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“Fair enough.” Salvatore looks almost amused, sitting back as one of the staff comes to collect our soup bowls while another replaces them with salads. “You should be cautious, Gia. Not so trusting of your new husband. The ring is just an example. They will stick to their ways, and expect you to forget all of yours. You will be one of them, but they won’t try to behave as one of us at all.”
“This is a treaty. It goes both ways.” I stab my fork into a tomato, feeling frustrated with all of it. I don’t really want to talk family politics over the dinner table with my godfather. “Anyway, I won’t be your problem in a week, any longer. I’ll be married, and you can focus on business, like you always have.”
Salvatore frowns. “You’re not a problem, Gia.” His voice has softened again, slightly, and I glance over at him. He almost looks a little hurt by what I’ve said—although I can’t really imagine anything hurting him. He’s always been unflappable, impenetrable, the solid wall between my father, me, and anything that might dare to threaten us. My father’s voice if need be, his pen if necessary, and his most trusted friend. My father and Salvatore have always been two halves of one ruling man.
Which makes me wonder, yet again, why Salvatore seems so uncertain about this decision now.
“I’m meeting with them tomorrow to discuss the wedding,” he says, sitting back and looking at me. “I want to be sure that without your father here, the terms of the treaty will still be upheld.”
“What do you mean?” I feel that flicker of fear again. “A meeting? Why wouldn’t they?—”
“It’s a precaution, Gia.” Salvatore sounds suddenly tired. “I’m looking out for your own best interests.”
“My best interests are that this wedding happen, as planned.” My throat feels tight, and I swallow hard, trying not to let my panic show. “Salvatore?—”
“We don’t need to discuss it any further. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He turns his attention back to his plate, and I can see from his posture and the shuttered look on his face that the conversation is finished, whether I like it or not.
I don’t like it. And if my godfather thinks he can stop me from marrying Pyotr at the last minute?—
He’ll find out that willful doesn’t begin to describe how I can behave.
Salvatore
I’m not looking forward to my meeting with the Lasilov Bratva in the slightest.
This marriage between Pyotr Lasilov and Gia, has been planned for a long time. I’ve been aware of it from its inception, since the late Enzo D’Amelio—Gia’s father—first thought of the idea to try to put an end between the Italian and Russian contention by arranging a marriage. An old solution, and often, a good one. Back to the basics, he said. A wedding ring or a bullet—those are the only two solutions that families like ours ever seem to know. And normally, I would have agreed.
But I’ve known Gia all her life. I’ve watched her grow into a beautiful young woman that any man would be fortunate to have as his bride, and I’ve often felt protective over her. When Enzo suggested the marriage, my response was so quick that it startled both of us. The Bratva are animals.
His suggestion was to let them meet. To see if Gia took a liking to Pyotr. He argued that most of the mafia sons who would have been worthy of marrying her—through name, wealth, or potential power—would only stifle them. That none of them were capable of handling a bride with so much willfulness in her, a woman incapable of being quiet and subservient, as mafia wives are so often expected to be. That the Bratva heir would challenge her, and she, him. That a Bratva son would prefer a bride with some fire in her.
I’ve worried since the start that Pyotr will want to tame her, instead. That his interest in Gia’s rebellious spirit isn’t because he wants a bride who can rule with him, but because he sees her as a challenge to overcome. A wild filly in need of breaking.
I’m afraid he’ll destroy her. That Enzo’s only fault was ever seeing the best in even his enemies—that he was a man who wasn’t brutal enough to hold the title of don. I loved him like a brother, but in this, I think he was wrong.
Today’s meeting is my last chance to try to discern if that’s true—and put a stop to it if so.
Pyotr, his father Igor, and their guard are already in my office when I arrive, shown to their seats by Georgi. They’re talking quietly as I walk in, and both Pyotr and Igor go silent and stand up as I step into the office, showing that much respect, at least.
“Don Morelli. It’s a week before my son’s wedding. I assume there’s a good reason for this meeting?” Igor gives me a dark, level stare. His expression tells me that he’s perceptive enough to gather at least some part of why I’ve asked him and his son here, and that he’s biding his time to decide how offended he should be.
My only concern with their perceived offense is how much blood might spill if the wedding is called off. If there is some other way to prevent violence between our families, I want to find it.
“The late don was quick to agree to this marriage because it pleased his daughter. But I want to ensure her safety. It is my job now, as her guardian, to be prudent in all things concerning her—especially her marriage.”
“You don’t need to worry about that.” Pyotr leans back in his chair, giving me a careless wink. “I’ll please her.”
Igor casts an irritated look at his son, and I feel my temper rise. “Gia is going to be your wife,” I bite out in his direction. “You should speak of her with respect.”
“She’ll be my wife soon enough.” He shrugs. “I’ll speak of her how I please.” Pyotr chuckles, sitting up a little. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought of what you would do with that pretty young body if you got your hands on it. She’s grown up beautifully, hasn’t she?”
He’s needling me now, and I have no intention of falling for it. “Gia is my goddaughter,” I tell him coldly. “My interest is in her safety and protection. And right now, she remains under my roof. If you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head?—”
“Threats?” Igor breaks in, his accent thick as he leans forward. “This marriage is to quell the violence, da? So I suggest you not encourage it, Don Morelli. Or else we will think this marriage is not in good faith.”
“We have customs. Ways a betrothed couple is meant to behave. Your son already treats her without respect. My men reported that yesterday?—”
Pyotr snorts. “Your precious goddaughter was all over me. Whatever your men might have reported to you, it would have been twice as much without my restraint. She was so wet for me I could practically taste it.” He flicks his tongue lewdly against his lower lip, and my teeth clench together, hard enough that I can hear the bone grind.
