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22
STEPHANO
It’s late Sunday night. The usualIl Consigliomeeting is happening in Matteo’s office, but we’re short two brothers. Luca is overseeing a shipment that arrived late, and Dominic is in New York where he’s been involved in some high-end security jobs. For the past thirty minutes, we’ve discussed Gigi and Carla’s surprise arrival.
“The obvious solution is to marry her off to someone else, so she’s no longer available to marry this Franco fucker.” Benedict takes another swig of his whiskey. “Best plan, to be honest.”
Matteo smirks. “Andyou’dsign up for that? I’m already married.”
“I’ve never met this woman.” Benedict points his glass in my direction. “Stephano is the obvious choice.”
Matteo’s gaze lands on me where I’ve frozen in my seat. Oh, boy. He’s going to mess with me. I can just sense it.
“I’ve vowed to never get married,” I say, hackles up, making sure I’m getting the first word in. “And you all know why. Plus, that only sorts out the one sister. What about Carla, the younger one?”
“We can get her into a university program here with a student visa, so she won’t have to leave,” Matteo says, brushing Carla off. “Surely, this turf war won’t last longer than the length of a bachelor’s degree.”
“Too many variables there,” Benedict says with a smirk. “Not every student nails it the first time around.”
I roll my eyes. Both Trapanis are still asleep, unaware we are deciding on their futures as if we own them, not owe them.
“Listen.” I drag in a breath. They don’t know the extent of this Franco fucker’s sadistic cruelty, but there’s one point I have to drive home. “Matteo killed Randazzo, and that triggered this whole fucking mess. He escaped Sicily on the Trapanis’ yacht. I bet after Randazzo’s estate got blown up, the airport wasn’t exactly an option, so the only reason Matteo is here today, unscathed, are the Trapanis. We owe it to these girls to keep them safe, but marriage…that’s taking it a bit too far.”
“Why?” Benedict shrugs. “It’s not as if you need to stay married. Divorce like any other couple once the danger has passed.”
“Now-now,” Matteo chirps. “Don’t dish what you don’t know. How else is she going to stay in this country legally? The last thing I want is Homeland Security sniffing around my ass.”
“And marrying someone so they can stay in the US is a felony.” I shift in my seat. So many reasons why this is a bad idea. As the Mafia, we’re always walking a tightrope between the shadow world of crime and the real one where normal people exist. The police have their place, and although we can negotiate and straddle two worlds at the same time, we don’t poke law enforcement for the fun of it.
“Did they travel on their normal passports or fake documents?” Benedict asks, ignoring my statement.
“They’re fake passports.”
We all turn towards the soft voice coming from the door. Fuck. Who knows how long she has been standing there. Did she hear about Randazzo?
“Gigi,” I say as I stand. “Why’re you up?”
She looks lost and forlorn in that oversized T-shirt and those sweatpants that are not letting her cuts breathe.
“I woke up and couldn’t fall asleep again. It must be jet lag. I’m worried about Carla and got lost trying to find her room.”
Sounds more like anxiety, what with those dark circles under her eyes. Maybe she needs to take pain meds. At the thought, I take a step towards her, wanting to wipe it all away. “Carla is down the corridor from your room. You must have taken a wrong turn.”
“Welcome to Boston,” Matteo says as he walks up to her. “Steph told us what happened.”
She visibly flinches away as Matteo raises his hand—probably only to touch her shoulder in greeting—but my blood boils.
“Don’t touch her. She’s hurting.” I take swift strides in their direction, ready to jerk him away from her.
“Sorry,” she says softly as she inches towards me. “Being in a new place I don’t know…I’m just rattled.”
“It’s okay, angel.”
I wedge myself between her and Matteo. Benedict, as usual, hasn’t even moved from his seat, but studies the whole scene like a spectator. Matteo steps away, and our eyes lock.
Yes, Matty, this woman is petrified and with reason.
“Hi,” Benedict says, breaking the tense moment as he waves from his seat. “Benedict Scalera, the youngest.”
