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“And I don’t?”
“There’s a difference between fear and respect.”
The families, the guards, the workers…they fear my father. Their loyalty doesn’t derive from respect, and fear can eventually be conquered. Riccardo has the majority of them, and if he makes a move, he could win.
“I would rather have their fear,” he states with confidence. “A fearful man is a loyal man, Salvatore.”
In the years since my mother passed, I’ve watched my father become more and more ruthless. No one crosses him and lives. There have been attempts outside of the family, people who come into our city thinking because we’re southern, emigrated here from Italy, uneducated and complacent. The Moretti family runs the largest illegal gambling ring in the south. My father controls it all.
“Is that what you’re testing tonight? Riccardo’s fear or his loyalty?”
“He invited us into his home. It would be disrespectful of me to decline.”
I snort. “Since when do you care about appearing disrespectful?”
My father chuckles, puffing on his cigar again. “You still have a lot to learn, Salvatore. It can be crippling to a man to see his rival seated at his table, eating his food, all the while knowing he will always cater to him. I own Riccardo. He won’t forget that.”
The car pulls to a stop, and we wait for the doors to open before we climb out. Guards flank the car, much the same as they do the Genovese estate. It’s a sight I grew accustomed to many years ago. Christ, I remember grabbing Millie’s hand and running through the house, giggling as we tried to outsmart the guards. That was back when I was an innocent child, unmarred by my mother’s secret.
“Hundred bucks says he has something atrocious for dessert, like coconut cake,” my father comments as we approach the door.
“I like coconut cake.”
“Disgustoso.”
We’re shown inside, courteously greeting Riccardo Genovese as he thanks us for attending. I consider the possibility that my father is wrong. Riccardo could be inviting us here to show us he isn’t afraid to have the enemy seated at his table.
“It’s been far too long since I’ve welcomed you into my home, Stefano,mio amico,” Riccardo comments. “Gabrielle and Milana should join us any moment. You remember my darling Milana, don’t you?”
“Ah, yes, I remember that unruly child always ripping and running the halls of my home.”
“Pretty certain your son was right there with her,” Riccardo replies, chuckling. “The two of them used to be inseparable.”
Yes, we were until my world was turned upside down. I haven’t seen Millie in…twelve years? I heard she was back.
“There they are now.”
I glance up at the two women descending the stairs. Gabrielle Genovese was always a classic beauty. Perfect golden hair, never a strand out of place. Tiny waist with heart-shaped breasts. Lush, plump lips. The epitome of a trophy wife.
But she isn’t where my attention is focused. Millie. My Millie is all grown up.
3
Milana
My lips part. A slight gasp escapes. Salvatore Moretti. My Sal. Only he isn’t. The scrawny boy with unruly hair is at least six feet tall, his muscles filling out the taut sleeves of his crisp, black button-down shirt. That unruly hair…well, it’s still slightly unruly, but now, it’s sexy. Holy cow. Salvatore Moretti is sexy.
His chestnut brown eyes follow me as I descend the stairs. Not once when I was dating did a man look at me like this. Lust. Pure, unadulterated lust. A look that makes your body tingle and heat. That makes your nipples harden and your core clench. That makes you know, without a shadow of a doubt, sex is inevitable.
And not once when I was growing up did I imagine Sal as boyfriend material. Okay, to be fair, I wasn’t exactly interested in boys. The boys I knew were all miniature versions of their fathers, assholes at the ripe old age of twelve. Sal was always different. And for a long time, I imagined he’d found an escape the same way I did. Left for one of the many places we pretended to go.
But he’s here, standing right beside his father. Same clothes. Same arrogance. Same persona. How unfortunate.
“Mr. Moretti, how nice of you both to join us,” my mother states, playing the perfect housewife.
Stefano takes her hand, raising it to his lips for one of those linger-a-bit-too-long kisses. I can practically see my mother cringe. At least, I am for her. Rather than follow his father’s suit, Sal takes my hand, slowly leaning and kissing my cheek.
“It’s good to see you, Milana,” he says quietly.
