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Well.
That makes two of us, I guess.
“Your bride-to-be is suspicious as hell.”
I snort. I know that’s the truth: for years she was simply beneath my notice, and so I didn’t invest any time into finding or keeping her in one place.
Quite honestly, I never wanted to lay eyes on Caterina De Luca ever again.
And yet.
I sigh.
Being a Rossi is a sacrifice. It costs us everything and gives us everything.
I’m sure my father didn’t intend for that to include the cost of his life when he said it, but here we are.
Both of our lives, gone.
Given to the family. To the business. Given in service of a deal with the devil that wore the face of a friend.
The De Lucas were close with us once. American, though their ancestors had come from Italy, they were my family’s ‘in’ to the ocean of untapped buyers that the States offered us.
Somehow, every last one of them landed behind bars. Which meant their ability to operate ports and find markets for our particular brand of exports diminished.
Which meant their usefulness to us ended.
It never made sense to me that Father had entered into such a stupid bargain with the De Lucas. We didn’t need them.
After their grip on the Port of New York loosened, we found other pathways. The Russians. The Japanese. Hell, even the Irish offered a more promising route to American markets than the De Lucas did.
But after one weekend in Atlantic City, my father came back and declared that he and Antonio De Luca had made an agreement. An arrangement. Binding the two families together.
An oldest son for an oldest daughter.
The irony, of course, is that the oldest daughter was also the youngest daughter. Six years younger than me, Caterina De Luca started out as my friend Marco’s little sister.
That’s how I thought of her. For years. I had known, of course, that we would be married at some point.
My father made it very clear to me when I entered my teens that any female companionship that I managed to wrangle would have to be non-committal at best, because Caterina De Luca would be my wife someday.
As with all of the men in my family, my father had a healthy appreciation for sex workers and mistresses, and while he did not discourage the use of either, he did encourage me to keep it quiet. I didn’t need to be told twice, and it wasn’t like I could mess around too much anyway.
After all, for every private party or club I went to, my bride’s older brother was right there next to me.
I would miss Marco, I supposed.
If I did not hate him so violently.
“What is the intel, Gia,” I say with exactly as much exasperation as I feel.
She slaps down a packet of pictures. “Bodyguard. On her 24/7. Looks like just one though. A condo. I think she nannies for alittle girl in the family. Any of the brothers have a good time they forgot to keep under wraps?”
Gia’s puns will be the death of me.
Provided, of course, that any of the other multitude of actors slavering for my demise don’t work out.
“Marco probably not. I imagine he got the same level of emphasis that I did about accidental… mishaps.”
