Page 6 of Cara & Gian: The Guzzi Duet

“You’re looking terribly miaou tonight.”

Gian Guzzi gave his mother a kiss on her head. “Mamma, it’s not appropriate to catcall your son. Even when you’re doing it in French.”

“Am I the first woman to tell you that this evening?”

“I came here from the penthouse. Where would I find a femme to catcall me?”

“Well, one would think in your penthouse, considering.”

Gian chose to ignore that jab, if only because Celeste Guzzi meant no harm. She wished for better things for her two sons and one daughter—happier things. At the moment, Gian was the only one of her adult children that she felt was not happy, for a multitude of reasons. Especially at his twenty-nine years of life, she wanted to see more from him.

He could only give what he had.

“I have a club opening,” Gian explained. “New suit, one of several, since the season is going to change.”

“Armani, I think.”

His mother knew her brands well.

Gian smiled. “Oui, Armani.”

“Give me another kiss before you run off to find your father and grandfather,” Celeste ordered, pointing to her cheek, but never looking up from her magazine.

He indulged his mother, bending down to kiss her again before straightening to his full six-foot, four-inch height again. Something else he had taken from the male, Italian side of his family, and not the short, pale-skinned genetics of his mother’s Acadian Français side.

“And show off that new suit!” his mother shouted at his back.

Gian waved a hand over his shoulder, offering nothing else.

He loved his mother dearly. As a child, he had been enamored with her ability to never fail, never falter. She always wore a smile, and she had loved her husband, unwaveringly, through his many faults. If possible, he would prefer to have a woman like that. Silent strength and steadfast love.

Wishes, however, were not for made men whose lifestyle—one governed by the rules of Mafioso—was meant to benefit la famiglia, not the individual man. Especially not one like Gian.

As it were, he had been given too much privilege being born with his last name. According to some, anyway.

Gian navigated the halls of the mansion, heading up to the second level where he knew he would find his father and grandfather. Usually, he would meet his grandfather—the boss of their Cosa Nostra famiglia—at his home across the city, but tonight had been a change in scenery, for whatever reason.

From all the way down the hall, Gian could already hear the Italian murmurings between a father and son in the office. It never failed to amuse him—or confuse the fuck out of people he brought around as a younger man—that depending on which part of the house a person was in, the language could change. From French, to Italian, to English. Some, like he and his siblings, or his parents, could easily navigate between the three languages without issue in both reading, writing, and conversing.

His half Italian, half French, but fully Canadian family was certainly … colorful.

In more ways than one.

Well, considering the men were criminals and the women were wives of those same criminals, he supposed that led a little credence to the color.

Gian’s presence was instantly noticed when he stepped foot in the opened doorway of the office. His grandfather—Corrado—sat in one of the many chairs, while Gian’s father stood next to the windows, peering out over the darkness that had settled outside on the massive, private property.

“Il mio ragazzo!” his grandfather greeted.

“Ciao, boss.”

Corrado made a face. “No boss nonsense tonight.”

Gian nodded. “All right. I interrupted a conversion, didn’t I? The Raptors game, I think. Someone thinks they’re going to lose the next one.”

Corrado passed Frederic a look. “They’ve been on a streak. Every time that damn team goes on a streak, they choke.”

“Oh, they do not, Dad,” Frederic argued. “They’re the best basketball team in—”