Chapter 13 – Isabella
T he underboss’s car was in the drive when we pulled up. There were a thousand things on the tip of my tongue, but with the guards in the front seat, I couldn’t say any of them to Gio. Besides, I’d had my chance earlier. Maybe if we could escape, maybe if Don Aldo died—maybe, maybe, maybe. There would always be another powerful man pulling the strings and directing our lives.
What if I took the strings? I didn’t need to be a man to be that powerful. A shudder rolled through me. I didn’t want that. No sane person did. But if ruling a criminal organization meant keeping my only family member safe….
That futile hope flew into the world, riding my sigh. My first order of business was protecting my brother. Trying to swim upriver would only land me in a pot of hot water.
Gio opened his door and bolted, garbling something about the underboss’s son being there. Even if his father wasn’t the underboss—the man who effectively blackmailed me—I would never be a fan of Cosimo Fabrizi. There were some people born mean. And being placed in a position of power allowed that meanness to grow. Cosimo was like the weasel in the children’s story that climbed into the coop just to kill the hens for the fun of it.
And of course, my brother idolized him.
Trudging up the front walk, I pushed inside. My eyes immediately tracked to the bundle of sunny yellow on the side table. The blood in my veins roared like a freight train. Air refused to pull into my lungs. The next few moments passed like a dream. I saw my fingers lift of their own accord, brushing over the velvet soft petals. One, two, three….
“Nine,” I breathed.
The big, gorgeous blooms didn’t reflect the warmth of their namesake, the sun. They were a response from my stalker, a stark defiance to my wish that he leave me alone. He didn’t leave them for me in my room, to find on my own. No! These had been sent to the house. This meant a delivery driver passed the guardhouse at the front gate, and an interaction happened between said driver and whichever maid answered the front door. The staff and the guards would know someone sent me flowers. What kind of gossip was swirling around the house already?!
A wave of terror passed through me. This forbidden little interaction was close to becoming a real danger.
This has to end!
I must not have made myself clear. My fingers curled into a fist. There was a card dangling off the vase’s ribbon. I plucked it off, memorizing the name of the florist. That was as good a place as any to contact and see what information could be found on my stalker.
“Those came while you were out,” Don Aldo said appearing at the end of the hall as if summoned by my traitorous thoughts.
“Who sent such pretty flowers?” Tullio sneered. The underboss stood like an evil henchman, not quite straight, looking up from under shaggy brows.
Ignoring the knot tightening in my gut, I shrugged. “Me, myself, and I.”
It was a good lie, but I needed it to be convincing. Thankfully there was no personal message, only the shop’s information, on the small card.
“We needed a new florist for the wedding. I called, and these are the samples I requested,” I explained, forcing my voice to stay light and airy. “Cecilia has had so much to deal with, I thought I would help. If we didn’t like the quality, there would be no harm done.”
A line formed in his forehead as Aldo’s brows drew together. “Sunflowers?”
“I wanted something pretty and bright,” I said with a smile I didn’t feel. “Fall is nature’s funeral, and winter her death.”
The underboss let out an ugly snort, while the don smiled condescendingly. “You’ve always been an odd duck, Isabella,” Aldo mused.
It worked. They saw the imaginative, silly woman. Exactly what I needed them to see.
“I hope your fanciful ways won’t come out when you take the Bruno last name.” The don pinned me with a hard look.
Madonna! I hadn’t even thought of that, but of course, he would want me to take his family’s last name. Italian women often kept their maiden names, and I would have done the same. But this was just another layer of control. Furthermore, if I hadn’t suspected they would change the name of our organization, this confirmed the famiglia was no longer my legacy. It didn’t matter that this criminal organization was founded on my family name. No! It had to be the grasping swine taking the throne.
“I would never let them interfere with my wifely duties, signore,” I answered meekly, lowering my gaze so they didn’t see the defiance burning there.
“And hopefully this time next year your motherly ones,” Aldo said with a wink, before turning and stalking back into the bowels of the house. The sounds of Tullio’s chuckling rang through the hall as he followed.
I slumped against the side table. Changing my name…. Sleeping with his son…. My focus had been on surviving the wedding, not what came after. Life as the perfect mob wife.
“Fuck me,” I muttered, because only the worst, most unladylike language would suffice in this hellish situation.
Snatching the vase of flowers off the entry table, I began to make my way to my room, glaring at the business name on the rectangular card. A quick change of clothes, and I would be on my way! The shop had better have a name for me. If I’d learned anything in all my years living with the famiglia, I knew how effective a shakedown could be. They would be far more likely to tell me the name of their patron if I threatened them in person.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!
Each clatter of my heels against the polished steps seemed to shout at me. Obviously, the sender wanted me to know where the flowers were from this time, or they wouldn’t have been delivered with a business card. But I shoved common sense back into the recesses of my mind. I was at the point of boiling. The pressure threatened to make me explode. Even if I didn’t find the identity of the ghostly intruder, yelling at the shopkeeper would feel so damn good.
I needed a release.
With a rough laugh, I barged into my bedroom and set the flowers on my nightstand. Self-care wouldn’t cut it. Closing my eyes, I ran my hand over my chest and up to clasp my throat. Memories from the end of last fall in Chicago prickled in my mind. I needed someone. But not just anyone.
A force of nature….
Dammit. Why did my first have to be mind-blowing? Nothing else would ever compare to that wild burst of freedom. With a shake of my head, I told myself it would have to be my vibrator that satisfied me tonight.
I took out my phone to order a ride. The guards would be so happy to take me out again after hauling two dozen pumpkins home for me today. Well, that was too damn bad. Italian mob wives were supposed to be spoilt princesses. It was time I started acting like one.
***
The quaint street was filled with old brick buildings and newly planted trees on the sidewalk. The florist was one of the bougie little shops, and as I pushed inside, a flutter of foreign language surrounded me. It wasn’t harsh or guttural, wrapping around me like a warm cocoon. I smiled warmly at the robust women behind the counter, who wore Old World clothing. Their long skirts swished across the floor and the blouses were secured by a belt.
“Stay at the door, please,” I told the goons at my back. They shifted about but gave me approving nods. Going up to the counter, I waited my turn before addressing one of the florists. “I had some beautiful sunflowers delivered this afternoon and was hoping you could tell me something about them.”
The full cheeks on the woman I spoke to paled. She brushed a wisp of hair back into the scarf on her head. “He said you would come.”
The phantom planned this.
My heart skipped double. In this game of cat and mouse, did I just play into my assailant’s hand? I could turn around and walk out that door. Make the smart choice. There was the promise of safety in the prison of the don’s care.
But the idea of dropping out of this contest soured in my belly.
“Who is he? Can you tell me?” I breathed, the excitement making my voice shake.
Those pale blue eyes widened. The florist fidgeted, looking around the shop. I didn’t miss how her eyes scanned my guards. It was within the realm of possibility that she was aware of the criminal underworld. I didn’t know which groups ruled the different sections of the boroughs, but since there was a heavy Eastern European vibe, it was entirely possible one of those families or clans controlled these streets.
And I just waltzed in here, like a damn prize.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
My heart hadn’t beat this fast in ages! A lightness lifted my chest, and for a moment my own troubles evaporated.
“Please,” I insisted. “It’s important to know who he is.”
“He said to give you this and show you into the display room. He said you would want to see the flowers for your wedding,” she stammered, accent becoming increasingly thicker with the nerves.
I took the card she offered, popping the seal as I followed her through one of the doors. My guards didn’t even budge from their posts. I could be walking into untold danger, and they stayed put because that was what I told them to do. The lazy assholes.
“These five stations are our most popular displays. Everything is available to rent and there is a catalog with more on the pedestal against the back wall,” the florist explained as she waved at the designated areas around the room.
Half walls partitioned the spaces to set boundaries for each display. One was a country picnic with a meadow backdrop. The wooden picnic table was set with a harvest feast. The food might be plastic, but the place settings and flowers were real enough. Another was a front porch decorated for Halloween. While the monsters and ghouls might be cartoonish, the strands of lights and ivy on the porch rails were tastefully done.
But it was the display set up clearly for a wedding ceremony and reception that made me pause. It stole my breath. This was how I envisioned my big day. Bright colors on the fall palate—blazing oranges, dark yellows, rusty reds, and deeper tones accenting the whole. I reached out to trail the tips of my fingers along the blooms of a chrysanthemum. I could see it. My hair would be down, loosely curled, with a ring of burnt, rich blooms crowning my head. The dress would be boho chic and off-white. There would be some fall vegetation on the tables, but mostly flowers out on a rustic chic setting. I wasn’t a country girl, but I loved this look. I swore I could smell the mini doughnuts freshly cooked for the guests and taste the mulled cider steaming in my mug.
“I’ll leave you to browse,” the woman said from far away.
Slowly, I came back from the daydream, carefully folding the ideas and tucking them into the recesses of my mind. That wedding wasn’t for me.
Neither was the groom. Tall, dark, and monstrous—ready to burn the world for me should I command it but hold me close to shield me from the flames. I swore I could feel the heat of his ravenous stare grazing the back of my neck. I reached up to touch the sensitive skin.
“That’s only a dream,” I laughed softly. I read too many books.
I slid the card from the envelope. I needed to discover who was behind this mess and clear it up. Quickly. It would be my final adventure before I was shackled to the will of a scheming man via his son.
There was a sheet of plain cream paper with a large, stiff font scratched across the face. I recognized the scrawl immediately by the abruptness and tightness of the letters. Anticipation pulsed through me. When my brain clicked from analytical to comprehensive mode, and I read the words, my heart stopped beating.
Let us live, my Lesbia, and love,
and the rumors of rather stern old men
let us value all at just one penny!
Suns may set and rise again;
for us, when once the brief light has set,
an eternal night must be slept.
Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,
then another thousand, then a second hundred,
then yet another thousand, then a hundred;
then, when we have performed many thousands,
we shall shake them into confusion, in order that we might not know,
and in order not to let any evil person envy us,
when he knows that there are so many of our kisses.
One of my favorite poems stared back at me. The beautiful longing in the verses was only enhanced by the knowledge that the poet was doomed not to have his love requited. I loved the soul of those beautiful words so much as a teen that I engraved it in a pendant and wore it every day until—
I reached for the chain around my throat. The horned cornicello hung from it, not the circular pendant that I lost in Chicago.
It can’t be.
“I’ve come to admire Catullus,” a voice growled from behind me. The familiar tone, one I recognized from the shadows, made heat blaze through me with enough strength that my nipples instantly tightened. “His Lesbia was unfaithful to him as well.”
The past and present, the lust and fear—the longing and absence—collided in a dizzying explosion, sending a strange reaction over me. It started low on my back, creeping up my spine, only to grip me around the throat in a chokehold. I tried and failed to draw air into my lungs.
It was him. The spectre was the man from last November, come from Chicago to haunt me.
My body responded with a rush of heat between my legs.
He found me.
A silent scream of terror ripped from my very soul. It was all I could do to keep my composure in the face of the past that seemed bound to crash and burn in my present.