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I have good Capos, solid lieutenants, strong soldiers, but something’s wrong. I can’t figure out what it is, but it feels like a storm cloud’s parked above Villa Bruno raining down rotten luck in droves. All my problems shouldn’t even be problems—for example, a little incursion from a new and relatively weak bratva family shouldn’t cause my organization any trouble, and yet it’s like trying to stomp ants: there are always more. I don’t know what this issue is, what this darkness is that’s crawling between us like some impossible, formless, viscous poison, but I want to draw it out and expel it before it gets any worse.
And so we have family dinner.
“Smells fantastic as always,” Gavino says as the staff sets up the meal. We used to have a big fancy multi-course extravaganza, but I nixed that after the boys kept drinking too damn much and passing out before dessert. Now we eat family-style with everyone passing bowls and trays and bumping elbows. It’s more conducive to family bonding or whatever.
I sit at the head of the table with Gavino on my right and Fynn on my left. Next to Fynn is usually Nico, but his spot’s empty. Next to that is Karah, though she’s missing too at the moment. On the right, next to Gavino, is Elise. She sips a martini and places the bare minimum amount of food on her plate, enough to just about constitute a “meal” but not enough to satisfy an actual human person.
“Tell Yvette she’s a princess and we don’t deserve her,” Elise says, raising her glass to the cook. “Shall we toast to good health and long life?”
“Not right now,” I say, frowning at Karah’s empty chair. “We’re still waiting for others.”
Fynn leans toward me. “How are things with your new wife?”
“Let’s not discuss her. And we’re not married yet.”
“You make that distinction like it matters.”
Gavino laughs loudly. The bastard always does. “You don’t want us to discuss the most interesting thing that’s happened here for a while?”
“We run a mafia family,” I point out, jabbing my finger against the rim of my glass. “Everything we do is interesting.”
“He’s got a point,” Elise says, moving a pile of greens around with her fork as she balances her martini between two fingers. “For a crime family, you are all shockingly dull.”
“Dull pays the bills,” Fynn says stoically. “Dull keeps everyone alive and out of prison.”
Elise rolls her eyes. “Boring.”
“We’re not talking about the girl,” I say glaring at them, unwilling to say her name, and the first thing I eat tonight are my own words as Karah appears in the doorway with a sheepish and frowning Olivia right behind her.
Everyone perks up. Karah gestures for Olivia to join her, drapes an arm across the shoulders of my future wife, and gives me a hard look.
“Olivia’s eating with us tonight and every family dinner night from here on out. And I want you all on your best behavior, particularly you, Casso.”
Olivia’s face suggests she hadn’t agreed to more than one meal, but she doesn’t have time to argue as Karah steers her to the empty seat next to Elise before she takes her spot beside Fynn, since Nico’s not here.
“One big happy family,” I murmur, holding up my glass of whiskey.
Elise pours an overly large glass of white wine for Olivia who takes it and sips with a thankful smile. Fynn catches my eye and winks, and I glare at the bastard before piling my plate to the brim with food, enough to feed a small first grade class. Gavino’s staring around with the biggest smirk, clearly enjoying himself and waiting for someone to break the tense silence, and Karah’s glaring at me like she’s daring me to say something.
The whole thing is absolutely annoying as hell.
“How are you liking it at the lovely Villa Bruno so far, Olivia?” Gavino asks her, leaning forward, clearly unwilling to wait any longer. “I remember you from back in the day, by the way. I didn’t get to attend your fancy academy, that was only Casso, but we’re about the same age.”
Olivia’s cheeks are flushed pink and she looks gorgeous, which only makes it more frustrating. Her dark hair falls in thick waves around her shoulders and she brushes it back without thinking as she tugs a single strand next to her cheek. Her dark eyes glance at her wine glass like she wishes it were twice as large.
“I sort of remember all of you, honestly. I mean, I do remember you all. It’s hard to forget back then.” She glares at her fingers, then at her fork, anywhere but at the people around her, head lowered, and doesn’t touch the food. The awkwardness is oppressive. The scars she bears from that war are still raw and unhealed in a way I’m sure we all find surprising—I’ve barely thought of that time in years. Olivia’s the only thing that stands out from back then. But she did lose a brother, and I know how hard it is to get over the loss of a loved one. I still dream of my mother sometimes. I still smell her perfume when I turn the corner, but she’s never there. Just a ghost.
