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Salvatore
Dinner is almost over and I haven’t even had to draw a pistol yet. It’s going better than expected. If one spilled plate of food and an angry old fossil with her Depends in a twist is all I have to manage tonight, that’s a good tradeoff for getting my message across to the family: Contessa is mine, and she’s here to stay.
Cecilia knew from our meeting that this is the way it would be. She was warned. If she thought my wife would be out of sight, out of mind, then she really is senile.
While I could keep Contessa locked in a room for the rest of eternity, waiting for me to come make her cunt wet, that doesn’t serve either of us. She’ll only put up with it for now, while coming from just my fingers still makes her feet go numb. That won’t last forever. I have to keep moving my pieces around the board. And, occasionally, knock one over to get it out of the way.
Cecilia is lucky Contessa spoke up on her behalf. We have more than enough means to manage and care for her here at the house, but it’s not about what we’re capable of, it’s about what she deserves. She chose her hatred for the Loveras over her love for me, and this is not a room where I can afford to look soft. Not with these men, not on the eve of war.
My hand tingles like an electric shock from where Contessa grabbed it. Begging me without words. I lean back, watching the girl—studying her profile, the subtle pout of her lips and the white-knuckle grip on her fork. She thinks I can read her so well. That I know everything going on behind those big eyes.
She’s wrong.
There are parts of Contessa even I don’t understand, buried deep. Parts I can’t get to by just spreading her out on my bedsheets every night.
Tonight showed the first glimpse of this side of Contessa, the mafia daughter hidden under all those layers of virgin uncertainty. She flipped over one of her facedown cards and revealed the most important truth of the evening—with the right stakes at hand, she’s willing to play the game.
That is the only thing that matters.
I don’t need Contessa to fall in love with me.
That’s too much to ask of any woman, even ones who were with me by choice. Love was never in the equation. I’ve learned better than to chase that route.
A don is only what he can provide and what he can take. A practical exchange.
I need Contessa to obey. In return, I have to reward her obedience and make it worthwhile. Money, security, power, pleasure. Whatever it is that motivates Contessa, that is what I have to give, until she bends to her role here. So far, I am forging her, one orgasm at a time, into what I need.
But these soft-hearted motivations are harder to make useful.
The woman she jumped to defend would rather see Contessa dead than seated at this table. Mercy isn’t an asset in my line of work. My pretty little wife is going to have to get thicker skin. If she’s at my side, she’ll have to sit through far, far worse than this. I’ve been damn near charitable tonight, if only because threatening old women doesn’t give me any joy, either.
By the time Marcel returns alone, the crowd has gotten loud again, versions of what happened spreading from one end of the room to the other. Nate feeds pieces of pork loin to the dogs who snatch them out of the air.
Vera, as usual, is numb to it all—the smartest woman in the room, drinking herself stupid.
My sister is one of the few things in the world that can make even a man like me feel helpless. There’s nothing I can do for her. Vera is broken glass. If I try to fix her, I just shatter her more.
When the wine starts running dry and the plates empty, Marcel invites the men into the parlor. Contessa stands as if to join the women, but I take her by the arm.
“Not you. You’re with me.”
“What are we doing?” Contessa asks under her breath, clearly hoping the evening will be over for her. The family shuffles away, our words lost in the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of excited talking.
“Socializing. Cigars and cards. I know who works for me, and my men know who they work for. Gatherings like this, they hold the loyalty.”
“That doesn’t sound like it has anything to do with me,” she presses.
I bury my hands in my pockets or else they’re going to go on her body to convince her the way I usually do.
“All that whining about being locked away in your room with nothing to do, and now you’re begging to get back in. Like a cat always on the wrong side of the door, aren’t you?”
Her little glower doesn’t have any effect. I nod toward the parlor, and she reluctantly falls into step with me.
“Behave,” I add, lowly, as we cross into the room.
Contessa briefly freezes at the sight—at first glance, she is the only woman in a room full of men. The ranks are still loosely visible, defined by cliques and who takes the chairs and who stands. With family, even the informal is formal. We can never really shake it completely.
I bring her to join Marcel and Noctus in the middle of the room. Glances pass over us as Contessa enters, but no one is brave enough to stare. Not with me here, looming against her, taking a careful read of the room. It was a good dinner, and no one wants to be gutted and have it wind up on the carpet.
