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So I’m making the most I can of what it is to be a mafia princess. I’m going to live my life the way that I want. All three of my men are more than happy with me. I don’t want to choose between them, and I don’t have to.
Other people can do whatever they want and they can think what they like about me.
Nobody would care if I went through all that I do, just as long as I kept in my lane, colored between the lines. If I’d done as I was told, I’d be married to a third level guy in a third-level family. I would still be surrounded by women who wanted to take my man, and by people who wanted to kill me for whatever damned reasons of their own.
Cushioned in the plush black leather upholstery, far in the back of the limo, I’m touched by the concern in Mikey’s eyes as he watches me in the rearview from the driver’s seat. “You’ve been through it, princess, and that’s the truth.”
“I’ve seen what you had to put up with. I hear the talk and I know. Not that anyone would dare say a word when they know that I can hear them, obviously. But I know what you’ve had to endure.”
Nobody says a word to my face, either, but I feel it in the air. Men resent me taking a position of power at all. And they keep a special rage for me having three men at my side. There’s jealousy and anger, and I know there are remarks.
People mutter about one man not being enough. They don’t understand, and why would they? Each one of my three men would be more than enough or any woman, but they each have their own unique strengths and power.
I need them all.
And I don’t have to choose.
And the third level family I was sold into? I took the youngest son like I was supposed to. But I took the other two as well. I took over the family and I stepped it up a gear. Now we’re one of the three top families in Seattle, and in our world, that means the whole of the Pacific Northwest.
People want to wag their tongues about it? They haven’t got what I’ve got.
And everybody knows that if I hear them, I’ll cut their tongues right out.
While I stay in the back of the limo, Mikey circles the park. A number of large men mill about in dark suits, lining the edges of the park. It looks as if the president is in town, only undercover.
I expected Don Pucci to have a large party of men encircling us. Watching and ready. A man with as many enemies as he has needs to be cautious.
For my own protection, I told Mikey to put three men out to cover and shadow us. I’m not expecting any trouble. My instinct says I can trust Don Pucci today. I know that this is not how he would set it up if he wanted to have me killed.
We meet by the fountain, as we arranged. Tall and elegant with a smile like a big cat, Don Pucci holds out his massive and beautifully manicured hands. His head tips to one side and he smiles to greet me. His cologne is heavenly. To call him a silver fox would not do him justice.
I feel outclassed, like I’ve stepped into the Met Ball by mistake and unprepared. My chest is tight. Appearing relaxed and acting at ease is going to be a challenge. Slow breaths, Lucia.
We do the air-kissing thing. As he touches my shoulder, I feel a comforting warmth in his hand. We stroll and chat. Relaxed and easy, he teases me gently as we wander between the flowerbeds and by the big lake.
His manners are polished. He speaks softly with beautiful diction, turning words elegantly in his mouth, rolling them like dice. His stride and his gestures are at the same time perfectly choreographed, but easy. Relaxed.
He makes everything he says sound confidential and highly valuable. Whenever I speak, he listens, fastening his eyes on me like nothing else in the world could matter.
There’s precipitation in the air, but it’s pleasantly cool.
Don Pucci offers to buy us ice-creams. He steers us toward a cart and I accept a delicious vanilla and pistachio cone.
“I hear you’re making better progress than anyone else ever did with the Twelve Tribes.” Then with a twinkle, he adds, “You’ve worked hard to build on the Sun-a-do partnership. Please, don’t think that I’m making an overture. I would love a share of that business, of course I would. It’s looking fantastic, but it’s yours. I promise I’m not here to steal from you.” Then with a mischievous gleam in his eye, he lowers his head to say, “It would be terrible manners if I invited you out to a neutral space, only to rob you.”
In his words as well as his manner, I feel that Don Pucci is paying me respect. His gentle encouragement feels like that of a kindly professor. Like he’s sensitive to the fact that I’ve achieved a lot of power, and I’m still finding my feet with how to hold it and wield it.
“What I need to talk to you about is altogether more pleasant, and far less contentious of an issue,” that sparkle again, “At least, it is for you and I.”
By the lake, children are feeding geese. The long necks dip and stretch in ’S’-curves. As we pass, they raise their beaks and start up a honking chorus.
Don Pucci says, “You have a maternal look in your eye.”
He’s sensitive to have picked up on it. It was just a fleeting rise inside me, from seeing the faces of the children.
“Do you intend to be a mother?”
I look in his eyes. I believe he is being sincere. He’s a very attractive man, but I don’t think there’s anything behind his question. We’re just making conversation until he feels we’re easy enough together to say or ask whatever it is that this is about.
