Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
“Oh, so now I’m your favorite? You only say that because I negotiated that deal right from under the Vesuvi’s nose.”
“I poured some prosecco to celebrate.”
“I’ve got my red wine.” I hold up my glass in an unseen toast. “But don’t expect the deal to hold them.”
“I do not. The best way to deal with the Vesuvi is blunt force. But you have a knack for legal warfare.” There’s a long pause, and I know the subject he’s going to broach next. “Lula, we’ve spoken of this before—”
Here it comes. I take a big swallow of merlot.
“But it’s been long enough. It’s time for you to accept your rightful place.”
“A woman can’t be consigliere. The men won’t have it.” If my father was alive, he’d be turning purple at the mere thought of all the work I do for La Famiglia.
“It’s a new day. Our fathers are gone.” Mine is dead, and Royal’s is as good as dead, stuck in prison.
“There’ll still be pushback.”
“Who’s afraid of pushback? You?”
I bite back my automatic response. Royal knows how to push my buttons. I’m already doing the work of a consigliere without the official recognition and a seat at the table. But something holds me back.
“We are not our fathers,” Royal continues. “We must forge ahead.”
He’s right. I can’t give him a logical reason for my refusal. How can I explain that I’m still bound to and eaten alive by the past? I can’t lie to him, but I can’t tell him the truth.
I’m saved by an unusual sound, one that sends alarm prickling up my spine. The whisper of gravel crunching in the driveway outside.
I set down my wine and grab my gun in the same second, my body tense and focused. “Hang on, someone’s coming.”
“Stay on the line,” Royal orders.
“Will do.” I didn’t get a chance to tell him about the call from Victor. Royal doesn’t even know about the burner phone. An oversight? Or some stupid desire to try to keep a piece of Victor to myself?
A thick line of trees surrounds the house, screening me from my neighbors on either side. The yard is full of delicate Japanese maples, and there’s a flash of bright orange between the leaves. “Never mind. It’s only Gino.” My younger brother.
Royal curses in Italian.
“Yeah. I’ll tell him.”
“Call me after.” He hangs up, and I put the safety on my gun before disarming the security system and unlocking the door.
“I almost shot you,” I call to Gino. He’s parked his car—a Halloween-orange Corvette, not conspicuous at all—at an angle in the driveway, taking up two whole car spaces and blocking the nondescript gray sedan Royal lent me with the house. Not that I need to drive anywhere. Once a week, I give my grocery list to Enzo, Royal’s right-hand man, and he sends an underling to bring me whatever I need to survive another week.
He stomps up the stairs, his hands empty. Of course, they are. He never brings me anything. Whenever Royal comes, he brings baskets full of baked goods—raspberry scones, chocolate cupcakes, even tricolored Neopolitan rainbow cookies, when his wife is feeling fancy.
Gino wasn’t raised to give. He only takes.
I turn and walk further into the house without greeting him. He finds me in the kitchen, pouring myself more wine. To speak to Gino, I’ll need it.
“You shouldn’t have come,” I say without looking up. “My answer’s still no.”
“Lula.” A grown man’s voice shouldn’t have such a needling edge or childish whine. “I need it.”
“That trust isn’t yours. Papa set it aside to care for the house.” Probably for this exact reason. “You got the lion’s share of the inheritance. Have you spent it already?”
He scowls, and I know the answer. With dark hair and dark eyes, his features are graceful while still being masculine. He’s too handsome for his own good. It’s gotten him further in life than it should. Being a man in a man’s world gets him the rest of the way, but leave it to Gino to want more.
“Call Royal.” I feel mildly bad about making my younger brother Royal’s problem, but Gino will actually listen to the head of the family. “Ask him for a job.”
Gino checks my fridge like he’s a teenager in his parents’ home. He plucks out a yogurt and stares at it like it’s poison before putting it back. He slouches around, poking in empty breadbaskets, but I keep the kitchen empty of temptation. I have a hidden chocolate stash, of course, but anything Royal brings me gets eaten right away.
“Can we order a pizza?”
“Giovanni. No. This is a safe house.” I wave my arms. Most of the time, I eschew the whole Italian “talk with my hands” cliche, but Gino brings out the worst in me. “The whole point of this place is to hide. Which is why you can’t just show up here whenever you want.”