Chapter Twenty-Six
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
VIVIANA
I thought that no other house could compare to the extravagance of Girardo and Allegra Venturi’s mansion. As our caravan pulls into the wrought iron gates surrounding the headquarters of the Chicago Outfit, I realize I was wrong. So freaking wrong.
The Fiorentino’s Lincoln Park compound looks like it belongs in England, not the suburbs of Chicago. It only takes me a few minutes to realize that, during our visits to Chicago in the past, my family never visited this home. We probably weren’t allowed. My great uncle, it seems, wants to flaunt his wealth to the visiting royalty.
“What are you thinking about, cattivella?” Luc murmurs from beside me. From the moment we stepped off the private plane in Chicago and were met by a small army of Outfit soldiers, he’s adorned an impenetrably cold mask.
“How my mother will be jealous to hear that Aldo invited us to his personal stronghold,” I muse, placing my fingers on the door’s leather and peering out the window. “My family never even knew this place existed.”
He gives a small grunt of acknowledgment. “I’m surprised Aldo wanted to meet here. It makes me wonder if his condition is worse than we thought.”
Our armored car comes to a stop directly in front of the mansion, where at least a dozen Outfit members stand solemnly to greet us. It looks like the entire inner family came for the occasion. I only recognize a handful as distant relatives that I met years ago, but then my gaze sweeps upward, toward the trio waiting at the top of the stairs. My heart lurches into my throat.
“I think you might be right.”
Aldo Fiorentino stands at the center, and I scarcely recognize the old man. He’s a shell of his former self. Skin sags around his eyes and cheekbones, like the muscle beneath has withered away, and his shoulders hunch. I wonder when he last stood upright for so long.
To his right, a young man that I don’t recognize watches our entourage with a bored expression on his sharp features. But to his left …
There was no mistaking Massimo Fiorentino. He’s taller and broader than any man I’ve ever seen. Whereas Luc resembles a black panther, Massimo can only be described as a grizzly. A sleeve of tattoos covers each monstrous arm, peeking beyond the collar of his shirt and ending just beneath his jawline. With hair cropped short, he looks like he belongs in a prison cell. The only thing missing is an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs.
I shudder, silently wishing that someone would handcuff him.
Massimo’s glare seems to penetrate the tinted windows. If looks could kill, my husband and I would be dead in the back seat. While I feel the undeniable urge to duck my head, Luc rises to the challenge.
He pushes open the door and slides out, every movement graceful and controlled. He fastens two buttons on his suit jacket, graphite eyes lazily scanning the architecture and landscaping. When his gaze returns to the leaders of the Chicago Outfit, he has the audacity to look unimpressed.
A muscle in Massimo’s jaw flickers. Tension drapes over the welcome party, thick enough to cut with a knife.
Luc, the smug bastard, wears a small unbothered smirk as he turns back to the car and extends his hand for me to take. “Come, Viviana.”
Freddy and Lex have already exited the vehicle, and the rest of our crew leave their own SUVs to take up position behind Luciano. We brought the best soldiers in the Cosa Nostra, but even that knowledge does little to quell my nerves. Not when we’re surrounded by dozens of Outfit guns—maybe more.
For the briefest moment, doubt makes me wonder if I should’ve stayed home. I push that traitorous thought away as quickly as it came. Luc is my husband. Somewhere in the last month, he became my friend. Last night, he became my lover. I belong with him.
Taking a deep breath, I lay my fingers in his palm and allow him to help me from the back seat. My heels hit the cobblestone driveway, and Luc’s hands grasp my blazer’s silky rose lapels. Like a doting husband, he adjusts the fabric until it covers all evidence of my lacy bra beneath.
“Is he still looking at us?” Luc drawls.
I don’t need to ask who he’s talking about. With as much indifference as I can muster, my eyes flicker over his shoulder, where they immediately land on Massimo.
“Yep.” An uneasy chuckle slips from my throat. “Like he wants to kill us.”
“Good.” Luc presses a chaste kiss to my cheek before nodding to Lex and Freddy. The two guards step even closer to my flanks. “Let’s go tell him hello.”
He leads the way, and I fall into step beside him. As we approach, I notice that Luc doesn’t once look away from Aldo, as if the rest of the gathered Outfit members mean nothing to him. I do the same, holding my chin high and shoulders back, mimicking my dear mother-in-law’s affinity for exuding a sense of superiority over others.
Luc marches up the stairs, never deigning to look at those he passes until we reach Aldo. “ Don Fiorentino. Thank you for inviting me and my wife to your home.”
The words are formal and stiff, polite yet impersonal. He sets the tone for our visit, and if I had any hopes that this would be anything more than a business meeting, they dissipate in an instant.
“Yes, well,” Aldo croaks, and his voice sounds as worn as his wrinkled skin. “We are family now, in some small meaning of the word.”
To the old man’s right, the younger man with sharp features huffs a scoff. Though he does not possess many Fiorentino traits, his eyes are the same dark brown as Aldo and Massimo’s. An illegitimate son, perhaps?
Aldo doesn’t react to the young man’s blatant display of disgust, and I wonder if he even heard the scoff. His yellowing eyes flicker away from Luc and land on me.
“Viviana.” He chuckles, and it sounds like loose bolts rattling around in an engine. “You’ve sprouted into a pretty little thing.”
I smile. “Thank you—”
“Perhaps I should have wed you to my Massimo before the Cosa Nostra snatched you up.”
Oh sweet Jesus. Of all the things for my great uncle to say, that might’ve been the most absurd. Not only is Massimo nearing forty years old, but he’s my mother’s cousin.
My wide-eyed gaze flashes from Aldo, to Luc’s tense shoulders, to Massimo. The latter seems equally disturbed by his father’s rambling. He steps forward, and I don’t miss the way he subtly shoulders Aldo behind him, as if tucking the elder behind him for safety.
“He likes to joke,” Massimo grumbles, sweeping the obscene statement under the rug. Face to face with my husband, he reaches for a handshake. A peace offering of sorts. “I am Massimo.”
Luc stares down at Massimo’s hand for one long moment, then another. I’m worried he’s about to snub the future of the Chicago Outfit’s handshake, all because the man’s ailing father made some silly comment about pursuing me as a match for his son. At last, however, Luc grasps Massimo’s hand.
“Luciano.” He introduces himself with the one word, pulling his hand back as quickly as he gave it.
“Come inside, please,” Massimo grits out, stepping back and gesturing toward the door. “We’ll eat, then discuss our affairs after supper.” His whiskey eyes shift to the surrounding men and women—Cosa Nostra and Outfit alike. “In private.”
Luc places his hand on the small of my back, drawing me closer to his side as we enter after Massimo and Aldo. I don’t imagine the way his fingers curl into muscle, as if he’d like to brand me for himself through the silk of my blazer.
I lean into his touch, craning my neck to whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry. I would’ve disliked marrying him far more than I disliked marrying you.”
He keeps his gaze ahead, silently observing the grand foyer as if he did not hear me. Then, a beat later, there’s a sharp twinge on the top of my ass. I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from yelping and humiliating myself in front of our hosts. He pinched me!
As discretely as possible, I jab my elbow just beneath his ribcage.
Ahead of us, Massimo looks over his shoulder with his brow drawn tight, and I feel like a schoolgirl on the verge of getting scolded for playing games behind the teacher’s back. When he turns around again, I risk a glance at Luc and see the ghost of a smile lingering on his lips.
I never had many crushes throughout school. My sister and I went to an all-girls school, so I never had the chance to flirt with a cute boy. I never got to experience the thrill of catching the eye of the boy I like while walking down the hallway. And yet, if I did , I imagine it would feel a lot like this. Heart palpating half a degree faster than normal, excitement churning in my belly, palms sweaty with nerves.
Even in the face of our Chicago rivals, Luc dominates my every thought. I’m still trying to decide if that makes me the luckiest girl in the world or the stupidest.
We’re led to a large dining room, where the smell of a feast bombards my senses. It’s laid out on an obscenely long table with at least twenty seats spread evenly up and down its length. Servants stand behind each chair, ready to pull them out for each guest to take a seat.
With slow, careful movements, Aldo lowers into his seat at the head of the table. Massimo takes his right side, then gestures for Luc to take the left, leaving me to slide into place on my husband’s other side. After that, the rest of the Outfit family members fill their seats.
Two women, both around my mother’s age, decide to pick seats directly across from me. Then, the chair to my left scrapes against the hardwood.
“How fortunate that I get to sit beside the new Mrs. Venturi,” a male voice purrs.
My eyes land on the young man who stood by Aldo when we arrived. The same one who scoffed in derision at the idea that the Chicago Outfit and Cosa Nostra could ever be family. He’s handsome, though not nearly as fit as Luc or Massimo, and his eyes hold an arrogance that sets my teeth on edge.
I force myself to smile. “Just call me Viviana. And you are?”
“ Nathaniel.”
My brow rises. It’s not a very Italian name.
Reading my expression, Nathaniel’s lips spread in a bitter smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “My mother named me. She didn’t tell my father I existed until I was two.”
I follow his gaze toward Aldo at the table’s head. The old man is already wrapped in a discussion with Luc and Massimo. I turn back to Nathaniel. “It’s a good name.”
He chuckles. “It doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the family, though. Don’t you agree?”
His words confirm my suspicions. He’s a bastard—one of many if I’m supposed to believe the rumors about Aldo’s infidelity over the years.
Swallowing my unease, I reach for my water glass and shrug a shoulder. “Fitting in is overrated. At least you’re not named Mario or Luigi. I’d take Nathaniel any day of the week.”
Again, he laughs, and some of the tension lining his sharp features drifts away. I take the opportunity to drink my water and inwardly pray that he’ll find someone else to converse with for the duration of dinner. There’s something unnerving about the way he watches me, like he knows some great secret that I don’t.
One of the older women across the table rescues me, introducing herself as my mother’s cousin, Aunt Violetta. She has gray hair that almost looks purple in the dim lighting, and she’s covered every wrinkle and age-spot with a thick layer of foundation.
“Congratulations on your marriage, dear,” Violetta chirps. “You must have been the most beautiful bride.”
I almost snort and reveal the truth—that I looked like a vagrant at my own wedding ceremony, complete with a ratty t-shirt and leggings—but she continues. Her words strike me like a blow to the chest. “And I was so sorry to hear about your sister.” Violetta shakes her head, her long earrings jingling at the movement. “Everyone in Chicago loved Elenora. We saw her just a week before the accident.”
I stiffen. “She was here? In Chicago?”
The old woman cocks her head, her obscenely arched eyebrows pinching together. Her chuckle sends chills down my spine. “Yes, of course. Didn’t you know?”
Elenora was in Chicago a week before she died. A coincidence, I’m sure. And yet…
“No, I didn’t,” I answer, too surprised to pretend otherwise. “I- We didn’t speak as much as I would’ve liked.” I pause and take a sip of water, feigning innocent curiosity. “What, uh- What was she doing here?”
Violetta waves her hand, dismissing the topic as unimportant. “Meetings, I’m sure. She was quite involved in the political side of things. You’d be better off asking Massimo or Nathaniel, here.”
I look to the side and find Nathaniel already watching me, his brown eyes burning into my cheek. I lift a brow. “You knew my sister?”
“Not very well.” He’s vague, like a poker player holding his cards close to his chest. Then, a slow smirk forms on his mouth. “Not nearly as well as my half-brother.”
I frown. The insinuation of Nathaniel’s words makes me bristle. The notion that my sister’s relationship with the future boss of the Chicago Outfit was anything but professional… I don’t believe it. Or, I don’t want to believe it.
Did Luc know that Elenora spent time in Chicago before her mysterious death? Was she here on his orders or of her own accord?
One of the servers leans between me and Nathaniel, placing a salad plate in front of us both. Suddenly, the thought of eating makes me sick. When the server slips away, Nathaniel has already turned forward, focused on his first course.
I turn forward as well, but my appetite is gone.