Chapter Twenty Guinevere #2
“Thank you,” Ginevra said with a nasty smile.
He ignored her. “The optics are not ideal, though. People know you worked with the Grecos and the Venetian against me—”
“Because we thought you had Guin—”
“Regardless,” he interrupted with a cool look. “Killing Gaetano was not enough.”
Ginevra didn’t flinch, but she did look at her hands in her lap for a moment. “He was not a good man. You would not understand, but you should not hold his actions against myself, my children, or the men who were loyal to the family but unhappy with his leadership.”
“You will make a list of the ones who were loyal to you,” Raffa instructed, leaning back in his chair and crossing one ankle over his knee.
He looked like a jungle cat trapped indoors, too wild to be tamed but pretending at it.
“And I know about unworthy fathers, Ginevra Pietra. Be grateful John Stone is not one of them. If Guinevere had been any more the worse for wear, we would not be talking at all.”
The threat was clear, sending a tiny thrill down my spine.
I would kill for you again until the streets of Florence ran red with the blood of your enemies, Raffa had told me, but it was only now I could see how truly he meant it.
How much I liked that he did.
“What do you propose, then?” Raul asked from his spot standing beside her chair.
“Reparations, to begin with,” Raffa replied, nodding at Renzo, who said, “Sixty percent of any take for the first year, with ten percent off every year after that until you reach the original twenty.”
Raul scowled. “That’s highway robbery.”
Raffa cocked his head to the side, considering the other man with lowered lids, an almost lazy insolence. “Would you rather have robbery or death?”
“And?” Ginevra prompted with a tired sigh.
“We need a public display of support,” Martina explained. “Something profound. The Pietras are one of the oldest, most respected families in the Camorra. If we are going to fight off the Venetian’s insurrection, we need visible support.”
“Would you like us to take out an ad in the paper?” my aunt drawled, and despite myself, I grinned at her drollness.
“She could attend public functions as your date?” Raul suggested.
The air went flat like stale pop.
“No,” I said, sitting forward for the first time. “That is not an acceptable option.”
“Guinevere,” Dad said, taking my hand. “Be reasonable.”
“I’ve been reasonable all my life,” I countered. “It hasn’t worked well for me. And I won’t be reasonable about this. Raffa should not have to pretend to date my aunt for political gain.”
I tried to ignore the little arrogant smirk on Raffa’s face, but it was hard not to match the grin with one of my own.
How was it possible that on one of the worst days of my life, I was also almost giddy with happiness? To have my dad here with me, no secrets between us, to have Raffa come for me even when I had taken away his hope, felt like gifts I had never dreamed of receiving.
“No,” Martina agreed slowly, eyes bright as she looked between Raffa and me. “But there is another option that could work very well.”
“Martina . . .” Raffa warned, grin collapsing into a dark look. “Do not.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It would only work if people knew about her heritage,” Ginevra cut in. “It would expose her even more than she already is.”
“Absolutely not,” Dad said, shooting to his feet to point a vibrating finger at Raffa. “No fucking way, Romano. I agreed to work with you to help my daughter, but I do not approve. Not one fucking bit.”
“Che cavolo?” I demanded. What the hell? “What are you talking about?”
Raffa dropped his foot to the floor and braced his forearms on his thighs to bring his face closer to mine. There was dried blood on the corner of his mouth that I shocked myself by wanting to lick clean.
“Marriage, Vera,” he said quietly, but the words seemed to reverberate like a struck bell. “They are speaking of marriage.”
Rage struck me in the gut, the breath leaving my body in a long whoosh.
“Excuse me?” I demanded after sucking in a lungful of air, the words sharp enough to cut. “Are you serious? You would marry my aunt?”
I knew arranged marriages were a thing in Mafia culture, even in Italian culture, but I could not even begin to fathom such a thing between Ginevra and Raffa.
Someone—Martina and Carmine, I thought—laughed a little.
“No, stella cadente,” Raffa murmured, even more softly than before, so I had to lean closer to hear him. “I would not. That was not what Martina was suggesting.”
I swallowed the bitter triumph at his words. “Then who?”
His mouth twisted into an approximation of a wry smile. “You are not usually so slow to understand. You must still have water in your ears.” A grin tugged at my mouth at his teasing, but before I could jibe back, he continued, “The only eligible Pietra left to marry, Guinevere. You.”
I gasped so deeply, I almost choked on the breath.
“She is not marrying you, Romano. Guinevere is going back to Michigan as soon as we can get a flight out of this place. She is not staying in Italy, and she is certainly not marrying a known felon.”
“Her father is one, so I don’t see why it should matter,” Ludo said.
“Vaffanculo,” Dad spat.
Fuck off.
Ludo merely shrugged.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Raul said. “We could introduce Guinevere to society as Gaetano’s love child, make it clear the line of succession is still strong, especially if she unites with the Romanos.”
“It would be a blow to the Venetian too,” Renzo added. “First the Grecos are incarcerated in a sting with the DIA, and then the Pietras are made loyal through marriage? It is very tidy.”
“It’s hardly tidy,” Dad argued. “Guinevere is not staying in Italy.”
“Dad,” I said, reaching forward to grab his hand and tug him reluctantly back into his seat. “I am staying.”
He blinked at me, the color draining from his face. “Guinevere, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’ve never been less ridiculous in my life,” I deadpanned.
“For a boy?” he stressed. “Your mother and I raised you better than that.”
“You did,” I agreed. “But I want to stay in Italy regardless of Raffa. For the first time in my life, I feel settled, like this is where I belong. You cannot deny that it had to be the hand of fate that threw me into Raffa’s path on my vacation.
I know you never wanted me to discover this place, but in doing so, I discovered the true me.
I’m not willing to give that up for any man. Even my dad.”
I had never seen heartbreak up close before, but it felt like a horror film played in slow motion. Each feature crumpled, his mouth downturned with the force of his grief, eyes squeezing shut like he could block out everything that had just happened, if only for a second.
“Damn it, Guinevere,” he said with a quiet croak. “You are all we have left.”
“I know, but I can’t live for you and Mom. I have to live for myself. I’m twenty-three years old, and I want the life I’ve started to make here.”
“With murders and mafiosi?” he asked, exasperated.
“With friends.” And my lover, I thought but didn’t say because there was still so much Raffa and I had to discuss.
“Besides, you have to know we can’t just go back to Michigan.
People here know that’s where I live, and even if I’m never with Raffa again”—I paused to breathe through the pain of that possibility—“I’m associated with him.
I would much rather stay here with friends who can protect me and teach me to protect myself. ”
“Even if you stay, you won’t marry him,” Dad declared, but there was a wild desperation in his gaze that begged me to agree with him.
“I won’t marry for Mafia politics,” I agreed. “And I won’t marry anyone who doesn’t ask me.”
It wasn’t a good enough response, I could see in his huff of frustration, but it would have to do for now.
“Let’s table that idea for the moment,” Renzo suggested. “And focus on some practicalities.”