8. Nico
NICO
A few days later, my red Ferrari is gone, replaced with a bird-shit-covered Prius. Giovanni leans against a nearby wall, smoking a cigar in his black leather glove.
Dammit. I’ll miss the Ferrari.
“You couldn’t have at least picked something red?” I ask, though I have to admit, the black really highlights the bird shit. Giovanni’s outdone himself.
“You can pick the color you want when you start making your own money.”
Making my own money, aka performing atrocities in the name of the Family.
“You know I’ve never told you this,” I say as I walk to the driver’s seat. “But black is one of my favorite colors.”
I slide into the driver’s seat and take more than a little satisfaction watching Giovanni wedge his oversized bulk into the passenger seat like a bear into a clown car.
Outside, the sky is an old wet rag, shedding snow in clumps that gathers beneath the shadows of passing buildings and melts into grey slush on the streets.
Exactly the sort of weather you’d hope for your fake engagement party.
“This is for you,” Giovanni says, placing a phone with a broken, taped-over screen into one of the sticky-looking cup holders.
“Any missed calls?”
“Your sister. She is unhappy to learn so late about your engagement.”
I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to tell Alessia how I picked up a wife just to fuck with Father, and how she begged me to choose someone else.
There’s no one else in all of the Cosa Nostra that would be a better choice than me. My father runs the Families in New York and my brother runs the Chicago mob. Any woman who married me would have everything she ever asked for. Any woman—except Valeria, apparently.
The worst part is that I understand.
If I were her, I wouldn’t marry me either.
“The Russians are unhappy with you,” Giovanni says, interrupting my train of thought.
The Russians, the Irish, the Chinese, the Greeks—somebody is always unhappy, and I have that special sort of charm that usually lands me as the target of their irritation.
The solution—always—is money, power, or reputation.
“I let Yevgeniy know you were taking his car out for a test drive. And as a thank you for such a show of friendship, you will be happy to ship him the contents of one of your warehouses.”
“I don’t own any warehouses.”
“You do now. The Acetos owned them, so now you own them. They come with men. Stefano will fill you in.”
“I’m not a capo.”
Years ago, I used to beg my father to make me, to let me prick my trigger finger and say the oath never to betray my Family. To make me a real button man so I could make him proud.
Now, he’d have to break every bone in my body before he could force me to induct myself into the Cosa Nostra.
“Your father wants you to take over the business. This is how you learn.”
I clench the steering wheel. “He knows I don’t give a shit about the business. Let Alessia do it.”
Giovanni exhales. “Alessia is a woman—”
“Then he better get real progressive, real fast, because I’m not doing jack shit for him.” I cast a sidelong glance at him. “And if you were smart, neither would you. Father respects power. If you want his respect, you can’t spend your days licking his boots and asking for seconds.”
“He respects loyalty. And if he does not have it, he will find a way to take it. In the years that come, when you raise your own family, you will better understand your father’s decisions. He has always been loyal to you. The decisions he makes for you come from love.”
I make a jerk-off motion with my hand, and Giovanni settles back into his seat, composed as ever.
Salvatore’s sleepy old consigliere lives in a quiet neighborhood, with a big two-story house and a perfectly manicured lawn, even in the dead of winter. As we park, two men follow the path of greenery to the front door before they’re swallowed inside.
“Try to be on good behavior,” Giovanni says. ”Your reputation is no longer only your own, and your wife’s family is already on the edge.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is an observation.”
A drone of polite conversation and jazz music surrounds me as we enter the house. Men and women dressed in their Sunday finest, standing in tight circles with mimosas in hand. A baby cries in another room, followed by a burst of laughter.
A tastefully decorated sign on a painter’s easel says Welcome to Valeria & Nicolo’s Engagement Party next to an arch of pink and white roses.
All of this for a man none of them like and a woman no one cares about.
Giovanni leaves me to greet some other capos who I vaguely recognize, but haven’t bothered to learn the names of.
I make my way to the kitchen to find one of those mimosas everyone’s holding. I don’t want to see Valeria until I’m halfway drunk—might as well give her another reason to fight this marriage.
Right on cue, her scumbag brother Stefano walks up to me with a glass flute in hand.
“Hey, good to see you, Nico—”
“Eat shit, Stefano.”
I take the glass, drain it, and toss it back to him as I walk past. He should’ve been less of a fucking dick to his sister. If I think too long about her sweltering in that jacket to protect him, it makes me want to pull out Stefano’s teeth one by one.
In my hunt for more alcohol, I pass Valeria’s dad, sitting alone at a small table in the kitchen. The first time I’d seen him, he was about to celebrate his attempted assassination of my brother and then begging for his life. Now, he’s a shell of a man, sitting alone.
It lowers the mood to have him here, but I’m sure Salvatore thought it necessary—a reminder to the others of what happens when he’s betrayed.
I find the alcohol and down three mimosas while some guy with a Harvard sweater grins with approval, and once I’m sufficiently buzzed, I decide it’s time.
Most of the old guys are playing cards in a sitting room—Giovanni among them and now Stefano, trying to suck up to the others by losing all his money.
I nearly spill my fifth mimosa as two little boys in bowties race past, their mom shouting after them.
The jazz music swells, and I spot her.
Valeria’s dressed in funeral blacks—did she think she was funny when she picked out a tight-fitting black sweater and black trousers?
Her short hair dusts over her shoulders as she tilts her head in thought.
I’ve never liked short hair on a woman, but it suits Valeria—showing off her long neck and sharp features.
In a sea of pastel skirts and blouses, she stands out like a raven.
At first blush, she seems content. A quiet smile plays at her dark red lips. A half-empty mimosa hangs delicately from her fingertips as she nods at the woman in front of her.
But I’m getting better at reading her.
Her shoulders are tense.
I grin. She’s annoyed with whoever she’s talking to.
The other woman spots me and smiles, before saying something to Valeria.
Valeria turns toward me. Her eyes flick down my figure.
I thought about wearing my shitty, torn jeans. My muddiest boots. A Cardinals jersey. But as always, it’s more fun to knock Valeria off-kilter instead.
I’m wearing my black, bespoke merino wool suit and matching Italian leather oxfords. I look like Salvatore’s brother. I look like my father’s son.
When Valeria’s eyes snap back up to mine, and the rest of the room fades away, I know I made the right decision. Her mouth flickers with a real smile, and she gives a slight nod of her head to suggest that I join her.
I weave through the small crowd, never breaking our eye contact.
“Darling,” I say, and her eyelashes flutter. I lean down to kiss her—despite her heels and height, I still have a slight advantage—but she turns her head at the last second, and I kiss her cheek instead.
I frown.
She places her hand on the center of my back—five fingers spread across my muscles there like she’s my handler.
The background chatter dies down as wives and mothers lean in for a shred of gossip about the new family arrangement.
“Nico, this is Giorgia. Giorgia, Nico.”
Across us, a dark-haired woman in a snug white dress holds my gaze for a beat too long, smiling with very white teeth.
“Nico Matassa. What a pleasure.” She speaks in a slow, measured cadence, like she’s inspecting each word before she says it.
“Giorgia was just telling me about your sister’s art gallery in New York.” Valeria’s hand drops from my back, and she takes a long sip of her mimosa. She’s wearing the simple engagement ring. I wonder if she’s already thrown the expensive one off a bridge out of spite.
“Your sister has quite the eye for art,” Giorgia says, holding my gaze. “Is she an artist herself? I’ve always wondered after seeing her exhibit on a trip one year.”
“No.”
Her smile wavers at my curt response.
Valeria finishes her mimosa. I offer mine to her, and she shakes her head, rolling the stem of the empty glass between her fingers.
I wish I could go back in time and turn the lights on at that party, just to see her fingers on my body. I’d like to see her pressed up against me through a mirror. We would make a good pair.
“I hadn’t realized Alessia ran an art gallery,” Valeria says to the other woman.
“Yes, she’s clearly an art lover,” Giorgia says.
I snort. “She thinks most art is bullshit.” I turn toward Valeria. “But I bet she’d love to see your collages. Alessia is all for female empowerment.”
Valeria holds my gaze with a wide-eyed I will kill you expression.
I grin.
“Is she coming to visit soon?” Giorgia asks.
“I’m not sure. She’s very busy.” And Father is likely to keep her busy, knowing it’s another way to punish me for not doing his bidding.
I drink my mimosa in one long gulp, pluck the empty glass from Valeria’s hand, and collect it with mine before passing it to Giorgia. “Will you go fill these up, Georgie?”
She isn’t as skilled at hiding her emotions as Valeria. Annoyance flashes across her face like lightning. “It’s Giorgia.”
I smile at her. “Giorgia. Will you go fill up our glasses? Now.”
She swipes them from me and storms off.
I face Valeria. “Are you enjoying the party?”
“Yes, I was having the most lovely conversation with Giorgia about you.”