My ma raised me to be a gentleman, but I’ve always thought that I’m the perfect example of nature winning over nurture. No matter how hard she tried to stomp out my wild streak, she never quite managed to do it.
When I was a kid, I made her want to pull her hair out. She’d say go left, and so I’d go right. At school, I was always getting into trouble. She’d punish me, but the calls from the principal never stopped. And I absolutely hated wearing the neat little suits she’d force me into for every special occasion. I always got them filthy. Ma would drag me away by my ear and demand to know why I looked like I’d rolled in the mud.
I’ve gotten better at tolerating suits since then, but that urge to introduce a bit of chaos into something orderly has never quite left. When I became older, I learned that manufactured chaos is a powerful tool, especially in my current position as underboss of the Casalesi. It’s saved my ass, and Dem’s, more than a few times.
When thrown into chaos, people do things they never would under normal circumstances. The animal brain takes over. The filters come off. People reveal their true desires, and sometimes those desires have a lot to do with seeing Dem or me dead.
The way Gemma Garzolo is looking at me right now… I’d put her squarely into that category.
Narrowed gray eyes.
Pursed lips.
An angry pink blush across her cheeks that might be my new favorite color.
“Do you ever knock, Ras?” She places her fists on her hips and spears me with an irritated gaze. I’ve become deeply acquainted with that gaze from our two previous encounters.
The first was when I was tasked with finding her in New York so that I could give her a burner phone to talk to her sister. What should have been a straightforward task had turned into a whole Thing because Gemma had assumed I was waiting for her in the changing room of her Pilates studio to kill her.
She saw me and opened her mouth to scream. I lunged at her, stuffed her into a closet, and held my palm against her mouth just long enough to explain that I was here on Valentina’s orders. When she went still, I thought we were past our misunderstanding, but I was terribly wrong.
As soon as I removed my hand, she sank her surprisingly sharp teeth into my forearm. I remember staring into those stormy-gray eyes as she drew blood and thinking, “Fuck, this woman is beautiful.”
A scuffle followed. I may have been rougher with her than I intended because I really hadn’t been expecting this sort of resistance, and I was jet-lagged. Nothing makes me feel more like a zombie than hopping through half a dozen time zones.
Long story short, I wasn’t feeling myself.
Yet even after we straightened everything out, and Gemma calmed down enough to speak to Vale over the phone that I brought to her, her opinion of me didn’t seem to change.
This woman deeply dislikes me.
It feels a bit unfair, to be frank.
But it’s for the best.
After all, Gemma’s engaged to marry an American stronzo, who also happens to be our new business partner, and if our relationship ever progressed past highly acerbic banter into something more civil, I might actually get upset over the fact that she’s taken.
No, I’ve been burned before. Third degree. And I’ve spent nearly a decade getting really fucking good at keeping women, no matter how alluring, at arm’s length.
I drag my palm over my chin. “I do, actually. Didn’t realize I needed to when there’s a perfectly good lock, though.”
“There are a dozen bathrooms in this house. You just happened to pick this one to barge in on?”
Okay, I may have seen her go inside this one while I was going through my messages in the kitchen. I just couldn’t resist catching her off guard.
I paste on a grin I know will irritate her. “You know what they say about great minds.”
She heaves a long sigh. “Move out of my way, you utter imbecile.”
Instead of doing that, I brace my palms on either side of the doorframe and lean into her space. Her eyes widen, and she shuffles backwards, a hint of alarm flashing across her expression.
“I have to say, I thought you’d skip this one.”
“Skip what? This trip? My sister’s getting married. Even your annoying presence isn’t enough to keep me away.”
The grin widens. “I’ve missed you too, Gem.”
“Don’t call me Gem. And I’ve missed you as much as someone misses a used condom.”
I snort. Her anger looks good on her. Then again, what doesn’t?
Chocolate hair, plum rosy lips, and a round, tight ass I’ve studied so thoroughly whenever she wasn’t looking that its shape is practically ingrained in my memory.
The second time I saw her was at the elopement, and while she did her best to ignore my existence the entire time she was here, I did the very opposite.
It’s another reminder how far I am from being a gentleman.
Gentlemen don’t look at engaged women the way I look at Gemma Garzolo.
That sobering thought forces the next question out of my mouth. “So when’s your fiancé coming?”
A shadow passes over her eyes. “The day before Vale’s wedding. Don’t pretend you don’t know that as well as I do.” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and my attention snaps onto that enormous ring on her finger. A bright-green emerald surrounded by a bunch of sparkling diamonds.
I reach out, grasp her wrist, and pull her hand toward me so that I can get a closer look.
She sucks in a harsh breath. “What are you—”
“A Messero family heirloom?” I venture a guess, the last name of her stupid fiancé tasting bitter on my tongue.
She jerks her hand away. “Yes.”
“A bit gaudy.”
“No one asked for your opinion.”
“What’s he like, Gem?”
“Guess you’ll find out soon enough.”
I study her face for any hint of what she thinks of this guy, but she gives away nothing.
Rafaele Messero is supposed to be the youngest don amongst the five New York families, which isn’t saying much given the other four are ancient. The wedding is a great excuse to get him out here to talk business, and as part of the normal preparation process, Napoletano and I have dug up everything we could on the guy.
By American standards, he seems like a force to be reckoned with.
But to us Casalesi, he’s a kid still riding a bike with training wheels. I’m looking forward to having him here and watching Damiano knock him down a notch.
“What were you doing in here anyway?” I ask, remembering her clutching the sink like it was a lifeline when I first swung the door open.
“Taking a piss, what else could I be doing?”
“Tsk.” I glance over my shoulder toward the front door. “Is that how you talk around your father?”
“You’re not my father.”
“No, but I’ve been called daddy on occasion.”
I’d thought she was looking at me like she wanted to murder me earlier, but that had nothing on how she’s looking at me now.
She makes a gagging sound. “Seriously, is this some sort of torture method you’re testing? Holding unsuspecting women hostage in bathrooms while you share details about your sex life?”
Laughter spills out of me as I drop my arms back to my sides and step to the side to let her pass.
She brushes past me, leaving the scent of cinnamon lingering in the air.
My eyes track her until she disappears from sight. I’ve always liked feisty women. A weakness you could say. And to find a woman like that living in our world? It’s rare.
I drag my palm over my lips and chuckle to myself. Yeah, Gemma might be off-limits, but I’m still going to enjoy pressing her buttons over the next few days.
Our first lunch with the Garzolos happens a few hours later on the back terrace that overlooks the sea. While we wait for the food to be brought out, the sisters ooh and ahh at the view with Vale. The Garzolo matriarch, Pietra, stands to the side with Martina, examining some flowers.
The men take their seats. Dem’s at the head of the table, Napoletano is two seats to his left, and I’m at his right. Stefano Garzolo is offered the chair directly across from me.
Dem’s good at playing the politician, but there’s no love lost between him and Garzolo. Their history is complicated, to say the least. But since Garzolo helped us in the early days of Dem making his bid to become the Don of the Casalesi, we’re allies now. And Garzolo’s determined to milk that for all it’s worth.
We’ve already started supplying him with Italian made luxury counterfeits, the kind of stuff that fetches a pretty penny in a status-obsessed market like New York.
If you ask me, Garzolo should be worshiping the ground Vale walks on. His daughter upgraded from the sick fuck he married her to, to a man with significantly more power and money. A man who loves her more than life itself. Garzolo’s not grateful though. In fact, I overheard him giving a stiff-tongued apology to her just a few minutes earlier in Damiano’s office. She accepted it equally as stiffly. Who can blame her? Her dad’s kind of a piece of shit.
“I’m eager to discuss a few things about our current arrangement,” the piece of shit says, leaning back into his chair. “But I think most of it should wait until Rafaele arrives. Given his role in all of this, it wouldn’t be respectful to talk business without him.”
I resist the urge to snort. Respectful? Jesus, Garzolo is really sucking the guy’s dick.
“He had a swift rise after his father passed away,” Dem says.
“Even before the old man died, Rafaele was already running much of the organization. His father’s health had been declining for a while,” Garzolo says.
“And the two of you are obviously getting on well.”
“With Rafaele and Gemma marrying, we plan to only expand our business relationship going forward. The counterfeits deal between the three of us has been a testing ground, and it has exceeded even our most optimistic expectations. We’re both invested in this partnership.”
“As are we,” Dem says. “We’re always looking to diversify our business geographically. We like having partners we can trust in New York.”
Garzolo’s lips tighten into a thin smile. “Likewise. It’s good to be doing business with paisans. Men who understand honor and the importance of omertà. New York’s changed since I first took control of the clan, and I’m disappointed to say the changes haven’t all been good.”
“Anything to be concerned about?” Dem asks.
Stefano makes a dismissive wave. “No, simple annoyances, nothing more.”
Dem nods. “So what happened with the Riccis? Has that threat been neutralized?”
Garzolo’s expression darkens at the mention of the New York clan he plunged into war with after his plan to steal their business was exposed. “They’re done. Rafaele and I have beaten them down to practically nothing. With us taking the counterfeits business from them, they’ve been left scrambling. Last thing I heard, they were fighting for scraps in the Bronx.”
“I heard you suffered significant casualties,” Napoletano says.
“So have they.”
“We’re sorry for your losses,” Damiano says.
Stefano waves a dismissing hand. “Let’s talk about more pleasant things, huh? Two weddings to celebrate, and another on the way.”
Napoletano and I look at each other. Garzolo sure as hell doesn’t want to talk about what happened with the Riccis. I wonder if he’s trying to minimize how badly he was hit.
Based on what I know, Garzolo kind of asked for it. The whole feud started because the Riccis got tipped off that Garzolo was planning on stealing their counterfeits business from them.
Garzolo succeeded. But it seems like his family paid a price.
I glance over my shoulder to where Gemma is standing. Whenever she’s around, I feel an inexplicable need to know exactly what she’s doing.
I wonder how she feels about her upcoming marriage. Vale mentioned to me that she wants to feel the whole thing out while Gemma is here, to make sure her sister isn’t being forced into something she has no interest in. The truth is, even if Gemma is being forced into something, there isn’t much any of us can do without blowing up our relationship with the Garzolos. They’re not our most important allies, but they’ve become a key part in Dem’s plan to expand the Casalesi influence across the globe.
The servers appear with trays of antipasti and bread, and the women take it as their signal to join us at the table.
The men are outnumbered. There are the three Garzolo sisters and their mother, plus Mari, Damiano’s younger sister. She takes a seat to Napoletano’s left and places a kiss on her fiancé’s cheek. Honestly, I still can’t quite believe those two are a pair. Age gap notwithstanding, Napoletano’s always been so reserved, while Mari is as easygoing as one gets. Guess she melted his ice with her sunshine.
When Mari realizes I’m watching her, she grins and sticks out her tongue at me. I huff a chuckle. That girl’s always been like a sister to me, and she definitely acts like one.
A server comes around to serve us bread, and I ask for two big chunks. I fucking love bread. It’s one of life’s greatest pleasures.
When he gets to Gemma, she eyes the basket. She’s changed out of her travel clothes into a light-blue dress that makes her eyes stand out even more than usual.
Fuck, she’s pretty. Would look even prettier with my cock inside her mouth.
Her gaze flicks to my face, and I wink.
She turns pink, looks away, and points at one of the bread rolls.
“You shouldn’t eat that, Gemma,” her mother says. “Not if you want to fit into the dress we’ve chosen for your wedding.”
It takes me a moment to process what I just heard.
The fuck?
That’s a pretty fucking rude thing to say. Anyone with eyes can see Gemma’s already quite thin. Her mom’s either projecting or just a bitch.
I run my tongue over my teeth, eager to see Gemma bite back.
But she doesn’t. Instead, I watch as she slightly deflates and drops her hand back in her lap. “You’re right.”
Indignation floods through me.
“Pass the tomato salad,” Damiano says, and I do it in a mild trance. Something’s seriously not computing, because if I’d said something as rude as that, Gemma would have bitten my head off. But with her mom, she just rolls over and takes it?
“So how are the wedding preparations going?” Mari asks Gemma, oblivious to the interaction I witnessed a few seconds earlier. I don’t think anyone but me noticed, because no one else has developed a habit of studying Gemma like me.
Maybe that’s a sign you should stop.
Gemma gives Mari an unconvincing smile. “They’re going. I have a lot to do when we return to New York.”
“Will it be a big wedding?”
“Nearly five hundred people.”
Mari’s eyes pop wide. “Oh my God. I’m sure I don’t even know that many people.”
“We both have very big extended families. It seems Rafaele is set on inviting just about everyone on his side.”
“Messero is a traditionalist,” Garzolo says, tuning into the conversation. “I like that about him. So many Italians have dropped the traditions we held dear before we came to America, but not them.”
“What kind of traditions are those?” I ask, already disliking where this is going. In the Casalesi clan, but even more broadly in the Camorra, women have always had far more opportunities than in the Cosa Nostra. If a person can prove they can run a territory and make good money doing it, few give a fuck about what they have going on between their legs.
Garzolo finally deems me worthy of a look. It’s amazing how a man with an ego as big as his can be in this business for so long. Usually, it’s a ticket to an early death.
“The women aren’t allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied. For their safety, of course. Gemma will have at least two guards with her at all times.”
Okay, that’s not so unreasonable. As the wife of a don, she needs to be protected at all times.
“They don’t like having their women drive, so she’ll also have a driver.”
The other conversations have quieted, and everyone is listening to Garzolo now.
“And wedding night linens will be displayed the day after the wedding.” He chuckles. “That one is a bit silly if you ask me, but one has to admire their dedication.”
Gemma turns a light shade of green, but the fire inside of her, the one I was so sure was inextinguishable, is nowhere to be seen.
Valentina’s eyes flare with anger. “That’s sick.”
“It’s their family’s tradition.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not despicable. What else? Have they demanded a doctor verify Gemma is a virgin?”
“Vale,” Gemma pleads, but her father pays her no mind.
He sneers, his teeth flashing at his eldest daughter. “I assured him that won’t be necessary. Unlike Cleo, Gemma’s reputation isn’t in question.”
Vale’s gaze narrows. “But he asked?”
“Your sister’s marriage is none of your damn business.”
I can tell Dem’s getting pissed off. “Watch your tone around my wife,” he warns Garzolo.
“What about Gemma’s terms?” Vale demands. “Does she have a say in this?”
Garzolo gives Vale a blank stare and then laughs. “Have you really forgotten how these things are done? Unlike her sisters, Gemma still remembers her duty to th—”
“Can we please talk about something else?” Gemma exclaims, cutting off her father. “There are two weddings happening before my own. Surely there’s plenty of other topics to discuss.”
“I agree,” Damiano says, his eyes flicking between Garzolo and his fuming wife. For a few seconds, an awkward silence blankets the table, but then Mari says something to Pietra, and the tension eases.
The rest of the lunch proceeds without incident.
Gemma barely eats.
Barely speaks.
And I begin to wonder if I’ve seriously misread her.
