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“I will warn you once more?—”
“Don Morelli.” Igor’s voice cuts through the conversation, sharp and pointed. “Excuse my son. He’s an eager groom ready to take his wife to bed. And this meeting, so far as I can see, is unnecessary. Unless you plan to break off the arrangement?—”
My gut tightens. Pyotr is still looking at me with an intractable smirk on his face, not an ounce of respect for his future bride or even affection there. Whatever he has promised Gia, whatever she has imagined between them, I see none of it in him at this moment. He’s not asking me to allow the marriage to go forward—as far as he’s concerned, Gia is already his. And I know all too well how Bratva men treat their women.
I’d like to think that she would be treated better. That he wouldn’t dare hurt the daughter of a mafia don, one-half of a treaty preventing bloodshed between our families. But I don’t believe for a minute that the Bratva want the treaty as badly as Enzo did. I don’t believe that they care if the streets between their skyscrapers and our mansions run red again. And I don’t believe that Pyotr won’t hurt Gia.
He believes she already belongs to him. And when she truly does?—
I tried to turn a blind eye to it when Enzo arranged the marriage. He was set on his daughter’s perceived happiness, pleased that he’d found a match she was excited for, a man she wanted to marry. He thought it made him a better don, a better father, that he’d arranged a marriage for her that she was happy to agree to. It was always my job to back him up, to advise him only when he asked for it, and he felt confident enough about the match that he didn’t think he needed my advice.
It’s been harder to ignore since his death. Since all the responsibility for Gia’s happiness, her safety, falls on my shoulders. I’ve tried, in the months following his passing, to focus solely on upholding his legacy and his wishes. On keeping the mafia that he led together, rather than allowing it to fall apart at the seams, as sometimes happens during transfers of power.
But now, looking at Igor Lasilov’s cold expression and his son’s mocking smirk, I feel with every instinct in my body that this is wrong. That if I allow this marriage to go forward, I will regret it. That even though Gia doesn’t realize it now, she will regret it, when she sees Pyotr’s true colors.
He will break her heart. I feel certain of it. And I worry that he will break her, too. Her spirit—and quite possibly, her body as well.
What I need is a compromise. A way to give both myself and Gia more time—myself time to find a solution to this, and time for Gia to see Pyotr’s true colors. He’s managed to play the game of eager and doting fiancé for nearly a year now. Still, I imagine he can only continue pretending for so long. Particularly if he’s denied what he wants a little longer.
“I’m not breaking off the arrangement. What I want is a postponement.”
Pyotr sits up straight, outrage on his face, but his father holds up a hand. Igor’s expression is still unreadable.
“Gia’s father died barely six months ago,” I continue. “She hasn’t had time to properly grieve. The date should be pushed back by at least another six months. She’s not ready to be a wife, or to take on the responsibilities that entails. What if she and Pyotr were to conceive on their wedding night?” The thought of his rough, careless hands on her makes my gut clench once again, but I push the feeling down, focusing on business, not emotion.
“That is usually the desired result,” Igor says wryly. “Make your point, Don Morelli, if you have one.”
“Usually. Yes. But Gia isn’t ready to be a mother. A child, fifteen months after losing her father? The pressures of motherhood so soon? Give her time to grieve, to adjust. Their marriage will only be improved by knowing one another better in the meantime. And when they do marry?—”
Igor’s expression tightens. “Don D’Amelio arranged this marriage. The contract was signed, in front of witnesses, and your priest. Promises were made, blood exchanged, according to our ways and yours. Now, you suggest a postponement? You suggest I’m a fool, Don Morelli?—”
“I haven’t said?—”
Igor stands up abruptly, motioning for his son to, as well. “It does not need to be said aloud, Don Morelli. Only a fool would believe that this postponement will not lead to a breaking of the promises between our families, before the wedding can happen.”
I stand up as well, preparing to speak, but Igor continues before I can. His voice is flat and hard, his eyes flinty, and I have no doubt that he means what he says.
“Gia D’Amelio will be at the altar this coming Sunday morning, as arranged. She and my son will say their vows, and she will become his wife. And if she is not there, and the wedding does not happen—” Igor looks at me pointedly. “You know what the consequences will be, Don Morelli. The Bratva are not afraid to spill blood, when our honor is offended.”
He stalks out of the room, Pyotr on his heels, surrounded by his men. The Bratva have no honor, I want to snarl, but he’s gone before I could say it, and nothing would have been gained by it anyway. It would have only meant potential violence here, in this house, which would be unacceptable.
For the first time, I’m unsure what to do. I have no doubt that Igor Lasilov will follow through on his threat of consequences if I fail to produce Gia on her planned wedding day. But I’m not sure I can stomach the potential consequences of handing her over, either. I asked for this meeting seeking reassurance that my fears are unfounded, that my suspicions that the Bratva will be cruel to her are just that. But if anything, I feel more instinctively than ever that this is wrong.
That I’m sending Gia into the lions’ den to be devoured.
I drop my face into my hands for a moment, breathing deeply. There’s a solution to be had here; I just need to find it. But I only get a few moments to think before my office door slams open, and I look up to see Gia standing there in the doorway, her cheeks red with fury, nearly shaking with it.
“What are you doing?” She pushes the door shut, stalking further into the office to stand in between the chairs in front of my desk, her hands clenched angrily at her sides. “You said this was just a precautionary meeting, that I didn’t need to worry about it?—”
“It was, and you don’t. We can talk about this later, Gia?—”
“We can talk about it now.” She glares at me, her chest heaving furiously. She’s wearing workout clothes—a loose white tank top and tight black leggings, sneakers on as if she were about to go for a run. “I was headed outside and ran into Pyotr. He said you asked for the wedding to be postponed!”
“I did.” I lean back in my chair, gathering my composure in the face of the angry spitfire that is my goddaughter, standing in front of my desk. “It’s only been six months since your father died, Gia. You need time?—”
“Don’t tell me what I need!” She shakes her head. “What I need is for my life to keep moving. To have something to look forward to?—”
“Marriage into the Bratva isn’t something to look forward to, Gia!” My voice rises before I can stop it, frustration and worry tightening my chest. “You have no idea what they are. What they’re capable of?—”
