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I debate asking if he's calling about what I assume he's calling about. Namely, Dante Parisi.
Dante Parisi's name has been a pesky ghost haunting my conversations with my parents for the last year or two. He's different from the other men they've tried setting me up with in two ways. First, because he's also in the mafia and apparently has quite a reputation of his own. And secondly, unlike the others, I've avoided meeting him.
I'm fine with settling down, so long as whomever I end up with doesn't get in the way of my job or anything else I want to pursue. Sometimes I think having someone in my corner to talk to might be nice. But I'm not sure I'd like that someone to also be steeped in the life I was born into.
Hence why I've been willingly going on so many painfully uneventful dates.
But it was only a matter of time before they brought him up again. After all, they expected me to call him over two weeks ago. My parents aren't famous for their patience.
I sigh and ask, "Is this a personal call or a work thing? Because if it's the latter, I'll be at the San Francisco office soon, and it might be easier to discuss business once I'm there—"
"So you are still in San Francisco?"
Still? I scheduled myself over here for the next two months. "Should I be somewhere else?"
"Yes. I have a new assignment for you."
I hesitate. "What kind of assignment?"
"We found your brother," he replies simply as if that is all the explanation needed.
My heart jumps.Antonio. Thank God.
I'd dutifully acted as unfazed as my parents had when two of Antonio's most trusted men came to us, reporting that he was missing. As the head Don serving under my father, he could come and go as he pleased, and I knew he could handle himself, but my brother's disappearance still bothered me even if we Russos aren't supposed to show weakness. It was even more challenging to pretend confidently that he'd return when his wife, Bea, had clearly been freaking out.
I take a deep breath, thrilled to hear of his return. I'll call him after my father spits out my new assignment. "That's good to hear. Is this new assignment going to be working with him again in LA? I can wrap up things here in San Francisco within the week—"
"No. Come home immediately, Giulia. This assignment is taking top priority. I will see you tomorrow morning."
Chapter 4
Roberto
Iknowhowtopick my fights. Still, I Don’t bother changing out of the blood-smeared, dirt-streaked clothing from my earlier scuffle before driving from Chicago to Oak Park. After all, if my father wanted to pick a fight about this, it would hardly be the first time.
Parking the car, I cross the street to the luxurious three-story house with giant maple trees and more space than any other high-end home. From the corner of my eye, I can pick out at least two places where Giovanni enforcers are stationed—two in a car down the road and two more making rounds on a nearby street. This security isn’t always stationed here since my father likes to move around.
Knocking on the front door, I stuff my keys into my pocket, glancing around this big front porch. It’s old-timey and nice. Not as nice as the lakefront mansion I bought a few years ago in Evanston, which I still haven’t told anyone about. It’s fully furnished, and I swing by sometimes, but I’m usually far too busy.
I bought it mostly for fun, to spite a business associate who tried to screw me over and was also desperately trying to buy that house to meet the demands of his high-maintenance mother-in-law.
I smirk. Eventually, I might tell my father just how successful my little startup company was—the one he said wouldn’t be practical for an underboss. I’m not attached to money the way he is, and I’m sure he’ll be pissed when he finds out some of the things I buy just for the hell of it. But for now, I’ll keep pretending I use the family money they direct my way.
The door swings open, and my father’s girlfriend, Gabriella, smiles warmly at me. “If it isn’t my favorite taste tester. There’s a loaf of lemon-glazed zucchini bread in the oven with your name on it.”
I like Gabriella for many reasons—for one thing, she’s a nice, uncomplicated woman who finally made my father happy years after he lost my mother. But more importantly, she’s an adventurous home cook who somehow decided I have a knack for good taste.
I Don’t, but whatever the hell zucchini bread is, I’m ready to try it.
“How was the Netherlands, Ella?” I ask, wandering inside after her.
Another reason I like my father’s girlfriend is her sharp contrast to my father and our lifestyle. Just walking into the massive kitchen of this place highlights that. It’s all decorated to perfection, something right out of a homey magazine, and 80s classics are playing in the background as she pulls the mouthwatering loaf of bread from the oven. It smells like lemon zest in here, which matches her bright yellow top and the yellow checkered bandana tying her dark hair back from her face.
Ella is welcoming and bright, yet she’s knowingly taken us blackmailing, extorting, violent underground mobster children of her crime lord lover under her wing.
The juxtaposition is nevernotfunny to me.
“Holland wasbeautiful,” she gushes, handing me a steaming slice and scowling at my blood-smeared clothes. “Honestly, Roberto, couldn’t you have changed before meeting with your father? You boys and your cleanliness. I thought Anthony was a bit better about it, but he showed up here at the break of dawn all rumpled, sweaty, and—“
