Chapter 4 #2
Bianca got the message, too, and went for something bland and unassuming, a gray two-piece––a shift dress and a matching jacket.
She pulled her hair back into a bun and accessorized her outfit with a delicate platinum necklace with a diamond-encrusted cross.
She looked as if nothing in the world could make her smile, but I knew her better than that.
Up at the corner of her eyes, her mask began to peel off, and satisfaction glinted like a pot of melted steel.
She was ecstatic, fervent, euphoric.
Like a kid about to unwrap a gift.
Like a woman about to get a prize.
Like a prisoner about to taste freedom again.
Although there was no freedom with him. He was the opposite of freedom.
She knew who he was.
Women talked about him.
And men talked about him.
He was one of the most wanted men, for different reasons, though.
The long arm of the law was about to hammer down on him, and villains as much as lawmen were after him.
They wanted his freedom, his money, his blood.
They wanted his power, his name dragged through the mud, his credibility destroyed.
They wanted him to get ruined, so all the power he amassed would be up for grabs.
They hoped for one wrong move from him.
A stupid deal, a shady alliance, the pillars of trust collapsing, and a deluge of betrayals.
That’s what they wanted from him.
We all know that kind of business.
Even I know that sort of business, only watching it from afar.
You get backstabbed more times than you get a break.
You stare death in the eye more times than you revel in the promise of a better future.
Betrayal sits with you at the table, so it can turn into a fussy mistress in the bedroom, later.
Something must’ve happened to him, and with things coming sideways, the Gallo patriarch must’ve asked for a private meeting and made him a proposal.
Knowing Giorgio’s depraved ways, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with O’Hara’s empire falling apart to begin with.
For all I know, they could’ve been enemies.
But this is the game they play.
They don’t count on anyone to be their friend and know for sure that everybody wants them dead.
This is a cutthroat business, and no matter how big or powerful you are, you can’t stop being cautious, or you’ll fall like everybody else.
One day you’re up, the next you're down, and when it happens, losers can’t be choosers.
Giorgio must’ve known that––it’s only a speculation on my part––and asked my mother’s future husband for an unlikely alliance, which in exchange would've saved his legacy, restored his power, and also fended off bigger enemies they had in common.
Or so the story goes.
If Giorgio did that, he must’ve been certain he’d get a yes.
I can’t tell whether my mother suspected any of that. Even if she did, it mustn’t have mattered to her.
The fact that Callum O’Hara, the man with hot Irish and Sicilian blood simmering in his veins, would become her third husband was all that mattered.
She was as sure of that as she was about the shade of the nail polish she would wear that day.
What can I say?
My mother had never been interested in the unpleasant parts of our lives.
The business, the money, the shady deals.
In all fairness, we, the women, had never been welcomed to the negotiation table, but some of us, like me, were more perceptive than others about the men’s wicked ways.
Giorgio must’ve talked to her about setting her up with an arranged marriage, and I’m sure she didn’t oppose the idea.
She must’ve salivated at the thought that she’d get her hands on Callum O’Hara, especially since so many stories about women who’d fallen prey to the Irish mobster’s eyes had circulated in our world.
He wasn’t a player. Not in the sense a lot of fuckers are in our creepy universe.
All men I know have kept mistresses.
Even Giorgio, although Sylvia has never taken it lightly, and if he’s keeping mistresses these days, he makes sure she never gets wind of it.
But most of them don’t make a secret out of it.
It’s one of the perks of this life.
Women know that.
Men know that.
The other women know that.
And everybody’s doing their bit.
Once in a while, things have been renegotiated in private, usually in the bedroom, and some lucky women have bent that rule a little.
Still, most women haven’t cared enough for their men to engage in deep negotiations, or they’ve been too scared to fight something so ancient as this unwritten law.
So Callum hadn’t been a player because he never had a wife or a steady woman.
But he fucked. He surely did. That’s how the women got their hearts broken.
He fucked for pleasure, and sometimes, to gain something, and Giorgio was aware of that, hence the idea of an arranged marriage.
In my grandfather’s mind, pressing the Irish mobster’s back against the wall before offering him a way out was a genius move.
What can I say? He kind of nailed it.
Callum’s empire was restored to its former glory, with one caveat, though.
He was now a married man.
He lost his freedom, but knowing him, that part didn’t matter much.
He could fuck on the side if he wanted to and also run his empire whichever way he saw fit as long as he remained loyal to us.
And my mother?
She must’ve rubbed her hands together with glee at the thought that she’d be envied by every female with a pulse in the echelon of crime.
What better prize for someone as hungry for attention as she was?
And to be fair, she always liked complicated men. And Callum O’Hara was the poster boy for complicated men.
He started this kind of life as a teenager, quickly gained a reputation, and never stopped accumulating power, which made people hate him and also fear him.
That fear had fueled so many animosities, and so many people were invested in seeing him fall, that when it happened, he almost lost it all.
Props to my gramps for saving his ass.
My mother barely withheld a smile when the men returned from the special room that day, and Giorgio’s gaze glinted with satisfaction.
Not only was he the artisan of Callum’s comeback, but he could have O’Hara indebted to him for the rest of his life.
I may have only been eighteen when O’Hara entered our place, but I was a good observer of human nature even then.
Giorgio had a lot to gain, too, as is usually the case when these marriages are negotiated beforehand.
The new alliance made his influence bloom, it solidified his legacy, and helped his men conduct business in a larger territory, thanks to his son-in-law.
It’s always been about that, in fact.
Callum looked all right when he sat at the table, not overly excited, and certainly not nervous.
He and my mother had met before, in different circumstances, I suspect. She must’ve been married at the time.
One of the things my mother hated about her life was that no matter how willing she was to have extramarital affairs, not many men were dumb enough to risk their lives to have her legs wrapped around their waist.
So whatever thing she had for Callum, she had to keep it for herself.
Well, things were working in her favor that lucky night.
She played coy the entire evening. Didn't speak much and wasn't exaggeratedly friendly or flirtatious with him, or anyone else.
For the most part, the man didn’t pay attention to her.
He was all business, and his focus was mainly on my grandfather.
There was one other thing I learned that evening, too.
I was mortally wounded.
Callum O’Hara was everything I thought a real man would be.
He was in control and had things in his eyes that spoke of darkness and lust, while I was at a point in my life where I was already experiencing sexual arousal even without someone like him tossing a glance in my direction.
His carved shoulders, chiseled biceps, and bumpy pecs stretched his white dress shirt as his fingers stayed steepled together, and his elbows remained propped on the table for most of the time he spent in our house.
He already looked like the man of the house despite my grandfather sitting at the head of the table.
And for a second there, I wondered whether Giorgio had any idea what he’d gotten himself into.
Sinuous tattoos curled around Callum’s forearms while a diamond and black onyx signet ring, adorned with an encrusted dagger, graced his finger.
I had the privilege of studying him from across the table as he had his eyes on Giorgio and never dragged his gaze over the bloomed lilies overflowing from a vase in front of me so that he could notice me.
My mother was so excited about the development that she couldn’t even spare a glance in my direction, so she didn’t notice how fascinated I was with him.
The effect he had on me felt obscene.
So did my thoughts.
I knew that I needed him like I needed air. I had to have his arms around me, his lips on my lips, his fingers trailing down, igniting pleasure.
The room spun with me as I imagined things inappropriate for that gathering and the position I was in, yet nothing could stop me.
I knew even back then that he had to trace my neck with his lips and make a go for my chest, swirl his tongue around a nipple, and show me how it’s done.
How men like him make a woman go wild.
The idea of his teeth grazing my skin made me dissipate like a plume of smoke.
My mind was filthy.
It still is, but what can you expect?
I’m sure my mother delighted herself with her own dark fantasy as she contemplated spending time with husband number three in the future.
Many things have changed since then, but my obsession with him isn’t one of them.
The man didn’t play hard to get. He was hard to get.
My mother learned that, too.
One thing changed, though. Throughout this time, I morphed into a vicious, out-of-control mafia princess, and the more he ignores me, the more vengeful I get.
I need to have him grunt and groan on top of me more than ever. I need to hear him say my name with that unmistakable nasal rasp in his voice as he pins me under him and makes me sweat.