Chapter 4
Alessandro
“What did she call you?” Elena whispers at my side and then switches to English for a beat. “ Fucking asshole? That’s a new record for you. Usually, it takes at least a day for them to hate you.”
I laugh. “Well, at least she’s still breathing. Name one of your suitors that you haven’t had killed.”
Elena’s thirty-two and has successfully gotten out of every-single betrothal that’s been set up for her.
I handled some of them. Max Calabrese was an outlier where my sister didn’t have to lift a finger to get out of that one.
The rest? I’m unsure of myself. Elena must have asked for help from someone else.
She playfully shoves me as I spot Sal walking past the two of us.
Alongside myself, he’s another one of Marco’s capos.
The one I trust the most—except for maybe Gio, the computer guy—but Sal has seven children who all have young families who would struggle to flee if things don’t go as planned on the day of our wedding.
“Give me a moment, Elena. I need to tell Sal something before dinner.”
I clap my hand on his shoulder. “Has the news gotten around?”
Sal raises his eyebrows at me. “There’s always news. What specifically are you talking about?”
I keep my voice low. “Marco’s plan for the reception.”
“Is there a new band?” he jokes.
“No. I shouldn’t tell you the details here, but it’s going to get ugly. Marco is still angry about Elena’s arrangement getting called off, and he plans on retaliating.”
“During the reception?” he hisses. “Where all our families will be?”
“Yes, which is why I wanted to make sure you knew, seeing that you have roughly three-hundred grandchildren under the age of twelve. And who knows if Marco was planning on telling you and the rest of the captains or not.”
Sometimes Marco likes to leave important information out for dramatic flair.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course, Vincenzo knows already, but make sure Gio and Dante find out as well.”
“Elio too.” Sal gives me a look. I nod even though I despise Elio as much as Vincenzo. Those two have been attached at the hip ever since we were children and made my life miserable. So naturally, I hate him too. But Sal doesn’t, and I have to remain diplomatic.
We finally reach the main dining hall. One of the largest rooms in this place with a long table to accommodate this gathering.
The ceiling is three stories tall, but we’re in the center of the castle, so there isn’t any natural light—giving the room almost an intimidating, dim atmosphere.
It’s a perfect place to share a meal with my future wife for the first time.
The steaks are barely cooked—rare as hell, just the way Marco likes it. And perfect little Sofia hasn’t touched her meal. I’m sure she has some type of special diet to maximize her athletic performance or whatever the fuck.
I observe her behavior as she tries her best not to look at me despite sitting directly across from me. She flicks the food around her plate, her eyes trying to latch onto anyone that isn’t me. I know that I'm being petty, but I feel a smile form on my face at her discomfort.
For a microsecond, she finally makes eye-contact with me. But the fire is gone from her, and she looks worried. She bites the inside of her cheek as a light sheen of sweat forms on her forehead; her face grows pale as if she’s about to be sick.
What the hell? Am I really this repulsive to her?
I shake that thought away as Marco drones on and on about… dissolving a body in acid? In graphic detail.
Then I realize that’s why Sofia is looking ill suddenly.
I suppress a chuckle and scan down the Calabrese side of the table. The women look uncomfortable and scared—Sofia looks to be in the worst shape of them all.
“Marco,” John Sr., Sofia’s grandfather, speaks up, interrupting Marco’s story. “Can we keep the dinner conversation family-friendly?”
Family-friendly.
Does he know where he is?
Marco manages to keep his manners. I know his goal is not to show his cruelty before the wedding: lull the Calabreses into a false sense of security.
“Apologies. Sometimes I get carried away with work.” He shrugs as if his ‘work’ is something mundane, like working in finance or a hospital or anything that doesn’t involve dissolving bodies in acid regularly.
Which we don’t even do that often, we got an incinerator installed in the basement ten years ago.
Vincenzo cackles next to Marco and then suddenly stops. Marco must have kicked him under the table.
Silence falls over the room. I decide to help by making Sofia even more uncomfortable.
“You don’t like your steak?” I ask.
Sofia finally meets my gaze. Brown eyes heated; her cheeks flushed. She gives me a fake smile. “Everything is fine, but I ate quite a bit of pasta for lunch. Still full.”
I can tell she’s lying. Her parents were hissing insults into her ear after our ‘initial’ meet and greet. She’s supposed to be minding her manners.
“It’s not too… is it cooked enough?” I ask, irritated that I have to speak in English for this meal. She looks down at the plate. At the blood pooling out of the piece of meat. “I don’t want you thinking this is similar to what Marco is talking of.”
Her face pales even more, and I see beads of sweat form on her forehead. Marco glares at me. I should behave myself, but this is too much fun.
She pushes her chair back and stands up. I’m worried she’s going to collapse, but she hurries out of the room.
Her mother stands up to follow, but I stop her. “Allow me. My English is not so good.”
She looks at her husband, who looks at his father. The old man nods his head at me, so I hurry off after her.
When I exit the dining hall, I ask one of the staff which direction she went and then jog towards her. My shoes tap on the white tile that lines the floor of most of this level, echoing against the tall, vaulted ceilings.
I find her facing a wall, her forehead resting on it and breathing heavily. She’s as white as a sheet. As I take a few steps forward, she stumbles a bit and catches herself just as I react and get a hold of her arm.
She startles, looking up at me. Her expression quickly turns to anger at the sight of me. “Get your hands off me.”
“I thought you were going to faint. Sedere.” I tell her to sit down.
She remains defiant and leans against the wall unsteadily. “Why are you here instead of literally anyone else? Where’s my mom?”
“She wanted to help, but I told her I’d sort everything out.”
“And my family just… let you come find me?”
She looks towards the dining room, incredulous.
“After the way your brother broke my sister’s heart? Your family has to do as we say.”
She snorts. “Broke her heart? They never met.”
“I know. I’m just fucking with you. Now sit down. Until the color in your face gets back to normal.”
I can tell she wants to fight me some more, but she looks really sick, and I question whether I’m going to be cleaning her vomit off of me this evening—I’m sure if she puked, she’d aim for me. But she surprises me and slides down to the floor.
Good girl.
She rests her elbows on her legs and her head in her hands, pretending I’m not there as I take a seat on the floor across from her.
“What are you, a vegetarian or something?”
She huffs. “I’m reacting to that disgusting story your father told.”
“Marco is not my father,” I growl. I loathe people referring to him as that.
He took me in but does not deserve the title.
Then I ponder what she’s telling me, and I can’t help but chuckle.
She grew up in a connected family and freaks out about someone speaking crassly about body disposal?
“That really got to you that much? I’m sure your family does the same.
Dissolve a body into red mush and toss it into Lake Michigan. ”
Her hands ball up, clutching her dress. I can feel the tension in her body from here, and my words made her face turn another octave paler. I can’t fathom how squeamish she is.
“It’s a phobia,” she growls. “And wrong side of the state.”
“What?”
“Lake Michigan is on the western side of the state, bordering Wisconsin. My family aren’t animals like yours, so I’m sure we don’t do that, but if we did, it would get dumped into Lake St. Clair.”
“Great. Thanks for the geography lesson.”
“Why are you such an asshole!? What could I have possibly done to you in this short amount of time?” She looks uncomfortable towards the dining room, looking less sick at least.
“Jumping on the hood of my car like a Neanderthal isn’t the best first impression.”
She rolls her eyes, looking at her cuticles, and then she snaps up. “Did you know it was me?”
I nod.
“How?”
“Research.” I shrug. “You’ve left quite a trail on the internet. Doing your little poses with your friends, showing off how great of a person you are, pictures of you in the gym in only a sports bra.” I growl the last few words, wondering why that last part bothers me so much.
“So, what? You decided you hated me from Instagram?”
I nod. That pretty much sums it up. Also, there’s that tidbit of information that we’re planning on murdering her grandfather and brother—that’s another reason I’m not getting too attached, but I can’t let that slip.
I can tell from her facial expression that her mind is going a mile a minute trying to figure out what I hate about her. I decide to help her out. “You come off as spoiled in your posts.”
“Spoiled?” She points up at the ceiling. “You live here, right? In this castle?”
“My family has more money than yours. But only you had the pampered life.”
“Pampered.” She snorts. “You’re crazy, you know that?
Judging someone that much from social media?
You know that stuff is only a highlight reel.
” She stands up, and I feel less nervous about her collapsing or projectile vomiting; she seems to have healed from Marco’s story.
Being angry with me must be a pleasant distraction.
“Or maybe you don’t know that. Did you even grow up with the internet or are you too old? ”
It seems like she’s genuinely asking. Which is much more offensive than if she were trying to insult me.
“No, I barely had electricity,” I answer sarcastically.
But there’s some truth in that statement. Before my mother died and Marco took us in, we had no money, so the lights were only consistently on in the winter when it was illegal for the utility companies to shut them off. Then I moved into this fucking palace and experienced what real hardship was.
“So, is this how our marriage is going to be? You being a jerk all the time?”
“Not if you behave.” I give her a smug smile.
Her eyes narrow at the sexual undertones of that statement. She switches to English for one word.
“Asshole.”
I’m wondering if that’s what she’s going to call me regularly. I haven’t even heard her say my name at all. I don’t know why that pisses me off, but it does.
She walks off, and my eyes trail down her body. Her attitude is… something I haven’t experienced before. Elena speaks her mind to me, but that’s different since she’s my sister. This is going to be an entertaining marriage, assuming she doesn’t cause me a stroke or a heart attack from stress.
And assuming we both survive the wedding reception.