hide it.

“Isabella, can you go and check on Marzia?” Giovanni said it quietly but clear enough that everyone heard.

I snapped my head to him, trying not to be offended he was kicking me out of the meeting so early. Maybe he suspected me more than he was letting on...

I slipped my shoes back on and rose to my feet. “I’ll be right back.”

He kicked me out , I bitched to myself as I left the room. A few of the capos sent me amused looks, like I was the kid being called up to the principal’s office and they were the assholes sitting at the back of the class yelling, oooooh, someone’s in troubleeeee !

Marzia was still fast asleep. She had kicked off half of the blanket, her legs hanging off the side in a position that couldn’t have been comfortable. I pushed her gently back onto the bed, before retucking the quilt back in. It was warm at night but in the morning, she would be freezing if she wasn’t covered.

A little frown had formed between her brows like she was trying to figure out a math’s equation in her sleep, but she didn’t seem restless. I smoothed down her hair before exiting.

Giovanni stepped out of the dining room, closing the door behind him. He spotted me instantly.

“Put your hands against the wall.”

I shivered at the command in his tone but refused to backdown that easily. “You kicked me out of the meeting. We’re not friends anymore.”

Giovanni prowled towards me, forcing me up against the side table that was littered with photos of my stepdaughter. “Turn around and put your hands up against the wall.”

My traitorous body grew warm, the apex between my thighs growing wet.

“Tell me who you think the rat is.”

His palms caught my waist, turning me in a sharp movement. I reached out to steady myself, letting out an irritated noise. “Giovanni, they’re going to hear us.”

My husband ran his hands down my side and over my ass, squeezing the sensitive flesh. “You better be quiet then.”

A mirror hung above the side table, giving me a clear view of Giovanni behind me. He had chosen this space in the hallway on purpose, I realized immediately. He wanted me to watch.

I couldn’t help but compare our appearances. Me, young, Sicilian-featured, dressed in a black dress that hugged my curves and wearing red lipstick so startling it looked like blood. Then my husband, almost forty, gray touching his temples, dressed in a suit that could’ve made a nun forget her vowels…and the expression on his face had my stomach cramping.

“You shouldn’t tempt the shark with blood, Isabella,” he warned. “Next time you play footsies under the table, I’m going to bend you over the chair and fuck you right there, in front of all my soldati . Is that what you want?”

I sucked in a sharp breath. “You would let them watch?”

Giovanni’s hands roamed down my thighs, his thumbs hooking under the dress’s hem. “Oh, yes.” He leaned closer, hot breath tickling my ear. “But once I had made you come around my cock and take my seed deep into your womb, I would poke their eyes out with my blade.”

“Then you would be without advisors,” I breathed, my head spinning a thousand miles a minute.

“Everyone’s replaceable.” Giovanni yanked up my skirt, revealing my lacy white panties. His fingers outlined the design.

I wiggled my ass. “Tell me who you think the rat is.”

“You’ve got a mobsters mind, has anyone ever told you that?”

“What do you think?”

In the reflection of the mirror, I spotted the corner of his lips twitch. Another smile . My chest warmed at the sight of it.

Giovanni’s fingers slipped beneath my panties, slipping between my folds. “You’re so wet already, Isabella,” he murmured. “This pussy has haunted me since our little tryst at the club. I find myself recalling your smell, your taste. Some days I consider leaving work and returning home to you, just so I can feel your clit beneath my tongue.”

I swallowed loudly, surprised at his admittance of his lust. “Really?” I tried not to sound so disbelieving.

His eyes flickered to mine in the mirror, pupils dilated. “You know you’re beautiful. You know hundreds of men would kill for the chance to touch the striking Isabella Lombardi.”

“I would cut off all those hands before they got anywhere close to me,” I snapped, already hating the idea of being crowded by men I couldn’t give two shits about.

Giovanni just said, “I know” before crouching. I opened my mouth to say something when I felt his mouth latch onto my pussy, his tongue rolling my clit in his mouth.

I covered my mouth to keep from crying out, still using my spare hand to balance myself against the wall. My cheeks pinkened as arousal shot through me like lightning, my eyes darkening and lips parting on their own accord. The woman staring at me in the mirror was a complete stranger–an excited stranger.

Giovanni ran his tongue in talented circles around my folds and clit, applying and denying me pleasure. He flattened his tongue, licking me slowly and teasingly, before dipping inside of me. A whimper escaped my lips, my thighs clenching together instinctively.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded.

I inched my feet apart, allowing Giovanni better access. The thing’s that man could do with his tongue…I wanted to kill every woman he had ever practised with, wanted to tear out their throats and decorate the front of the building with them like Vlad the Impaler. Beware all who covet Giovanni Vigliano, his wife doesn’t share .

Pleasure shot through me so harsh, my arms lost their strength, and I could only keep myself upright by pushing up against the mirror. I reached back, cupping Giovanni’s hair.

“Please, Giovanni,” I whispered. “I’m so close…”

Giovanni quickened his movements, licking me with hard and tantalizing movements.

My orgasm hit me like a wave, washing over me. I muffled my cries with my hand but anyone in the hallway would’ve known what was going on.

Behind me, Giovanni rose back to his feet, licking his lips. With little fanfare, he moved my panties back to their original place before pulling my skirt back down. I stared at him in the mirror, my heartbeat loud to my ears.

Giovanni straightened his cuffs. “Bartolomeo.”

He just said my uncle’s name? I blinked. “What?”

“You asked me who I think the rat is.” His eyes met mine in the mirror, cool and empty. He did not look like a man who had just gone down on a woman. “I think it is your uncle.”

“Oh.” What else was there to say to that? If it came down to my cover being blown or my uncle dying for my sins, I chose Uncle Bartolomeo’s death. Cruel, heartless, but necessary.

“Who do you think it is?” Giovanni seemed to want to know my answer to his question.

I pulled myself up, running my fingers over my hair in an attempt to smooth it. From a glance in the mirror, I knew I looked put together, neat hair, straight dress, perfect lipstick. But my insides couldn’t have been in more disarray. I felt seams coming undone deep in my heart, slowly opening to let two more people in.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t trust anyone.”

Giovanni’s eyes never left my face. “Neither do I.”

 

XVIII

 

Isabella

 

The soft glow of the cigarette butt was the only sign I was on the balcony. I had tucked myself behind a pot plant, crouching down so that my knees ached. There were two reasons I was using the cloak of night to have a secret smoke. One, I didn’t want Marzia to see. Two, I was avoiding Giovanni.

I spent my days going over my mother’s words repeatedly until they were as familiar as the back of my own hand.

The fate of the Lombardis rides on your shoulders, darling.

I knew what my purpose was, why I was here…yet, as the hours ticked by, as I slept beside Giovanni and told Marzia to eat her vegetables and hung my art on the walls, my mother’s words grew fainter and fainter.

They are not your family , I whispered to myself in the dark. My brain knew this, but my heart seemed to have forgotten.

I put out the cigarette, rising back to my feet and rolling my neck. A warm breeze caught my hair, the strands dancing over my shoulders. Summer would be rolling in soon, bringing with it nearly 6 months since the Viglianos took over Manhattan.

Both Giovanni and Marzia were fast asleep, the house silent except for the distant sound of the city. I had snuck out of bed after hours of insomnia, leaving my husband to his dreams. We both slept on opposites sides of the bed, as far away as we could get without falling to the ground.

Giovanni’s interest in me was as everchanging as the ocean. Some days, he looked at me with a glint of ferocity, a hint of lust, so brief I convinced myself it was all in my head. Other days, I was nothing more than a piece of furniture, something to be ignored. He hadn’t touched me since the hallway, which was both a relief and...and ache.

Something happened to me beneath Giovanni’s hands, I melted like puddy. He had all the control; he was the wielder of my lust. I had never been welcomed to touch him during our encounters, never been allowed to return the pleasure. Both times, I had ended up half-naked and he had remained fully clothed and put together.

Knowing all this didn’t change how I felt.

I yearned for Giovanni. I ached and craved and pined.

He had awoken something low in my gut and it was ravenous for him. I tried to feed the ache in the shower, but my nimble fingers were a poor substitute for Giovanni’s domineering presence and touch.

I hated how much I wanted him. I hated that I wanted him so badly and he didn’t seem to want me at all.

I sighed deeply as I went to check in on Marzia, trying to put off going back to my cold marital bed. I expected to find my stepdaughter fast asleep but instead a soft glowing mountain of blankets greeted me. From the light of the torch, I could see the outline of her face.

“Aren’t you meant to be asleep?”

Marzia froze.

I pulled back the blanket, revealing my seven-year-old stepdaughter. She was dressed in her favorite green nightie and was giving me a sheepish smile. A book was open in her lap, and from the purple sticker, it was obvious Marzia had been robbing Mister Burrows of literature again out of protest.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.” I tapped the book. “Does this belong to you?”

Marzia closed it gingerly. “Kinda.”

“Kinda ?”

Her cheeks pinkened and she refused to meet my eyes.

I gently took the book and torch from her. “It’s too late for you to be awake. How will you learn lots if you’re sleeping during class?”

Marzia scowled but stretched out, letting me tuck the blanket around her. “I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I,” I admitted. “But I’m going to go and try. Can you try for me?”

She wiggled. “You can sleep with me.”

Something inside my soul splintered. How many times had I been afraid of the dark or the coat hanging in my closet that looked like a monster so much that I had begged my parents to sleep with me? I had wanted them to keep me safe, to assure me everything was okay.

They never did. The most comfort I ever got from Maria was a sharp, it’s all in your head, Isabella. Go to bed before I lock you in your room.

It’ll be different once all this is over , I comforted myself, letting the hope in my chest grow a little more.

I didn’t snap at Marzia or threaten to lock the door. My hands reached out and smoothed her restless curls. “I think I’m too big. You’ll wake up on the floor.”

“No.” Marzia wiggled over, giving me a slither of space. She batted her blue eyes. “Can you lay down with me?”

My mother’s voice was on repeat in the back of my mind. Go to bed before I lock you in your room, go to bed before I lock you in your room, go to bed before I lock you in your room.

I rested my hands on the bed, staring down at her. “Do you promise to try and go to sleep?”

She nodded eagerly.

I sighed, toeing off my slippers and crawling onto the bed beside her. I remained on top of the covers so I wouldn’t disturb her when I left. Marzia leaned her head against my shoulder, burrowing her cheek into the bone in a way that couldn’t have been comfortable, but she seemed happy enough.

“Happy now?” My feet hung off the side and I had to crane my neck to fit it beside hers on the pillow. If I slept in this position, I would wake up aching all over.

“Mmm.” Marzia’s eyes fluttered close, and she breathed deeply.

Minutes later, she was fast asleep. I stroked her hair for a few more moments before gently sliding out from the bed. She shifted but didn’t wake, and I tiptoed from the room. Guilt gnawed at my insides, but I shoved it down.

I needed to leave the Viglianos now . Mother hadn’t contacted me since the museum with any updates or looking for any new information. Giovanni was still looking for the rat, and while losing a shipment was a worrisome headache, it wasn’t enough to bring him to his knees.

How much longer until all this was over?

How much more could I bare?

There was a person in Giovanni’s study.

I stopped. Surely, not. Maybe I was going crazy . I took three steps back. The door to his office was usually closed, so seeing it open raised alarm bells, but it was the slim and shadowy finger that rooted to me to the ground.

I almost called out Marzia’s name but stopped myself. The person was staring up at the painting I had gifted Giovanni.

“Can I help you?” I asked politely.

They turned, revealing two gray eyes peering through the gap of a black ski mask. It was a woman from the looks of it, only young.

I strolled into the study, acting a lot more casual than I felt. “My husband won’t be pleased if he wakes up and a stranger is in his study. He barely tolerates my presence in here.”

“I won’t be here long.” Her voice was sweet and light. She was only young by the sounds of it.

“For your sake, I hope not.”

She pointed to the painting. “Did you paint this?”

“I did.”

“Have you ever considered art forgery? You would be very good at it.”

I swallowed my smile. “No, I haven’t. I’ll have a look into it.”

The girl nodded. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any artwork laying around, do you?”

“So, you’re a thief.”

“Tonight, I am.” Her eyes gleamed. “Tomorrow, who knows?”

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms loosely over my chest. “Well, if you want to see tomorrow, I suggest you leave now.”

The thief looked like she was smiling beneath her mask. With a quick, almost blinding movement, she swung herself up onto the window ledge. I opened my mouth but then she was gone, leaving nothing more than wind in her wake.

I darted to the window and looked down. Stretches of windows and the crowded street greeted me. No sign of the thief.

Shit .

Without another thought, I sprinted upstairs and practically threw myself over Giovanni. He woke immediately.

“Get up! There is–was –a girl in your study!”

Giovanni shot up. “Stay here .” He grabbed a gun out of his nightstand.

“She’s gone now,” I said quickly. “She jumped out the window!”

My husband paused. He gave me a bizarre look.

“Don’t give me that look,” I snapped. “I’m not lying.”

Giovanni strode out the room without answering, and I followed behind him. He searched the house top to bottom, checking Marzia’s room twice. He clearly didn’t believe me when I said our midnight visitor had jumped out the window and disappeared into thin air. If I could read his mind, I’m sure I would find him questioning my sanity.

“Do you believe me?” I asked eventually.

“Not yet.” I opened my mouth to argue when he said, “Get dressed.”

“Why? Where are we going?”

He placed the gun back in the nightstand, not bothering to even glance at me. “To see my sister.”

Sister?

 

Miles below our apartment, past the underground carpark and boiler rooms, a small room that resembled a spaceship was located. Monitors covered all the walls, the blue light of their screens illuminating the room just enough for me to make out the cobalt-haired girl swinging around on a swivel chair.

“Giuseppina.”

She stopped, before slowly twisting the chair around to face us. I spotted the pink scarring that cut down from her forehead to her cheek immediately. They were violent and brutal markings; someone had obviously tried to hurt her badly. Giuseppina looked younger than me, with round cheeks and wide eyes. She shared Giovanni and Marzia’s eye color, the fierce Vigliano blue.

“Isabella, this is my half-sister, Giuseppina. She oversees all cybersecurity.”

She sent me a shy look. “I prefer Giusy.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” I sent Giovanni a scowl. “Your brother failed to mention he had a little sister.”

“Half,” Giusy said quickly. “We have different mothers.”

I looked between the two of them, trying to understand this relationship a little more. My husband was his usual calm and cold self, but the young girl was chewing on her nails, cheeks pink. Everyone knew Lorenzo Vigliano had spread his seed throughout the country and sired bastards in every city, I just wasn’t aware Giovanni had a relationship with any of them.

I recalled the photo of him and his nameless twin in the study. How many in-laws did I have that I didn’t know about?

“Isabella saw a woman this evening in my study,” Giovanni said. His words were diplomatic, but I heard the faint disbelief beneath them.

I sent him another glare before insisting to Giusy, “I did. She jumped out the study window and disappeared.”

Giusy’s eyes widened. “I didn’t see anyone.” She sent a nervous glance to her brother. “I would’ve said something if I had seen something.”

“I know you would’ve,” he said. Indulge my wife , he didn’t add but it went unspoken.

My temper rose but I pushed it down. Once he saw I was right, he’d bite his words.

Giusy spun back to her monitors. It was then I realized what was displayed on the screens. Every angle of our apartment building and the streets surrounding it were shown, including hallways, the parking lot, and elevators. Even the dumbbell had a camera situated inside it.

Our apartment was covered from hundreds of angles. All but inside could be monitored and watched.

I sent Giovanni a smug look. He was so going to eat–

“Is that you smoking on the balcony?”

I looked to the screen. The cameras on the balcony had caught me hiding behind a pot plant, enjoying my cigarette. My face wasn’t visible but no one else in the house had a feathery red dressing gown so it was obviously me.

My cheeks heated but I refused to shrink beneath Giovanni’s gaze. “It doesn’t look like me. I think it’s Vincent.”

“Vincent wears slippers covered in feathers to smoke on my balcony?”

I ignored him. “It happened a few minutes later. I sat with Marzia for about fifteen minutes–”

“Why were you with Marzia?” Giovanni asked.

“She couldn’t sleep and wanted me to lay down with her,” I said dismissively. “When I was leaving, I saw the thief.”

“Thief? Did she steal something?” Giusy asked.

Giovanni arched his brow at me.

“Well, no,” I mumbled. “But she said she wanted to.” I added, “She also said I should become an art forger.”

“A career to consider at another time.” My husband sounded faintly amused.

I cut my eyes to him. There was no hint of humor in his features, but he felt a bit lighter, a bit more forward with his reactions.

Giusy continued to scroll through the security footage. She was quiet for a few minutes before glancing nervously at my husband. “I don’t see anything.”

“Look again,” I snapped then cringed when she flinched. “If you wouldn’t mind, please look again.” I softened my voice with apology.

She sent me a tiny smile before going through the footage again. Giovanni and I watched keenly but the girl was correct, there was no people coming and going during the past few hours.

Had I imagined it? Surely not. I had a big imagination, but it wasn’t capable of creating corporeal visions.

Both Viglianos were looking at me.

“I saw someone. I’m not lying nor am I insane.”

“But there’s nothing on the camera…” She glanced at Giovanni, who was staring at me with a peculiar expression on his face. “That means that no one was there.”

“Don’t the cameras have blind spots?”

“They rotate every 80 seconds,” Giovanni said.

I nodded like I had proven my point. “Exactly. Plenty of time for someone to sneak through.”

Neither of them looked convinced. With no more reason to be in Giusy’s lair, my husband and I left, walking through the grungy hallways with broken pipes and water stains in the shapes of clouds, until we reached the underground parking lot.

“If you wanted my attention, Isabella, you didn’t need to concoct an elaborate lie.”

I stopped and slowly turned to my husband. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t have the patience or time to anticipate your needs. If you want something, use your words; you don’t need to create a scenario.”

The wires in my brain short-circuited before hot lava-like rage poured through my veins.

“I’ve wanted to hit you a few times since we met, Giovanni, but I think this moment tops them all,” I growled, voice so thick with wrath I sounded inhuman. “I didn’t create an art thief to get an orgasm.”

My husband didn’t react to my anger. To him, all my emotions were the same shade. “So, you had an entire conversation with an intruder, down the hall from where my daughter slept, and then chose until after they had gotten away to alert me?”

“It wasn’t premeditated, Giovanni. It just happened.”

“It just happened? If any of my men ever explained away a mistake with a sentence so trivial, I’d put a bullet in the back of their head.”

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to Marzia, Giovanni,” I hissed. “If I thought she was in danger, I would’ve pushed the thief out the window myself.”

He didn’t believe me. The distrust in his blue eyes sparkled like diamonds.

I put my hands on my hips, trying to appear as threatening as possible despite still being in my dressing gown. The feathers around the neckline tickled my neck but I ignored them.

“You really believe I would let someone harm Marzia?” Hurt coated my voice before my anger reignited. “Out of all the Viglianos, she’s my favorite, Giusy’s second, your dead brother’s third and you’re so far down the ladder–”

Air escaped my lungs as Giovanni pushed me up against the closet car. He arms pinned me to the door, caging me in his embrace.

I let out a squeak. “Watch it–!”

“What do you know about my brother?” Wrath, pure undulating wrath, warped his expression. In the depths of his eyes, something tormented and twisted shimmered.

I had never seen him so angry, except for at the club when the waiter had watched…Ice spread through my veins as I remembered the slit throat, the blood pouring from lifeless eyes.

I swallowed, the sound echoing through the parking lot. What had happened to his brother?

“I…nothing. The photo in your office…”

Giovanni’s grip lightened, his face smoothing. “My twin. You’re talking about my twin.”

“Who else would I be talking about?” My voice shook.

He eyed me before taking a step back. “Let’s go upstairs. It’s late.”

I didn’t move. “Where is your twin now?”

Giovanni started off in the direction of the exit. I followed him, grabbing his sleeve. “I killed my brother for you, and you still don’t trust me!”

He stopped. I had too much velocity and continued forward, almost colliding face first into the gravel. Only the iron-grip of my husband’s hand wrapped around my arm stopped me. Giovanni didn’t let go once I was on my feet, staring down at me, expression colder than I had ever seen it.

“I do trust you, Isabella,” he said it neutrally, even if I almost tripped at his words.

“You do ?”

His grip didn’t loosen. “You and Leo are the only two people I trust.”

Delight flared in my chest. It was the same feeling I got when a stray cat came up to me. There was strange joy in being liked by something that didn’t like anything else. No hissing or scratching for me, Giovanni trusted me. He had two people on Earth he had decided to believe implicitly, and I was one of them.

Mixed in with the delight was guilt. The constant gnawing feeling that haunted me day and night. I ignored it.

I was getting good at ignoring it.

With a soft voice, I said, “You’re the only person I trust too.” The words felt dirty in my mouth, and I almost took them back except they were true. I did trust Giovanni. It was trust built on lies and schemes, but it was trust all the same.

The sounds of the city surrounded us, but the parking lot was quiet except for the thump of my heart. Giovanni peered down at me, his eyes darkening with an emotion I felt between my thighs and in the heaviness of my breasts.

“Giovanni,” I rasped, my chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Isabella.”

My name on his lips…It was enough to drive me to insanity.

I stretched onto my tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Giovanni’s lips. They were cushiony beneath my own. He remained stagnant and I pulled away, cheeks the same color as my dressing gown.

“I–”

He moved forward, pressing his lips to mine. His hand came up to my hair, tangling itself in the strands tightly. I swooned against him, flushing myself up against his chest, trying to get as close as possible.

Kissing Giovanni felt like being swept away by a hurricane. The world around me was a confusing and dangerous twist, but within the walls of his embrace, were peaceful and clear and safe. The parking lot was being torn apart but I didn’t care, I didn’t even notice. All I noticed was the press of his lips, the warmth of his touch, the soft groan he let out.

We broke apart, clarity slowly dripping back into my mind. I realized the parking lot was fine, cars remained unchanged, but I had warped a thousand times. God, kissing Giovanni…It had altered a part of myself, tipped something on its head.

I’m in so much trouble .

I wanted to kiss him again, I wanted to run away. I wanted him to press me up against the closet car and have his way with me on the bonnet.

He is the enemy, the bastard usurper. He is wearing a crown that does not belong to him. Steal it back, Isabella.

I stumbled back, straightening my shoulders and gulping. Giovanni tracked my movements. His hair and collar were rumpled. I didn’t even think about how I looked.

Instead, I blurted out, “Is Leo your brother? Your twin brother?”

Anyone else would’ve been whiplashed by how fast I changed the topic but not my husband.

“He is,” he said neutrally.

“Where is he?”

Giovanni’s lips tightened like he wasn’t going to answer but to my surprise he said, “He is currently in D.C.”

“D.C? What is he doing there?”

“This is not the time nor the place to have this discussion,” he warned, urging me forward.

Suspicion grew inside of me, but a quick glance at the security cameras made me fall into silence. Giovanni owned the apartment complex but that didn’t mean it was safe.

Especially since the Vigliano’s biggest enemy rest her head beside their king.

We made our way back to the exit. As we stood in the elevator, my husband was staring at me with a peculiar expression on his face. It was an expression I had never seen before from him, one where his brows furrowed and his lips pressed together like he was trying to solve a particularly difficult equation.

“What is it?” I touched my cheeks self-consciously. “Did I have something on my face?”

He was quiet for a moment before saying, “It is unwise to trust me, Isabella. My daughter and territory come first. Always.”

It’s unwise to trust me too , I mocked to myself. “I said I trusted you, Giovanni. That means I trust you to put Marzia before me, your territory before me. If you did the opposite, I would think you were being held at gunpoint and I would have to heroically save you.”

“You would save me?”

“Astride a noble steed,” I replied. “Wouldn’t you save me?”

He didn’t reply.

When the elevator doors opened and we stepped out in the hallway, I could’ve sworn I heard him mutter, “Yes.” But when I turned my head to look back at him, his expression was cold and unchanged, no hint of vulnerability.

It didn’t matter that Giovanni wouldn’t save me.

I wasn’t going to save him.

Summer

 

XIX

 

Isabella

 

I adjusted the final cupcake, smiling to myself as I finished the layout. Each cupcake had a dinosaur made from icing as the decoration. From orange stegosauruses to purple pterodactyls, I had spent hours cultivating little spines, tales, and wings. My fingers were permanently damaged from shaping the fondant icing.

I was feeling good about my dinosaur cupcakes until I saw what the other moms had made.

Talina Holloway had created a five-tier cake that was Alice in Wonderland themed, with the top tier being shaped like a top hat. Frances Annesley had made a house of out cake, paired with edible beds and a working fireplace. Other moms had created castles, a life-sized piglet and one woman even made a bowl of spaghetti that was entirely chocolate cake.

I looked down at my little bitch cupcakes and cringed. Marzia was going to be so embarrassed , I thought. All her friend’s moms had created these incredible cakes that deserved to be on a tv show, while I had made dinosaurs that didn’t even look realistic.

The bake sale had been set up in the school’s gymnasium, which even though was flash, it smelt faintly of sweaty socks and deodorant. All the tables were lined up in a rectangle, and when I had arrived, Frances had sent me to the very far back, the table right next to the bathroom.

“Oh, how cute!” Talina said in a high-pitched and exaggerated voice when she saw me. She was wearing an apron with little flowers on it despite the fact she was no longer cooking. In comparison, I was wearing a black suit with matching stilettos. “They’re little dinosaurs. So quaint.”

I remained seated, swinging one leg over the other and reclining back. I may be feeling self-conscious about my cupcakes on the inside but there was no way I was letting Miss Perfect know that. “Thank you. Your cake is cute too…Is it based off Labyrinth?”

Her smile froze on her face. “It’s Alice in Wonderland.”

“Oh, my bad.”

Talina left me after that, joining the other congregation of mothers. Soon after, the children filled the gym, scurrying over to their parent’s or the coolest looking cakes. I scanned the crowd for Marzia. She was standing next another little girl, her wide blue eyes watching the other children greet their mothers.

“Marzia!” I called. The woman beside me flinched at how loud I was.

She turned at her name. When she saw me across the gym, her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped. Then a huge grin grew over her face, stretching from ear to ear. She tugged on the girl beside her, pointed at me, and then ran across the gym.

“Hi there,” I said when she reached me. “Sorry, the cupcakes aren’t as cool as you were hoping–”

Marzia was not listening to me. She leaned over the cupcakes. “Dinosaurs! Oh my God!” She jumped up and down, ponytails swinging with the movement. “They’re soooo awesome!”

I felt my cheeks warm. “I’m glad you like them.”

“Can I have one?”

“Of course. Pick which one you want.”

Marzia grabbed a pterodactyl (I was not surprised) then seated herself next to me behind the table.

“You don’t want to eat with your friends?”

“Nope.” She chewed happily.

I smiled to myself. A few kids came around and bought some cupcakes, as well as some parents and teachers. No one could’ve bought one and I wouldn’t have given a shit; Marzia thought they were awesome. What made my day was whenever a teacher came around, Marzia was the first to introduce me.

“This is Isabella, my stepmommy,” she told them all. “She made all these cakes by herself .”

Most of the teachers sung their praises about Marzia. My stepdaughter was conscientious and inquisitive student , they told me eagerly. She was a pleasure to teach . I nodded sagely as they told me all this, though beneath my sharp eyeliner and blood-red lips, I was shining with pride. I was not surprised Marzia was the best in class; the other kids didn’t look nearly as exceptional as my girl.

One of her classmates ate a cupcake wrapper and two of the teachers had to force him to spit it up.

I even got to meet the infamous Mister Burrows. He was a stern-looking man wearing a dark green vest despite the heat. When Marzia spotted him, she scowled.

“You’re Marzia’s mother?” He asked.

“I am,” I said curtly. I didn’t offer him a cupcake.

“I’m Marzia’s English teacher.”

I plucked the head off the t-rex I was eating. “She mentioned.”

Mister Burrows looked faintly nervous. “She’s an excellent reader. One of the best in the class.”

“Yes, she is.”

Marzia glanced at me, her lips twitching with a smile.

He swallowed. “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

I just smiled.

Mister Burrows scurried off. Once he was out of sight, I said to Marzia, “He seems awful.” I had no idea how he was–we had exchanged ten words–but my loyalties lay with Marzia.

She nodded in agreement. “He sucks.”

“Do you want another cupcake?”

“Aren’t you meant to be selling them?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ll write the school a check.”

Marzia’s grin dimmed as she spotted someone approaching our booth. I turned and spotted two girls around Marzia’s age. Orchid and Hattie, the little girls who Marzia seemed afraid of.

I pulled my shoulders up, readying to attack.

“What are they ?” Orchid asked.

“Dinosaurs,” I told her. Marzia had gone quiet.

Hattie went to grab one, but I snatched my hand out, covering the cupcakes. “I’m sorry, those aren’t for you.” She went to grab a second one, but I covered it. “Not that one either. Sorry, love.”

Marzia’s lips twitched.

The girls scowled. “I’m going to tell my mom,” Orchid snapped.

“Off you go, then.”

The pair of them left, beelining for Talina and Frances, their snotty faces scrunched up into frowns. I was not surprised that the seven-year-olds were the daughters of the worst moms in the PTA. The apple never fell far from the tree.

“That was mean.”

I cocked a brow at Marzia. “I am mean.” A smudge of icing had gotten on Marzia’s cheek, and I licked my finger to scrub it off. She leaned back, whining about the grossness, but let me clean her up. “When does this end?”

“It goes all day.”

All day? I swallowed my groan. But seeing Marzia’s smile when she spotted me more than made up for the frustration I felt. Deep inside me, skipping and cartwheeling over my liver and appendix, was the little girl who was waiting by the playground for a mother who was never going to pick her up.

It’ll be different once all this is over , I told myself as I tried to remember how it felt when Mother brushed her hands over my cheek, embracing me. Instead of warmth and love, her hands felt like skeleton bones, digging painfully into my face. That’s not the real memory, that’s just your overactive imagination.

Yet...I wasn’t sure.

I wasn’t sure of much these days.

 

Giovanni held out the knife, the sharpened blade gleaming in the light. “Being able to protect yourself is an imperative skill to have, especially when there are art thieves on the loose.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you making a joke, Giovanni? I might faint from shock.”

His lips twitched but he didn’t respond.

Before the sun had risen, Giovanni had woken me from my slumber and coaxed me downstairs into the gym. My husband barely slept, usually leaving to go work out at 4am. I, however, was a little more favourable towards sleep–even if I was plagued with weird dreams–so I had been in a bad mood since he passed me my trainers and told me to put them on.

Giovanni had a reason for waking me up. He was teaching me self-defence. I wondered if being broken into had given him a scare and now he wanted to know both Marzia and I could defend ourselves if we had to, or he just enjoyed seeing me scowl and yawn and cuss him out under my breath.

I hadn’t even been allowed to brush my hair, instead pulling into a messy ponytail as he ushered me into the elevator. Luckily, there was no one around to see me. The gym was all but deserted except for a few other soldati who were working out, but they gave us a wide berth.

I took the knife from my husband. The sticky sensation of Junior’s blood on my hands returned but I ignored it, balancing the blade in my hand.

“I already know how to kill with one of these,” I muttered.

Giovanni arched a brow. “Go on then.”

“What?”

He stepped back, giving me some space. “Kill.”

I glanced between him, the knife and his men. My mother was cackling somewhere. “I...you want me to hurt you?”

“Kill me,” he prompted. “I know you’ve thought about it.”

“In my fantasies, I’m using a sharpened down paintbrush,” I admitted. “But I suppose this will do.”

I lunged but Giovanni easily captured my wrist, pulling me against him. My back flushed to his chest, the feel of him instantly sending my mind into the gutter.

“Untrained and reckless,” he breathed into my ear. “I’m not surprised.”

I wriggled in his grip but ended up just rubbing myself against him. His erection felt as hard as steel against my ass.

“No teasing. I’m here to teach you.”

“Not to play with me?”

Giovanni tightened his grip on me. “We are not alone.”

I smiled. “Aren’t I meant to be the Catholic prude and you the promiscuous bastard?”

“I can’t decide if you’re trying to distract me...” His breathe tickled my neck, goosebumps rising along my skin, “...or you want to become an exhibitionist.”

I went for the knife. He let me grab his wrist and tug at the handle, but he didn’t relent his grip. I groaned out in frustration when he held firm.

It was like attacking a statue. You were more likely to hurt yourself than your intended target. Nothing could shatter the marble that was my husband.

“You’ll be harder to train than the inductees,” he said. “You’re twice as bloodthirsty.”

“I am not.”

Giovanni pressed his cheek to mine, the unshaven hairs scratchy. “You tried to kill your don .”

“With his permission.”

“Even with my permission, none of my men would ever insult me by trying to kill me.”

I spoke without thinking. “Until one of them wants your syndicate.”

His hand roamed down my wrist to my elbow, dragging over the sensitive skin. “Until then.”

So fast I couldn’t blink, Giovanni pressed the knife to my throat, barely breaking the skin. A shudder ran through me, hard and fast, but it wasn’t because of fear.

I swallowed. “Is this part of the lesson? Or do you want my syndicate?”

“You have no syndicate.”

A raspy laugh escaped me, tinged with nervousness and desire. “Yet my death means the Lombardis overthrowing your mob.”

“They’re not strong enough.”

“But they would do some serious damage.”

He removed the knife before twisting me to the side, bending down and pressing his lips to where the blade had kissed my skin. I shivered at the contact, my insides tightening and growing hotter by the second.

Images of his lips trailing down my neck and going to my chest danced through my brain. My breasts grew heavy at the thought.

Giovanni stepped back, breaking contact. He held out the knife. “Let’s work on your stance first.”

By the time, my husband was done with me I was hot and bothered–not only from the exercise. We went upstairs to shower before preparing breakfast. By we , I meant: Giovanni prepared breakfast and I complained about the PTA moms over a cup of coffee. After the bake sale, I was on their Naughty List, which meant I was going to get the worse jobs.

I would not be surprised if they put me on booger duty and forced me to clean under the bleachers.

I put my coffee down, no longer hungry.

Marzia stumbled into the kitchen not long after, hair a mess and eyes half open. “Can I have a cupcake for breakfast?” She asked as she lifted herself up to the bench.

“No, you may not,” Giovanni said.

We had lots of leftover cupcakes from the bake sale, much to my chagrin, and they had been refrigerated. Giovanni had politely eaten one, but I had seen the half-eaten yellow triceratops in the bin a few hours later. Which meant that it fell to Marzia and I to clear the fridge out.

I was already sick of the baked deserts, but Marzia wasn’t.

Giovanni glanced down at his phone, his lips tightening. “Excuse for a moment, ladies.” He walked into the living room and turned on the tv. I followed but Marzia remained at the bench to enjoy her strawberries.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’m not sure yet.”

The news came on, a fine-boned reporter taking up the screen, the background an image of the Capitol. “–after months of unpassable bills, it seems Congress has finally begun to discuss stricter RICO laws on the floor. The Press Secretary assures us that the administration remains determined to protect American citizens, however the President has yet to publicly endorse the bill–”

I eyed Giovanni. He was focused on the television.

My attention began to waver until the woman said, “The bill is said to be supported by FBI Director Paula Bristol, as well as Assistant Director of the Organized Crime division, Leonardo Youngman.” A photo popped up onto the screen of Giovanni.

No , I realized, not my Giovanni. A man who looked identical to him .

He stood behind Paula Bristol at the podium, almost blending in with the flag and shadows. He looked charming, beautiful, dressed in a blue suit that brought out the color in his familiar eyes.

“Your twin is Assistant Director of the organized crime division,” I said aloud. Realizations clicked together in my mind like puzzle pieces. “That’s why you weren’t bothered when the Feds took the Ó Fiaich shipment and the reason you never have your photo taken.”

I looked to my husband. He had already turned towards me, eyes gleaming.

There had been a few times when I had doubted my mother’s plan to take back Manhattan. Giovanni Vigliano was a ruthless don , with support and cunning. I was uncertain how my parents would compete with him. There weren’t enough men to take down his, there wasn’t enough money or support. The only weapon they had was me and family in Sicily.

It was in this moment I realized: there was no competition.

There had never been any game to play, or race to run. The night Giovanni first thought about taking Manhattan from the Lombardis, he had already won.