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“Because I found out three hours ago that Rocco Martino was responsible for gunning down my parents and uncle when I was twelve years old.”
His eyes widened in soundless shock. It still took him a minute. “And you marrying Sofia, he thinks it will still give him control?” But he shook his head. “That makes no sense. You aren’t going to give control to anyone.”
I was glad he understood.
“I would never make him myconsigliere. I wouldn’t have before,” I said.
“Gianni?” he questioned, which surprised me, and I nodded.
“And your under-boss?”
“Possibly Lucio,” I answered, but I wasn’t a hundred-percent sure. Under-boss usually implied you wanted the top job, but I wasn’t convinced Lucio did.
He turned away, stalked to the window, then turned back. “I’ve spent the last six years wishing for my freedom.” His eyes glittered.
“And did you get it out of your system?” I asked bluntly. “I can offer all the payback you feel you deserve.”
He was silent for a moment. We could both hear Elisabetta’s strident voice echoing through the house, demanding to know where Alessandro was as there were guests wanting their breakfast.
“I need it in writing,” he said, and I laughed.
“Tough. We both know how well your promissory note from Rocco will stand up. You either trust me or you don’t.”
“And if I don’t?” he challenged, and I stepped close so I was crowding him. He refused to take so much as a step back and I nearly had to adjust my pants. His defiance was such a turn on.
“Then I will be forced to use threats,” I said.
He huffed. “Making you as bad as your honorary uncle.”
No, far worse. This had to work, or I would have to force his hand. I wouldn’t hurt his mamma, but he had to believe I would. Or would I? I honestly didn’t know. But it was true he had absolutely no reason to trust me, but I didn’t need that. I just needed his agreement, whether it was forced or not.
“If I agreed, what would happen next?” he asked, clearly reluctantly.
It was a good question. A damn good question, and one I hadn’t worked out. I knew it involved confronting my uncle, and somehow convincing him he had no choice, and since Rocco had the backing of the Irish, that wouldn’t be easy. Although, I had zero idea how to accomplish the confrontation.
“If I agree, I don’t want to stay at home,” he added before I could answer his question.
I narrowed my eyes. Of all the stipulations he could have asked for, this was unexpected. “Meaning?”
“Meaning I want a role. And I don’t mean which bedroom gets cleaned on a Tuesday and what to serve for lunch on Sunday. I’m not a housekeeper.”
Interested, I tilted my head. “Give me examples?”
He looked frustrated. “I didn’t prepare a list because I couldn’t have imagined this situation.” Which was a mistake I would have to teach him. He needed to be prepared for every possible situation.
“I cannot agree to something I don’t know.”
“But in general?” he pressed. “I don’t—ugh,” he spat. “You know what I mean.”
I smiled. His fire, his defiance, and yes, his stubbornness, even though it was likely going to drive me mad, was very appealing. All my life I’d expected to marry a trophy wife, but the thought had never thrilled me.
“Yes, I do. Agreed,” I added.
“I want to know how to handle a gun.” The thought that he might need to nearly blinded me with fury, but I choked it down and nodded. He met my gaze, and we were both silent for a long moment, each looking our fill. “So what now?”
“Now we go talk to your father.”
“We?” His voice rose, and for the first time I saw panic almost flash across his face, the complete opposite of the defiance I freely admitted enjoying, and I wondered why. Rocco could say nothing to change my mind. Was he worried I would leave him here to face the backlash?
