Can I blame him? When every night, I fall asleep wondering the same thing and come up completely empty.
After a moment, I brave another question. “How does this usually work?”
“Dating?”
“In the Mafia,” I clarify. “Surely someone else has been through this before.”
Rocco scratches the back of his neck. “My parents had an arranged marriage. My mother was from another prominent family. She had her own bodyguards that ensured her protection, though I don’t think she needed it.”
I tilt my head slightly. This is the first time I’ve heard Rocco talk about his mother.
“She was mafioso in her own right,” he continues, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “And only put up with my father’s bullshit long enough to have me.”
“She left him?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Rocco’s eyes darken. “No one leaves the Guild.”
The threat of his words sits uncomfortably in my stomach.
In the past weeks, I couldn’t bring myself to take any of Mia's or my mother’s calls. The depths of their potential deceit could be world-shattering, and if I’m being honest with myself, I’m too scared to face them.
But if my theory is true, that my parents were somehow involved in the Mafia too, then how the hell had my mother been allowed to leave?
I shake off that particular rabbit hole. “But you’re the don, aren’t you?”
“I am now,” he corrects. “But the oath we take when we join is an old one. Even if I pardoned someone, it could set an uneasy precedent for those who’ve spent a lifetime in reluctant servitude.”
“But surely it’s better to let them go? If they don’t want to be there, they can’t be of much use to you.”
Rocco shrugs. “Even if they did leave, my father would call a hit somehow. He's a miserable bastard like that.”
So casually he talks about his father’s destruction. Would he really kill someone for breaking their oath? It’s not something I’d ever want to find out.
“Remind me never to sign anything when your father’s around.”
I meant it as a joke, but Rocco’s face grows serious. “I wouldn’t let you take the Guild’s oath.”
“Why? Would you get sick of me?” I tease him, trying to bring some lightness to the situation.
“It would be a life sentence.” He stares at a point over my shoulder. “And apparently, two months is already grating on you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “At least then I’d actually be able to do something instead of sitting around the house all day.”
He shoots me a warning look. “Trust me. It’s not a life you would want.”
There’s a part of me that wants to argue for the sake of it. But really, what qualifications did I have that would make me aneffective mafioso? My one attempt to help had been a complete disaster.
So, instead, I change the subject. “I just want to sing again. Is that really so bad?”
“It’s dangerous, Cas,” Rocco sighs.
“What if I had bodyguards?” I press. “Your mother had them, right?”
His hand weaves through my hair and gently combs through the loose, brown waves. “It would take some time to make preparations.”
A glimmer of hope ignites within me. “I wouldn’t need an entire entourage, just someone to make sure I got home okay.”
“You will have whoever I say you need to have. I won’t negotiate on that.”
