Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Stella
Aunt?
Fuck no.
Yes.
Motherfucker.
I’m too young to be that man’s aunt. He’s probably older than I am. He’s hot. Like super-hot. He looks like he’s in his early thirties. That or he’s in his late twenties and seen some shit already. He’s definitely better than the shriveled-up piece of shit I’m marrying.
Oh, yeah. I know plenty about Manfredo Vizzini. He thought he was the hottest shit when he was younger, and maybe he was. He’s had no kids, but he’s had two wives. I’m supposed to be his new broodmare. I bet he’s shooting blanks. How many little blue pills will it take for him to get it up?
Vomit.
I try not to catastrophize. I try to find a silver lining to everything.
My life truly might be over since he’s already whacked two wives. I’m certain of it. So, the only lining here is one made of shit.
“Stella?”
“Hi, Mama.”
My mom joins me in the living room after hanging up her raincoat. She glances toward my dad’s office where he and Tommaso are still meeting.
“If you keep frowning like that, you’ll give yourself wrinkles.”
It’s a phrase my nonna used to say, and now my mom teases me with it.
“Then I guess I’ll be getting some Botox.”
She shakes her head and glances toward the office again. “How’s the packing going?”
“Fine. Since I’m not taking much furniture and half my clothes are useless now, it’s not taking long. I’m heading back to my place now that you’re home. You can play hostess with the mostest.”
“Half of your clothes are not useless.”
“They’re scrubs or going out clothes.”
“You’ll still go out.”
I shoot her an aggrieved look. She knows I mean party and clubbing wear.
She doesn’t bother mentioning I’m giving up my nursing career since Mano’s already decreed I’m not to work.
He might control plenty of shit in Boston, but I’ve made sure he has no clue I’ve already applied for my nursing license in Massachusetts.
Like hell I’m giving up my means to support myself.
No one can take my degree from me, so my BSN is for life.
He can’t undo my national board certification either.
Not true.
I wouldn’t put it past him to make me lose my licenses and certification.
But that’s why I paid a shit ton of money to ensure my application remains out of sight, out of mind for him.
He still can’t take my education away from me, which means I could continue to do things in healthcare without remaining a nurse.
I refuse to think I’ve wasted all these years of training.
“Maybe you could wear your scrubs as pajamas.”
Now I scowl. Is she for real?
Besides that being insulting—I earned wearing scrubs—I doubt Mano’s going to allow me to wear anything to bed. He doesn’t strike me as the type to let me bundle up in flannel, either. It’d be hard to shove his dick in me with thick cotton or flannel covering my cunt.
Vomit.
It’s not just a thought. I’m struggling against the urge. My anger masks my terror. I don’t want to die at twenty-nine.
“Maybe. Anyway, I gotta get going. I have plans this evening. The girls are taking me out.”
I have a close-knit group of five nursing friends.
We all studied for our national board certification together and work at the same hospital.
One’s a pediatric nurse, two are surgical nurses, one’s going through a nurse practitioner program, and one’s an ICU nurse like me.
She and I are halfway through a nurse anesthetist program.
The words are still coming out of my mouth as Papa and Tommaso step into the living room.
My gaze meets Tommaso’s, and he looks pissed.
Did my father annoy him? Because I sure as shit don’t give a rat’s ass in church on a high holy day whether he agrees or disagrees with me going out tonight.
I don’t have a ring on my finger yet. I don’t give two shits from Sunday if my father and betrothed signed a contract.
I refuse to think of Mano as my fiancé until I’m branded with an engagement ring.
I hug my mom and walk over to my dad. He hugs me and gives me a little extra squeeze.
Does he regret his decision? When I step back and meet his gaze, I think he does.
What the fuck did Tommaso say or do in the half hour they were alone?
Should I fear the man who’ll be my jailer once I board the Vizzini jet?
When I meet his gaze, I can’t tell a thing. His expression is completely unreadable. I can usually guess what my dad and brother are thinking when they give me that look, but I have no clue about Tommaso.
“I’ll be by in the morning before my last shift.”
Tommaso quirks an eyebrow. Does he wonder what I mean by shift? Does he disagree that I’m still working? I don’t care.
“Let Danny drive you home. The streets are a mess.”
I twist to look at my mom.
“I can drive in the rain. I’ve been doing it for thirteen years, and I’ve never had even a minor fender-bender.”
“Don’t tempt fate, tesoro.” Sweetheart.
“I’m not. It was nice meeting you, Tommaso. I’ll see you in a couple days.”
His jaw clenches, and I don’t think he cared for how dismissive that was. He’s gorgeous, and I wouldn’t mind staring at him if he were anyone else besides my soon-to-be nephew-in-law. But I don’t need any reminders that life as I know it ends on Friday.
* * *
“What’re you doing here?”
That’s not the politest greeting I’ve given someone, but I’m not happy finding Tommaso at the hole in the wall Irish bar where I’ve just had my third beer in thirty minutes.
I’m tipsy, but I’m also done drinking. I’ll be sober by the time my friends and I leave, and I’ll be good for work tomorrow.
I have eighteen hours before my shift starts.
“I enjoy live music.”
I practically snort my mouthful of beer. I swallow and nearly choke.
“In an Irish bar? In Chicago?”
He leans toward me.
“I’m not the Mafia princess getting drunk without a bodyguard at an Irish bar.”
My hackles go up immediately.
“I’m no princess, but you might be a toad.”
Who I wouldn’t mind kissing and turning into a prince.
Fuck. This is definitely my last drink.
“You’re the don’s daughter.”
“That doesn’t make me a princess. Don’t call me that, Tommy.”
Our gazes lock when I use a nickname I doubt he’s had since he was four. I meant to be snide, but that got a little too personal. I dart my gaze away and take another sip.
“You’ve had enough.”
He tries to take the bottle from me, but I pull it away.
“Stella?”
“It’s fine, Annie. This is Tommaso, my guard do—”
I barely catch myself, not that the two of them don’t know what I was about to say. Annie glances at Tommy—that’s stuck in my head now—then focuses on me. I saw how she looked at him because she’s not blind, but she looks nervous when our gazes meet again.
“It’s fine.” I take another swig before glaring at Tommy. “This is my last one for the night. I might get buzzed, but I don’t get drunk in public. You heard me say I have a shift tomorrow. I would never show up to work impaired. Back off.”
The last two words are a hissed whisper. I resent he’s trying to end my good time prematurely. This is my last hurrah before I go to Boston. The girls either have work or other plans between now and Friday. That’s why we came out on a Monday night.
Tommy leans away and nods before turning to the bartender. He orders a beer for himself, and when it comes, he raises his bottle to me. I clink mine without thinking.
“Alla famiglia.” To family.
He’s taking a dig. He’s reminding me I’ll belong to his uncle soon.
“Alla famiglia, nipote.” To family, nephew.
He grins. Arrogant bastard.
“What did you just say?”
A guy standing near the bar steps in front of me, separating me from my friends who’re to my left. Tommy’s still to my right. No one responds to the guy. I take another sip, or at least try to. He knocks the bottle away from my mouth, but not before it hits my tooth. It was hard enough to hurt.
“Back up.”
Tommy’s pissed. He didn’t yell. He doesn’t need to.
“Fuck off, dude. I was talking to the bitch speaking Italian in an Irish bar.”
“And I’m speaking English to the douche who just touched a woman who isn’t his.”
His?
Prehistoric. Chauvinistic. Misogynistic.
Sexy as fuck.
“Find a bottle of Chianti and shut the fuck up, Guido.”
In tan trousers and a starched button down with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, he looks nothing like a stereotypical Guido. No loud silk shirt. No gold chains or rings. No gelled back hair. He’s suave, so maybe that’s what made the idiot call him that.
This guy’s hammered. He’s tall, but he’s no match for Tommy. If he thinks Tommy’s a Guido and heard him speaking Italian, then—
“You’re fucking Stella Rizzo. Rich bitch Mafia princess.”
Fuckface’s pointing at me but speaking to his friends. This is why I hate being called princess. My father’s on the city council, and my mom’s on the board of several nonprofits. We attend galas, and we wind up with our pictures in the newspapers.
I glance at my friends, and they all look incredibly uncomfortable.
It’s a poorly kept secret what my family is in Chicago, so they all know but don’t talk about it.
I don’t know if they think Papa’s like John Gotti or just some kind of tycoon who steals and schemes the system to make his money.
I’ve never asked. I pray they don’t tomorrow.
“Go.”
I whisper to them, and all four shake their heads.
“Go. I’m safe with Tommy.”
None of them move. Tommy now stands in front of me, and the douche can barely see me over his shoulder. I turn toward the girls and take a step toward them. Tommy shifts to keep blocking me. I don’t know how he could tell I moved.
“He can watch out for me, but he can’t watch out for all five of us. If this gets ugly, I don’t want you guys to get sucked in. I’ll text you when I get home.”
“Let’s just go somewhere else.”