Page 108 of Unraveled

Claud shifted on his chair. “And what did you find, boss?”

“He had the bomb planted on Gian’s car. I got photos of the meets and the payment exchanging hands. It speaks for itself.”

“Gian is his friend.”

“Gian is his way to the top,” Edmond corrected with a shrug. “Gian was not making the moves that perhaps Constantino felt he should be after Corrado’s murder, and so, I believe he thought to simply push Gian in the direction he wanted.”

“As in, he didn’t mean to kill him, only knock him down for a bit.”

“So he would get up swinging.” Edmond chuckled. “Frankly, no one knows Gian better than Constantino, if you think about it. Maybe he knew exactly how to push to get what he wanted.”

Edmond had a good point, as much as Gian hated to admit it. Constantino had, on more than one occasion, made comments about Gian’s habits. Like always using his car starter to start his vehicle in the winter, even though it was hard on the engines to do so in the freezing cold weather.

“And if he had fucked up?” Edmond considered out loud. “Well, then I suppose Constantino probably thought of Gian as fodder. He would still get what he wanted, in a way. A war between the younger and older generations that would open up seats all the way across the board.”

“What do I do now?” Claud asked. “He’s my son.”

“He’s a made man,” Edmond replied just as fast. “And because of that, you’ll let him answer as one, no matter who demands their retribution. That’s how made men have always done this—it’s how we always will.”

Gian shut off the tablet.

He had never agreed more with something Edmond said.

He never would again.

“Something smells fantastic,” Gian said as he came up behind Cara at the stove.

She leaned into his touch, grinning when his kiss landed softly on the pulse point of her throat. His hand rubbed her back as he peered over her shoulder.

“What are you making?”

“A steak and potato mess,” Cara replied, “fit for a king.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever cooked for me.”

“You always order in.”

“Not always, but it is faster.”

Cara rolled her eyes. “You’ve never cooked for me.”

“I’ll rectify that soon.”

“Can you even cook, or will you grab a bunch of takeout and set it up on dishes to make it look good?”

Gian swept her hair further behind her ear and nipped playfully on the lobe. “How little you think of me, pretty girl.”

Cara tried damn hard to hide her shiver, and failed miserably. “So you can cook?”

“I have a French mother who had an Italian mother and a very Italian grandmother from my father’s side. Yes, I can cook. I learned with bruised knuckles from my grandmama’s favorite wooden spoon. My mother, on the other hand, preferred the French dishes, and I found those easier to make, really.”

“Why was that?”

“Different teaching methods,” Gian said with a chuckle. “Of course, the only reason they thought to teach my brother and I to cook was because my sister absolutely refused to do anything in the kitchen, and they needed to pass something on.”

“Ah. Well, then you owe me something Italian and French.”

“I will see what I can do.”