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Sure enough: “Is Allegra eating well?”
My mouth twists and I wrack my brain. What did she eat for dinner last night? We’ve been cooking separately—another failed attempt on my part to keep some distance.
Well, either way, I’ve only been bringing healthy ingredients home. Allegra complained about it yesterday, tossing a cherry tomato at my head.
“Yes. And she’s been doing yoga and listening to podcasts. Keeping occupied.” Santo hums. “You could call her yourself,” I risk saying, wincing at the kingpin’s sudden frosty silence. “I know she misses you.”
Santo is quiet for so long, I step away from my bedroom window, even with the curtains drawn. How long would it take for him to arrange a sniper?
“It was your idea to send my sister away.” From Santo’s pleasant tone, we could be discussing the weather, but I hear it: the undercurrent of threat. “Are you saying she’d be better off here?”
“No,” I say quickly, and that lump of guilt lodges deeper. God damn me, but I need Allegra safe.
With me.
“I’m just saying that she’d probably appreciate a call,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. I’ve got a monster of a headache brewing, and my eyes are hot and buzzing. “We’re going for a tree tomorrow—”
“If it’s safe,” Santo interrupts.
“If it’s safe,” I agree.
On my life, I will never risk Allegra, not even to make her smile. I can’t do it. Iwon’t.There are so many mistakes I’ve made with the mafia princess over the years, but a cavalier attitude to her safety is not one of them.
But it’s been a week already, without a wink of danger. The real risk now is to Allegra’s spirit, not her physical well being—and I am the worst person in the world to make her feel better.
A tree, I can do. Holiday decorations—fine.
But offering comfort? Testing my already paper-thin restraint by touching her? Drawing her close?
Not a wise idea.
“You are keeping your distance, aren’t you, Raul?” It’s like the mob boss heard each thought clanging shamefully around my head; like he can see the image of Allegra’s cherry red pout displayed like a billboard in my brain. “We’re discussing my younger sister. I’m sure I don’t need to spell out any threats.”
“No,” I rasp, screwing my eyes shut as the headache rages through my skull. “No, you don’t need to say it.”
“Good.” Just like that, Santo moves on, rattling off further business updates and instructions. He complains about Nico briefly, then mentions that Diego has fixated on a maid in the mansion.
“She’s new,” Santo grumbles. “And more efficient than most. It’s so hard to find good staff these days, Raul. If he scares her off, I’ll cut off his balls.”
My soft laugh echoes through the bedroom.
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
Santo grunts.
“Well, at least wait until I’m there to stitch him back up.”
It feels good to joke. So often these days, the man we grew up with is absorbed by his criminal empire, his earlier humor subsumed by cold calculation. It’s rare for the old Santo to appear, even briefly, but these flashes are good for my soul.
“Get some sleep, Raul.” There’s a distant rap of knuckles—Santo knocking on his desk. “If my sister gets so much as a paper cut tomorrow, it’ll be your balls too.”
* * *
“The nearest Christmas tree farm is five miles away.” I pass Allegra my phone, maps loaded, before starting the car. I’ve already checked for car bombs and snipers; already cased the whole area. I was out before dawn, making absolutely certain that there is no risk to Allegra.
We’re doing this.
Beside me, the mafia princess is practically vibrating with excitement. She’s used to the high drama of the De Rossi business empire, to stolen art auctions and the flash of blades in the moonlight, but I guess a week of jigsaw puzzles has lowered the bar for adrenaline.
