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I follow Martha out of the sitting room, feeling much better after the pleasant morning.
By the time we reach my bedroom, the pleasant feeling starts to fade, and soon, the worry returns because I still have no idea what Damiano plans to do with me.
Chapter 7
Damiano
Standing out on the veranda with my eyes roaming over the backyard and guards, I don’t glance behind me when I hear movement.
I recognize my mother’s steps, and bracing myself for a million questions, I turn to face her.
She takes a seat on one of the lounge chairs, then says, “Greta says the girl is beautiful.”
I move closer and sit down on one of the chairs. With my gaze resting on my mother, I mutter, “Aunt Greta is right.”
“Did you take Gabriella for yourself?” she asks, getting right to the point.
“No.” I glance at the open French doors before saying, “I’m going to arrange a marriage between Dario and Gabriella.”
“Oh.” Mamma’s eyebrow flies up. “He’s such a sweet boy. He’ll be good to her.”
“She better be good to him,” I mutter.
“Always so protective,” Mamma chuckles.
“Don’t tell her. I need to talk with Dario before she’s informed of the arranged marriage.”
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath before letting it out slowly, then asks, “Is Stefano very upset that you took his fiancée?”
“Probably.”
My gaze drifts over my mother’s face before they lock on the blank stare in her eyes.
She lost her sight the night I killed my father. It’s been nineteen years, and I still remember every second of that night.
My mother’s cries as he beat her.
The kick against her head that put her in a coma for three weeks.
Her blood soaking into the wooden floorboards.
I lost my mind and beat my father to death with my bare fists. He was unrecognizable by the time I was done.
It changed my entire life, and I became the head of the Cosa Nostra at nineteen.
At the time, Carlo’s mother was our housekeeper, and having grown up with Carlo, he was the only man I trusted. We moved our mothers into this mansion where a small army guards them twenty-four-seven.
Carlo’s been by my side as I built my empire. The only other person I consider a close friend is Angelo, one of the heads of the Cosa Nostra.
I care about Franco, Renzo, and Dario, but I just clicked better with Angelo. He understands me.
“What are you thinking about?” Mamma asks.
“Everything,” I whisper.
She stands up and holds her hand out to me. I take it and guide her to me before resting my head against her stomach. I close my eyes when she brushes her hand over my hair.
“You have too much resting on your shoulders,” she murmurs. “I worry about you.”
