21. Marco
Marco
As far as Thursday nights go, this must be one of the worst in recent memory. Aldo is, of course, to blame, though I keep that to myself. If Bianca realized just how much I hate the idea of her father setting foot in this house, she might not trust me in the same room with him.
A fair assessment, since I plan on killing the son of a bitch tonight.
I steal a roll from the tray of a passing maid and watch Bianca.
We haven’t really spoken in four days, since Crooked.
She issues commands from the center of the kitchen, ordering the staff around like a general on the battlefield.
The white buttoned-up-to-the-neck blouse tucked into a below-the-knee skirt adds to the militant aesthetic.
Her bun is especially tight tonight, which doesn’t help.
She’s in full-blown Ice Princess mode, with her pert nose in the air and everything. I’ve never seen her this cold and severe. I’m tempted to chip at her facade, though maybe less so than before. She’s already on edge, so I don’t want to worsen the situation.
A month has passed since our wedding, and this is the first time her family has visited.
This is also the first time she’s interacted with Aldo since the incident at the Canary Club, so she’s practically vibrating with tension.
The freer and more flexible Bianca she sometimes allows me to glimpse is nowhere to be found, overlayed by the perfect Conti heir apparent.
The sight bothers me. Not because I’m angry over this return to the Bianca everyone knows, but because I want to bring back the Bianca that she only reveals to me.
I wander over to her and toss my arm around her shoulder. “Try to relax, principessa. It’s just dinner.”
I offer her my flask, and Bianca scoffs dismissively. “Shut up.”
Snatching it from my hand, she marches across the kitchen and upends the contents into the sink. The doorbell rings and she storms off in that direction.
That’s the last time I try to be nice.
Grumbling beneath my breath, I fill the flask with water and return it to the inner pocket of my leather jacket. I’d rather eat glass than dress up for this dinner for Aldo. He’ll just have to deal with my jeans and t-shirt.
I take the vanilla bean panna cotta I prepared last night out of the cooler. I bake when I can’t sleep, a way to reclaim the best parts of my childhood, when Mamma was alive. I examine the colored wine glasses containing the desserts with a practiced eye and frown.
Something’s missing.
Luca did some digging and discovered through archived hospital records that my dear father-in-law has a deadly peanut allergy.
Whistling, I remove a bag of them out of the cabinet and crush up a handful with a rolling pin.
I’m almost done sprinkling a fine layer into each cup and topping them off with a dollop of homemade whip cream to hide the addition when Bianca saunters back into the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” Her expression falls as she notices the platter. “I could have sworn I asked the chef for tiramisu.”
I go still, the muscles in my back bunching. “We don’t eat that shit in this house.”
Bianca blinks at the venom in my reply, but I push past her without bothering to explain.
Aldo and Livia are already seated in the dining room, and one of the kitchen staff served the first course while I was perfecting the desserts.
As soon as I enter, my focus zooms in on Aldo.
I’ve run into the bastard plenty of times over the years, but his face never gets any more pleasant.
He should be dead and six feet under. It isn’t right that Mamma is gone while a piece of shit like Aldo Conti walks this earth unpunished.
I grit my teeth, reminding myself that no one knows for sure which member of the family performed the hit on Dulce.
While I personally suspect Aldo’s involvement despite Enzo’s last words to my brother, suspicion doesn’t equal guilt.
I’ve been wrong before, and my mistake ends in blood each time. I only have one chance at revenge before the Council reels me back in, so I need this to count.
Plastering on a smile, I stride forward, extending my hand to shake Aldo’s. His grip is a little too strong, so I increase the pressure tenfold and enjoy his almost imperceptible wince.
Funny. His eyes resemble Bianca’s, but where hers glitter like shards of glass in the light, Aldo’s could pass for those of a dead fish.
“Sorry I’m late. Got held up in the kitchen.” I sink into my seat at the head of the table, where a bowl of calamari salad and a plate of beef spiedini await me.
“Staff issues?” Aldo sniffs, his disapproval obvious.
“Incompetent help is usually a reflection of the mistress of the house.” While he sips his Chianti, I pour wine into my own glass before Bianca can stop me.
“Bianca. Be sure you see to the problem after your sister and I leave. If you don’t handle the staff with a strong hand, they’ll walk all over you. ”
My wife inclines her head. “Yes, sir.”
I don’t recognize my growing outrage until my glass overflows, spilling a line of deep red onto the engraved tabletop. I should be used to how Aldo speaks to Bianca at this point, but I’m not.
Livia, who sits at Aldo’s side, scans her surroundings, tracking each and every staff member who enters or leaves the dining room.
Curious.
Or maybe not, since hypervigilance is often a sign of abuse.
I grab an extra napkin and mop up the mess.
“I appreciate the sentiment, Aldo, but Bianca is well-respected by everyone here.” I chuckle and toss the ruined linen aside.
“I was putting the finishing touches on the dessert, and time just got away from me.” I press a hand to my chest in mock contrition. “My deepest, most sincere apologies.”
Slowly, Bianca swivels her head to gawk at me. Across the table, Livia’s hazel eyes inspect me like I’m a lab specimen. Aldo’s the only one who doesn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm.
“You cook?” His thin upper lip curls in derision.
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “I do. And bake. Learned from my mother, in fact. She was one hell of a chef.”
I wait for a reaction, any reaction, while fighting to maintain my usual relaxed, carefree posture. I need to figure out whether Aldo’s responsible for Dulce’s death before the anaphylactic shock portion of the night, which means gauging how he viewed my mother and where he was when she died.
I’ve been searching for the truth behind her murder for years.
Now, based on what Enzo shared with Dante before he died, I have the brother of the man who might have killed her right in front of me, sitting at the very table where we used to share family dinners, and I refuse to let him leave without answers.
If Enzo truly was involved in Dulce’s murder, then I bet Aldo was right beside him.
Aldo’s cheeks become even ruddier, but instead of addressing me, he scolds my wife. “Bianca, sit up straight.”
I bristle at the contemptuous tone the don uses with his eldest daughter.
He criticizes and tears her down every few minutes like clockwork.
At even the slightest sign of disrespect, Bianca has always put me in my place, but she accepts the reality of Aldo talking to her like he would a dog with an empty, emotionless expression.
No, emotionless isn’t quite right, because she flinches at the deeper digs when she doesn’t think anyone’s paying attention.
And more than once, I catch her shoulders tensing when Aldo shifts his posture too quickly or suddenly raises a hand.
Both reactions are so subtle that I’m almost convinced I’m imagining them.
As the stilted dinner progresses, I find myself scrutinizing her every glance, every adjustment, until I spot the reaction again.
That tightening around the eyes, that bracing of her spine, that flash of shame.
I’ve run into Bianca for years at dinners and charity functions or whenever the Contis could weasel their way into a non-Council exclusive event.
She was rigid as a kid, too, but back then, I didn’t understand.
I failed to recognize the silent warfare she waged.
Since those days, I’ve faced monsters of my own and witnessed the aftermath of my brother being consumed and ripped apart by them, so I can spot the chips in Bianca’s walls.
For the first time, I wonder how many pieces of herself she’s lost over the years and how much more she can endure before she breaks.
A staff member named Jules appears and begins passing out the panna cotta.
Finally, something to liven up this party.
Determined to get back on track before Aldo drops dead, I reach for my spoon. Bianca mimics me, only to stop short when Aldo wraps cruel fingers around her forearm.
“No.” He mutters the command under his breath as if I’m not sitting right here and gives her a little shake. “You’ve already put on weight since your wedding day. The Council would certainly have some thoughts about the Contis employing a fat capo.”
My fingers spasm around my dessert glass, and the stem snaps like a twig. As the glass shatters, the panna cotta spills across the tablecloth. Aldo whips his head toward me, his beady eyes traveling from the dessert to me.
Fury builds in my blood. No matter what might transpire between us behind closed doors, Bianca is my wife.
My wife.
Mine.
And nobody gets to treat her with this blatant disrespect.
Aldo frowns, his expression guarded. “Is there a problem, Marco?”
I can’t suppress my scoff. The man can’t even conceptualize that what he’s doing and saying to his own flesh and blood is wrong. No, beyond wrong. Repulsive. I want to rip him apart and feed the scraps to the birds.
Sweeping my plate and broken cup onto the floor, I ignore Livia’s flinch as glass explodes against the marble. I’m too laser-focused on how Aldo’s still holding Bianca like he owns her.
Livia reminds me of myself when I was that age.
The one everyone saw as weak and disappointing.
What they didn’t know was that even at my lowest, I would have moved heaven and earth to defend Dante regardless of the circumstances.
People treat Livia as if she’s some delicate flower, but no one survives a piece of shit like Aldo Conti without breaking unless they possess a core of pure steel.
I bet Bianca’s sister is tougher than anyone realizes.
I growl my next sentence. “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
Aldo smirks. “You’ve grown attached, haven’t you? I was only trying to be helpful, Argento. Bianca has a habit of overindulging, and it’s best to curb such impulses, especially in women.”
I withdraw the knife I stole from Bianca and place it on the table so the tip of the blade aims directly at him.
When I imagine stabbing him to death with the same blade his daughter came on, I laugh.
“You’re giving me marriage advice?” Resting my elbows on the table, I prop my chin on my interlocked fingers.
“Didn’t your wife fuck the guy who used to trim your hedges before she left you?
” My smile widens. “Guess that’s the one bush you didn’t hire him to get under control, am I right? ”
For some reason, no one finds my joke funny, but at least Aldo releases Bianca as he surges to his feet. Point to me.
The Conti don slams his fist on the table. “You Argento scum. How dare you!”
I rise from the chair, grab the knife, and stab the tip of the blade into the wood.
“How dare I? You come into my house, insult my wife, and have the audacity to raise your voice at my table? The only reason your throat isn’t open on my floor right now is because we haven’t had our dessert yet.
Remember where you are before I decide this tablecloth looks better painted in your blood. ”
“That’s enough.”
I spin around at Bianca’s voice, and my stomach drops when I discover Livia doubled over in her chair, her face buried between her knees. Bianca is crouched beside her, rubbing circles on her back while her sister gasps for air.
A panic attack. Dante experienced plenty of them after he escaped his torturers, so I recognize one easily.
Bianca glares at me, exhibiting the first signs of life all night. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
And here I thought I handled everything with surprising grace. Fuck it.
“I’ve officially had my fill.” I nod toward the peanut-laced dessert in front of Aldo. Might as well try to end the night on a high note. “Why don’t you taste the panna cotta before you leave? I promise it’s to die for.”