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Pete’s ludicrous offer was the simple solution to a nagging problem.
An heir.
Male or female didn’t matter to me. If I had any say in it, I wouldn’t procreate. But I didn’t have a say in it. I’d made the choice to be the head of this family when Vincentius made the heart-wrenching decision to hand the throne to me instead of his blood.
Vincentius forwent his blood in order to give me this position. It would be akin to spitting in his face if I didn’t ensure the family name lived on. That the family lived on. I was already an old man who would not get a retirement. I’d endured years of hints, of Sofia pushing women on me in that delicate, artful way of hers.
There had been nothing wrong with them.
They were all beautiful. Soft. Kind. From good families.
They were exactly like Isabella. Which was the fucking problem. Sofia thought that finding someone as close to the daughter she’d lost, the one I’d loved, would be the solution.
Whereas the reality was, no one could ever or would ever measure up to her. If I’d gone against my instincts and married one of those women, I would’ve hated her. Would’ve been cruel, needlessly. Her life would’ve been miserable. I’d loathe her for not being Isabella. I’d torture her for sport.
Which was why Sienna was here. She was the first woman who made me feel alive. Made me feel fucking anything.
And she was also furthest from Isabella than one could get.
She could handle cruelty. She fucking loved it. Thrived off it.
She was perfect.
Which was the problem. I was sitting in my office, staring at the rose garden, imagining the spot where her thighs met her cunt, the softness of it, when I should’ve been going over invoices, purchase orders, city contracts.
The reality of being a mafia Don was a lot of fucking paperwork. Showing a lot of face. I missed the days when I was nothing but a solider, doing the dirty work. It had nourished something in me.
Sienna nourished that same thing.
A soft knock on the door jerked my attention away from the roses.
Vincentius walked into the room.
The one that used to be his. Knocking on a door that he used to fucking own. Even though decades had passed, it still felt odd having him do things like that in a place that used to be his home.
They’d stayed in it for years after Isabella was raped and murdered inside of it. A message to those who thought they could strike the Don, kill his daughter and get away with it. Proof that they would not drive him from his home. The one that had been in the family for generations.
But the killer did get away with it. Despite all of the Don’s best efforts. And the Don’s efforts were pretty fucking extensive. He laid a trail of bodies in his wake, marking the bloodiest time in the family’s history. My hands had been drenched in it. At the time, I’d been glad to have the tasks. I couldn’t do anything else but kill. Be anything else but a killer.
Everyone we killed was innocent. Of that particular crime. They certainly were not innocent in the broad sense of the word. It haunted him still, I knew, that Isabella’s killer still walked free. He carried it with him like a weight, the guilt of his daughter’s death, not even being able to avenge her.
It did not affect the way he ran his family, though. And it did not ruin his marriage.
The Catalanos knew better than to allow that.
You did not crumble after even the deepest of cuts. You stitched up the wound, and you tore apart the world. You made sure everyone knew that the Don was indestructible.
Even over seventy, the Don still looked good. His hair was mostly grey but streaked with dramatic flashes of black, coiffed back on his head like it had been since I met the man. A heavy brow, eyes that zeroed in on you and saw through all your bullshit. He still wore a suit, the uniform of the Don, even though he was retired. He worked out daily and carried around a fuck load of muscle. He boxed with the local kids at a gym we owned twice weekly.
He won every match. The kids did not let him win.
Yes, he was still formidable. But he was tired. Which only I could see because I knew him so well.
“Don,” I greeted, standing and walking quickly to cross the room and embrace him, kissing him once on each cheek.
“Mio figlio,” he murmured, squeezing my shoulders.
Even though I was no longer a lost, angry kid, I still felt comforted by the man’s presence, by the way he treated me like I was his son by blood.
After Isabella’s death, I’d assumed that I’d be kicked to the curb, figuring that was the best-case scenario. At first, I was sure I’d be killed in suspicion with Isabella’s death. The piece of shit cops were sure I’d done it. But the Don didn’t even consider it. Didn’t hear of it.
