12. Manuel
TWELVE
MANUEL
T wo days later, I was in my office in Paris.
The visit to Alexandra was fruitless. The woman refused to share anything, her lips shut tightly—whether from fear or stubbornness, I didn’t know. One thing I did know: whatever the secret she was keeping, it was huge.
I rubbed my eyes behind my glasses. The words on the screen were fuzzy, my body was tired, and my mind was too chaotic to focus.
Sighing, I picked up my tumbler of grappa. I’d have preferred something stronger, but I needed to finish going through my spreadsheet before I could afford falling into a drunken stupor. Weeks of sleepless nights had slowly begun to take their toll on me.
A sharp knock sounded on my office door and I looked up from my laptop to see my nephew grinning like a fool. Of course he was happy, tomorrow he was tying the knot. He’d found his match in the mysterious violinist, Isla Evans, and I hadn’t seen his smile slip in weeks.
I, on the other hand, was still searching for mine. Athena was nowhere to be found—not for a lack of trying.
“You’re getting grumpy in your old age,” Enrico remarked as he took the seat opposite of me.
“And you’re getting annoying in yours,” I deadpanned. “Better knock that shit out or Isla will run the other way tomorrow.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk and sipped my drink, my thoughts drifting to white dresses and long auburn hair. I needed to get a grip.
He tilted his chin toward my laptop. “Are you busy?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “No, I’m just staring at my laptop for the fun of it.”
“Cristo, you’re really cranky, zio mio.”
I narrowed my eyes, almost tempted to smack that satisfied grin off his face. Instead, I leaned back into my chair, studying him. Isla, his bride-to-be, was significantly younger than Enrico, but I could tell she’d be good for him. She was already ruffling his feathers.
“You ready to be a married man?” I asked.
“Can’t wait. She’s stuck with me now.” He grinned, his eyes darting to the window. I had never seen him this settled before.
“Pussy-whipped,” I muttered under my breath, reaching for a pen. “Did you come here with a purpose or do you need me to calm your fluttering heart?”
He flipped me a bird. “Vaffanculo.”
I snorted. “Some of us have real work to do.”
His eyes flitted to my laptop, then back up. “What are you working on?”
“Harvest, wine, and olive numbers from Tivona and Tuscany.” The Marchetti empire was going strong, but I enjoyed building businesses from scratch and seeing them flourish. Over the past twenty years, I’d built an empire of my own, independent of the Thorns of Omertà. I was born into the criminal world and more than likely I’d die in it, but I’d leave a legitimate legacy behind too. “And I have architectural designs to review for the Amalfi project.”
Enrico nodded. He understood the need not to be consumed solely by the Omertà. After all, before his brother died, he wanted nothing to do with this world.
“I need a favor.” Now that got my attention. He never asked for anything. “Isla is very close with her friends.” I waited for him to continue as he handed me a piece of paper. “After church tomorrow, can you go to this address, pick up the girls—you’ll recognize them, they’ll be wearing bridesmaid dresses—and then bring them over for our wedding dinner?”
“How many girls?”
“Four. Two of them are Romero’s girls.”
“Enzo and Amadeo will be in heaven tomorrow,” I remarked dryly. “Surrounded by beautiful women. It’s a dream come true for any teenage boy.” We both snickered, but I didn’t miss the satisfied smile playing around his mouth. “Isla will be good for them.” He nodded, a pensive expression lingering in his eyes. “Will you tell her the truth?”
The truth was related to our family, and only a handful of us knew about it. It would be dangerous for all of us—especially the boys—if that secret was exposed.
“Yes, I want her to understand.”
I nodded. “It’s the only way to start a marriage.”
A good marriage anyhow.