Chapter 16
Vivi
I WAS EITHER a masochist or an idiot. Probably both. Every time I fought with Luca or fought for him, I walked away in pain. Somehow, I couldn’t rework the wires in my brain to stop. Because if he wasn’t keeping my mind occupied, it was Mama with unseeing eyes.
The permanency of what happened at the mission hadn’t quite sunk in.
I was numb to it in a way that became a saving grace.
When my mind strayed too far into grief, my heart exploded, sweat laced my skin, and my body shook into an exhaustion that sleep never cured.
How could I live without her? How could I live without a soothing hand, a loving word, or an embrace to ease the hate consuming my soul?
Gesù. Everything about my life nearly buckled my knees.
But when I thought about leaving, my brain inadvertently returned to a certain scarred hit man, and even though he was a ginormous fuckwit, I was drawn to him.
Now that I’d found myself in a heap of trouble with my father, I was even more attached to the man he paid to spy on me.
Idiota.
That’s why I swam until I couldn’t think about anything except my arms and legs keeping me afloat in a sea of anxiety.
That is also how I found myself sparring with Luca again—a battle I’d never win—and then running into my brother as he stalked into the den.
He was no doubt heading to the catacombs, an underground river of tunnels leading to the “conference room” used for business dealings—mafia business.
“Stefano,” I called, picking up my pace. “Stefano, wait!”
A vein pulsed in his neck, but he turned, piercing me with his diamond eyes.
“Why is Mama’s suite locked?” I asked.
“None of your business.”
I grabbed the pressed sleeve of his button-down. His gaze narrowed, dropping to where I held him in place.
“I want her things,” I demanded.
He shook free from my grip. “You’ll get whatever he permits when he permits it. Nothing before then.”
“Good grief,” I snapped. “Vigo Cabello is not God.”
Amusement curled his lip. “He may as well be yours.”
“We’re talking about my mother! My mama, who I’ll never see again.”
“A woman who whored herself to satisfy simple desires.”
“How dare you!” I shoved him with everything I had.
He said that to hurt me, but what bubbled to the surface was incurable, vengeful hate.
One day I’d make him pay—not just for this but for everything he’d done.
I’d burn his arrogance into ash and choke him with it, then walk away with a smug grin.
I promised myself this with a grunt as I shoved him again.
“Go dig a hole and bury yourself in it, stronzo.”
His arm reared back.
My pulse exploded. I notched my chin up—a perfect target that seemed to fuel his hatred and the quick release of his punch.
Luca stepped between us, blocking Stefano’s fist and holding it in his palm.
“Touch her, and I’ll dig your grave myself,” he threatened with such cold terror that a shiver rolled down my spine. Tension ballooned into a thick cloud between them as his fingers tightened, and Stefano stood his ground.
“This is none of your business,” he insisted through his teeth.
“Everything about your sister is my business,” Luca countered, but only so he could report back to my father like the dutiful servant he was.
I rolled my eyes, ignoring the ache behind my rib cage that grew while the man sneered at Stefano. The man who, over the last five years, had been by my side every time I needed someone. Including now.
The testosterone level in the air was nearly suffocating while they waged a silent war. Finally, Stefano jerked out of Luca’s hold, his glare shifting to my own.
“Talk to me like that again, and you’ll pay for the insolence. I don’t care who protects you.” He pushed past both of us, and I twisted around to call after him.
“What about my mother’s things?”
“Forget that shit.” He turned. “Your petty needs are not a priority.”
“The business is,” I hissed.
“Which you would do well to recognize you share equity in. Help us, and we’ll help you.”
“With what? What can I possibly do?” I cried, throwing out my arms. “I have nothing to offer.”
A sharp laugh left his lungs. “Keep lying, and you’ll live to regret the duplicity.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Speaking the truth.” He shrugged. “Stop hiding, Vivi. Give us what we need, and you’ll have our protection. Without the full force of the family behind you, you’re dead. They’ll kill you.”
My heart tumbled in my chest. “Who, Stefano? What are you talking about?”
Without answering, he disappeared down the staircase leading to the catacombs. I stared after him, his threat swirling in my mind. He thought I knew something important, and if he did, then my father and the rest of the Cosa Nostra believed it too.
Stefano was right.
I was as good as dead.
?
I RETURNED TO my suite with icicles freezing my veins and chilling me to my core.
A hot shower barely melted the ice as my mind raced over what Stefano said.
I truly had nothing of value other than the baubles Mama had given me over the years.
Anything of true wealth belonged to her and was locked in the apartment upstairs.
I closed my eyes, dropping my forehead on the tiled wall.
Of course. It was my mother who had something worth dying for, and now everyone in this house believed it had passed to her daughter.
Also, the reason for the attempt on my life, the addition of the cameras in my suite, and why Luca was told to watch over my every move.
But none of this changed the fact that I had nothing.
Mama had only hinted in a whisper right before the barrage of bullets hit.
I have plans, Vivi. I’ll tell you about them soon.
The next minute, she was dead.
I would be too if I didn’t figure this out quickly.
I turned off the water, wrung the excess from my hair, and scrubbed my skin pink with a towel before walking into my room.
As I dressed in a sweatshirt and sleep shorts, I contemplated my choices.
Wine or the heavy feather-down quilt on my bed calling to me in a hail of comfort. I could wallow, or I could drink.
I chose the latter with a voluminous glass of Cabernet while sitting next to flames leaping in the gas fireplace.
Summer temperatures had yet to take permanent hold of New York; besides, Mama’s murder made my blood run cold.
Whatever she had, Stefano hoped to find it before I could, so he locked me out of her suite. But I knew of another way inside.
While picking apart a strategy, I ran my fingers through my hair, spreading out pieces to dry as the fan pushed warm air from the hearth.
Over the years, the color had slowly lightened from a dull gray to a silver sheen, still a far cry from Mama’s platinum blonde.
An ache blossomed in my chest, wilted petals of loneliness falling into my stomach.
I’d never been so alone. Sure, Dante loved me.
I never questioned his feelings, but he used the mansion as though he were Hugh Hefner, and a bevy of Playboy models rotated through for his entertainment.
He wasn’t involved in the business. He wasn’t up to speed on the day-to-day.
If I asked, he might help me. Would Luca?
Luca, who heard Stefano’s threat, Luca, who had stepped in and saved me countless times over the years.
An ache pulsed behind my rib cage, so I smothered it by going into the kitchen and finishing the bottle of wine while standing at the counter.
By the last sip, my head swam with a pleasing numbness.
I tripped on my way to sit and landed on the end of the lounger, rolling onto my back with my legs in the air.
A laugh scraped roughly against my throat.
My eyes stung but remained dry, even as I squeezed them shut.
How did happiness exist when the world crumbled around me?
Electricity sparked beneath my skin—the kind that told me I wasn’t alone. A feeling that always warmed me from the inside out when Luca walked into a room. I enjoyed the heavy weight of his stare for a moment before opening my eyes.
Sleek frame.
Broad shoulders.
Full lips.
His beauty stole my next breath. Shadows bounced and licked over his features, painting him in an ethereal light. Ghost or man, my mind couldn’t decide.
The longer he stared, the less oxygen there was to consume in the room.
My lungs constricted. My heartbeat thump, thump, thumped.
His gaze slid over me, from my hair fanning out on the cushion to my face and my body, and he paused on my smooth, bare thighs that were crossed, knees bent, and feet hanging.
I shook off a shiver as his eyes dragged back to mine and held on.
“Vivienne.”
His voice was soft; my pulse was not. I hated when he used my full name. How silky smooth it sounded coming from his mouth, and how I imagined it would feel against my neck. An itch grew beneath the surface of my skin—a sensation only he could scratch, but his hands remained fisted by his thighs.
“Mio salvatore,” I replied. The wine had muddled my head and slurred my speech, so the syllables were too long and the consonants too soft.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Quanto hai dovuto bere? (How much have you had to drink?)”
“Abbastanza (Enough).”
“Ho portato la cena. Il minestrone di Francesca (I brought dinner. Francesca’s minestrone),” he said in that same low tone. “You haven’t eaten, and I think you should.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t do anything but drag my gaze past the bulge in his pants, over the white cotton of his shirt and the thick muscles beneath the fabric, to his bobbing Adam’s apple. Finally, I found his eyes.