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“And for the last time,” Franco begins, his words and tone similar to Sergio’s and I imagine the two nose to nose, two powerful men doing battle. “Lucia DeMarco belongs to you. You’ll be the one to collect her when the time comes. It doesn’t matter who signed what and I don’t give a fuck if you have that whore lick your floors clean day in and day fucking out. You do what you need to do with Natalie, but this is my final word. Am I fucking clear?” Franco demands.
I close my hand over my belly. I’m trying to process, to understand what the hell is going on. I mean, I do understand. But it’s too impossible.
I step backward, stumble over something that wasn’t there a moment ago. I spin as I begin to fall, see him standing there as tall as Sergio. As big as him. As menacing as Sergio can sometimes look.
Salvatore Benedetti.
He’s right behind me.
It was his foot I tripped over.
He catches me, keeps his hands wrapped around my arms even once I’m steady on my feet. My mouth falls open and I can’t look away.
He knows what I heard because he heard it too.
“Natalie,” he starts, then stops and all I can do is stand there, mute and caught. “You shouldn’t listen at closed doors. Especially with this family.”
“I wasn’t…I,” I’m stuttering. "I didn’t mean to.” I realize how big he is, how that kindness I’d perceived earlier is gone. Did I imagine it? Because something else has taken its place. Something harder. Something darker.
He studies me. His eyes are different than Sergio’s. Where Sergio’s are midnight, Salvatore’s are a cobalt blue. It’s a striking contrast to his olive skin and dark hair, and I feel like, just as his brother can, he, too, can see right through me.
“Don’t tell him,” I whisper. “Please.”
He doesn’t react, not for a long time, but then he nods once. “Go back to Sergio’s room and wait for him there.”
“I really wasn’t—”
“Natalie.” He squeezes my arms, dips his head low, eyes bore into mine from behind thick lashes. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to go. Now.”
I blink, but as much as I want to run right away from here, I’m unable to move. I’m on the verge of tears, and I don’t want to cry in front of him. But I don’t move. I can’t. Not until the study door opens behind me. Not until Salvatore has looked away, freeing me from the trap of his gaze. And the instant he releases me, I slip away, as fast as I can, back the way I came, my heels clicking as I go, as I miraculously don’t trip and fall, and stumble back into Sergio’s bedroom, like I was told.
Because I don’t want to see Sergio. I don’t want to see his father. I don’t want them to know I’ve heard. To know I know. Because if I had any doubt, any delusions about anything related to the Benedetti mafia family, Franco Benedetti’s brutal words obliterated them.
They showed me exactly the life I’ll be walking into by being with Sergio.19Sergio“I think I should go home,” Natalie says to me when I get up to my room. She’s dressed and throwing things into her bag.
And I know she was standing just outside the study. I know what she overheard.
“I don’t feel great,” she adds on.
I don’t bring up the fact that I saw her run up the stairs. Don’t mention that the look I exchanged with Salvatore pretty much confirmed my thinking. I could kill my father. We’ve discussed this a thousand times. He knows where I stand. I’m not changing my mind. He knows me well enough to know he can’t make me.
“I’m sorry,” Natalie is saying when I tune back in.
She’s not sick. She looks fine. A little paler than usual, but that’s not flu. That’s what she overheard.
“I’ll take you home,” I say.
She shakes her head. “No. You should stay with your mom. I can take a train.”
“You’re not taking a train. I’ll take you home.”
She stops, her back stiffening as she sucks in a deep breath, zips her bag and picks it up off the bed before facing me square on.
“Sergio, you need to stay here with your mom. I think you’re right. I don’t think you can take time with her for granted right now.”
She’s choosing her words carefully. Neither of us want to say out loud what we know she means.
“I’ll be fine, and besides,” she clears her throat, doesn’t quite meet my gaze when she says the next part: “I don’t want to get her sick.”
That’s the first lie Natalie has told me. She isn’t sick—at least not with the flu. I study her, and she can’t meet my eyes. I nod. “Okay.”
“Okay?” She’s surprised by my response.
