One dark brow lifted. “She would make a good wife.”
Of course she would. Laura was polished, obedient in the way some men desired, born to the right family, and blessed with the kind of beauty that made people forgive her for being uninteresting.
“She would make an excellent tax arrangement too,” I said. “That doesn’t mean I want to marry her.”
My father gave me the look that suggested I was skirting the edge of insolence.
“In time,” he said, “you will need to think seriously about these things.”
“In time,” I replied, “I may think seriously about throwing myself into the sea.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“That would be dramatic even for you.”
Before I could answer, my mother appeared at my side with the uncanny timing she had always possessed when my father and I were one sentence away from becoming mutually irritating.
She touched my sleeve lightly. “You seem worried, my son. What’s wrong? Is it the job? Because you know you do not have to become sotto capo if you do not want to. Sandro would?—”
I stopped her gently, closing my hand around hers and giving it a small squeeze.
“No. That’s not the problem.”
Her eyes sharpened at once.
“So thereisa problem.”
I sighed. There were many things in this world I could manage. My mother’s perception had never been one of them.
“I don’t want to marry Laura,” I said quietly. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”
Her expression softened with patient understanding.
“You do not have to marry anyone you do not want to.”
I looked away toward the crowd, toward the black of suits, fancy dresses and old loyalties.
She studied me for a beat too long. “What’s her name?”
“There is no one.”
“Pietro.”
“Don’t worry about me.” I tipped my chin toward the far corner of the room. “You should worry about your other child. She’s about to start a war.”
My mother laughed under her breath. “Don’t be silly. She’s ten.”
I pointed.
Across the room, Victoria stood with her hands clasped behind her back, blinking huge doe eyes up at a completely oblivious twelve-year-old Nicolo Genovese, who looked as if he had not yet realized he was living his final hour. A few feet away, my father stood utterly still, a glass in one hand, watching the boy with the kind of calm that usually preceded violence.
My mother followed my line of sight and burst into helpless laughter.
“Oh dear,” she murmured.
“Yes,” I said. “He’s done for.”
My mother was still smiling to herself as she drifted away, no doubt to save Nicolo Genovese from my sister’s devastating charm and my father from committing murder at a wake.
