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“In his office upstairs, I think. Why, you want to talk to him?”
“Haven’t had much time to catch up since I’ve been back.” Actually, I’ve been avoiding him, but Carlo doesn’t need to hear that. “It’d be good to sit down and see how he’s doing.”
Carlo laughs and waves that off. “Saul’s the same as always. He’s too busy keeping the Famiglia running to give a shit about anything else. Basically, his head’s up Renzo’s ass, and Renzo’s head’s up the Famiglia’s ass.”
“Whose ass is your head up?”
“My own, probably.”
“It’s one big circle-head-jerk.”
“Gross, but accurate.”
I grin and accept a drink. We toast, take sips, and hang around for a little longer before I finally ditch him and move upstairs to find Saul. My brain’s loose from the whiskey but I’m completely focused on the reason for showing up at the house today.
These last few weeks have been pure hell.
I thought I could handle it. I kept telling myself I could. It’s been a long time since college and my feelings should be under control by now.
But they aren’t. I’m still a fucked-up mess. Probably always will be.
I’m a man with particular tastes. I get fixated on things and can’t let them go. That’s why I’ve got the ledger in my head. That’s why I can’t live in Philadelphia.
There are too many people on the wrong side of my books here.
The halls are quiet as I navigate toward the office. Renzo took over Papa’s old study, which means Saul’s now in the former library, a big room that gets freezing in the winter and way too hot in the summer.
Nothing’s changed in the house. The Rossi mansion’s a huge building, fifty years old, ostentatious in its decorations. Oil paintings, thick carpets, drapes worth more than most small cars. Even the wallpaper is expensive. Everything smells like floor polish and oak. I halfway expected Renzo to make more changes, but he left it all the same, a shrine to the power of the Rossi name.
Which is the point of the place. We want visitors to feel awe and terror at our might. It’s basically some bullshit branding, but it works.
Saul’s sitting at a desk in the library. A fireplace is on the right, dead and quiet, and he’s to the left, sitting back in his chair and scrolling on his phone. He glances up as I step inside and shut the door behind me.
“Gian,” he says, sounding surprised, but not unhappy. I nod at him and approach, stopping behind the two green leather chairs reserved for guests. I don’t sit. This isn’t a sitting conversation. “Didn’t know you were coming up today.”
“It was a last-minute decision.”
“Is this the first time you’ve been to the house since you got back?”
I nod once, not in the mood for small talk.
It took a lot of willpower to work up to this meeting, and I don’t want to waste any of it on meaningless chatter.
Saul’s smile wavers slightly. He must sense my black mood. My older brother’s in a simple suit, no tie, top button undone. He’s my height, slightly heavier, with a thick beard and dark eyes. His wavy hair’s kept cut close. Out of all of us, he looks the most like Papa, even though he’s temperamentally the opposite. I’m reserved, while Saul’s calm. Renzo’s steadfast. Carlo’s chaotic. We complement each other in some ways and drive each other crazy in others. I think I get along with my brothers the best when I’m halfway across the country. Then there’s Stefania—I’ve never been close with my little sister. I think because I’m the closest to her in age. We used to fight like crazy when we were younger.
“You’re marrying Allegra Rinaldo.” I force the words out. They hurt worse than I expected. I’ve been carrying this weight since I heard from Carlo about the match and it nearly broke me.
Bad enough that Renzo was going to do it, but I know my oldest brother. He had zero interest in Allegra—she was all about making a good alliance with her family. I can understand politics. I can even accept it. And since Renzo is the Don, there was nothing I could do about it at the time.
When I heard that Renzo’s engagement to Allegra fell through, the relief was nearly unbearable.
And the nightmare was doubly worse later when I got the call about Saul.
“That’s the plan,” he says, leaning back. He’s watching me with that calm, scrupulous stare. I know what he’s thinking, and I don’t like it.
“Why?” I ask. A simple request, but it’s loaded.
There’s too much history in this house.
