Chapter 7 Elio #3
"You seem distracted," Gia observes as our appetizers arrive. "Second thoughts about the ‘audition’?" She says the last with a humorous lilt to her voice, as if it’s already an inside joke between us, but I’m having trouble finding the humor in it.
"Not at all. I apologize—it's been a long week."
"The transition must be difficult. Taking over for someone like Rocco De Luca..." She lets the sentence hang, giving me space to elaborate if I choose. It’s clear that she’s carefully not saying whether she liked or disliked Rocco personally so that she can take whichever side I fall on.
It’s wise for a woman in her position. It also makes me like her less.
“Rocco’s father was a good, strong leader. His son made so many missteps that he died on his knees in a hotel room.” My jaw tightens. “I have a lot of messes to clean up. A lot of things to make clear that I don’t condone. And a lot of changes to make.”
"You have Mr. O'Malley's support, which counts for a great deal in this city." She smiles. “That must make it easier.”
“Not ‘Ronan’?” I glance at her as I scoop an oyster from its shell. The scent of baked cheese and herbs fills the air. “I’m ashamed to say that I don’t remember you as well as I should, but I know you spent time around the family when we were all younger.”
“I thought I should be more formal, considering the circumstances. But yes.” Gia looks at me keenly, a small bit of toast with steak and yolk on her fork. “I remember you. Quite well, actually. I had a bit of a crush on you when we were children.”
I nearly choke on my oyster. “You did?” I manage after swallowing both the oyster and a sip of wine. “I’m afraid I wasn’t aware of that.”
She lets out a sound that’s close to a girlish giggle. “Well, I did a good job of hiding it, of course,” she says conspiratorially, a smile on her lips as she reaches for her wine. “And of course, you were too busy staring at Ronan’s sister.”
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "His sister?"
“Yes.” Her gaze sharpens slightly. “Annie. She’s grown up to be so beautiful, really, even if she has taken an…
unconventional path with her life. Of course, she’s quite off-limits to anyone who values their skin.
I’m astonished neither her father nor Ronan married her off, but who knows?
” She shrugs. “Maybe no one has been good enough for her, as far as they’re concerned. ”
The bite of steak that I just took turns to ash in my mouth. Not good enough. Of course not. I’ve known all my life that I’d never be good enough for Annie, but hearing it aloud cuts differently. Especially coming from the lovely mouth of the woman I’m on a date with currently.
"I wouldn't know,” I say flatly. “I handle business matters with Ronan, not family matters."
Gia's smile is knowing. "Of course. Though I imagine it must be difficult, working so closely with the family. Seeing her regularly. Especially given your… history."
I swallow a gulp of wine. Fuck. How much does she know? How much did she see, back then? How much does anyone know about what Annie and I were to each other back then, or suspect?” "I'm not sure what you mean."
Gia rolls her eyes playfully, clearly not grasping that this is a line of conversation I have no interest in continuing to go down. “Oh, please.. Everyone knows there was… speculation about you and the youngest O'Malley daughter. Before you left for Chicago, of course."
Speculation. I never heard any of that. But maybe that’s why Padraigh was so quick to find me a place in Chicago. So quick to put distance between me and the rest of the family.
He didn’t know anything. Neither did Ronan. If Padraigh had, I’d have been dead instead of shipped off to Chicago, and if Ronan knew, I’d never have been invited back. But maybe there was suspicion… of desire, at least, if nothing else.
I set down my fork, meeting her gaze directly. "If you have something to say, Gia, say it."
"I'm simply observing that it must be challenging to focus on building a new life when the past keeps... intruding." She takes a sip of wine, her expression carefully neutral. "A wife could help with that. Provide focus. Clarity."
She's not wrong. A wife would provide exactly the kind of stability and respectability Ronan wants to see from me.
A wife would give me something else to think about besides the way Annie's breast brushed against my arm in a meeting, the way her breath hitched when I leaned close to her at dinner.
A wife would be a barrier between me and the temptation that threatens to destroy everything I've worked for.
A wife would be a sexual outlet. One that I would be honor-bound to remain faithful to, even if it killed me, because I have no interest in cheating on a woman I’ve made vows to, whether I love her or not. Gia should have no worries in that regard.
Most men would kill to have the opportunity to fuck a woman like her, to marry her, to be the one and only that she belonged to. And I’m sitting here, dreading the thought of taking her to my bed instead of Annie.
I need to get my fucking head on straight.
"You're very perceptive."
Gia nods, her expression still calm and flat, giving away nothing.
"I'm practical. And I think we could be good for each other, Elio.
I understand the requirements of this life, and I have no romantic illusions about marriage.
I want security, status, and children. You need a wife who won't complicate your business relationships or create unnecessary drama. We both get what we need." She smiles. “And if I might be fulfilling a bit of a teenage fantasy with the possibility of getting you, there’s nothing wrong with that, right? It would make it all more pleasurable for everyone if I’m… happy with the situation.”
Christ. There she goes again, talking about sex in those carefully euphemistic terms that still make it plain that she’s thinking about what happens on the wedding night, and is eager for it. There’d be no tears, no frigidity, no reluctance. I’d get a perfect wife, and one happy to be in my bed.
It's a reasonable proposal. A smart proposal. Everything about Gia Marcelli makes sense for a man in my position.
So why does the thought of marrying her feel like a betrayal?
"I think we should continue getting to know each other," I say finally. "See how things develop."
Gia nods. “Of course. Although you’re not the only man whom my father is considering as a prospect. You should know that, Elio.”
I’m sure it’s a bluff—there’s no one more powerful in Boston besides Ronan, who is already married, and Ilya Sokolov, the Bratva pakhan.
Her father might have inroads with Ilya, but I doubt Gia would be so casual about that possibility unless she has a hell of a poker face. I’d be impressed if that’s the case.
I do like that she knows her worth. She’d never beg a man to choose her, even though I know from the way she’s discussed all of this, her honesty, and the way she looks at me that she wants me to be the one to ask for her hand.
She wants a strong husband, a protector and a provider, but she’s no doormat or blushing damsel, either.
She’s a good woman, even if I see a bit of cattiness in her when it comes to the way she speaks about Annie. But, of course, Annie is competition, to her way of thinking. And she’d be a good wife.
She’s just not the wife I want. Not the woman I dream of. My chest feels tight, thinking of sliding a ring onto her finger, making unbreakable vows. I feel cold, thinking about taking her to my bed.
I managed just fine in Chicago. I was no monk, that’s for sure.
But since I’ve come back to Boston, since I saw Annie again, I can’t bring myself to desire anyone else.
I can’t fathom taking a woman home, even though I know eventually I’m going to have to get past this.
With her so close, with her real again… she’s all I want.
And I can’t have her. I never can.
“Of course,” I say carefully. The waiter is approaching again to get our entree orders, and I feel a little as if I’m being rescued. “I’ll keep that in mind, of course, Gia.”’
The rest of the dinner passes pleasantly enough.
We share dessert, a pumpkin creme brulee, and I walk Gia out to where her driver is waiting.
I know better than to try for a kiss, even if I wanted one, but she leans in to kiss my cheek, and I’m surrounded by a cloud of that warm vanilla scent again.
“I’m looking forward to the next date, Elio,” she says with a smile, and then she’s slipping into the leather interior, disappearing from view as her car starts down the street.
I stand there for a moment with my hands shoved in my pockets, watching the car drive away.
I’m tempted to go somewhere and get a drink, and I glance down the street, where there’s a piano and martini bar that I’ve passed by a few times recently.
It’s not the type of place I would have frequented in the past, but why the hell not?
I’m a different kind of man these days, or at least, I’m meant to be becoming one.
Starting down the street, I stop at the light for the crosswalk. And as I do, I see a couple step out of the bar.
For a moment, I don’t think to really look at them. But something about the woman catches my eye, even from this distance—something about the curve of her shoulders, the way she tilts her head.
Then she turns slightly, and copper hair catches the streetlight. I see the shape of her face, the way her mouth tilts up as she laughs, and I know.
Annie.
My heart slams against my ribs as I recognize her profile, the delicate line of her jaw, the way she gestures with her hands when she talks. She's wearing a green dress that hugs her slender curves, and her hair is loose around her shoulders.
She looks beautiful. She looks happy.
She looks like she's on a date.
I realize with a clench of hot, furious jealousy that it’s Desmond, the man who interrupted us at the bar.
He’s wearing jeans and a blazer, his red hair styled back away from his face, his profile sharply handsome in the same light illuminating Annie.
He's leaning close to her, one hand resting possessively on her lower back, and when she laughs at something he says, the sound carries across the distance between us, hitting me like a physical blow.
I know I should keep walking. I know I should get in my car and drive away, pretend I never saw them. But my feet have other ideas, carrying me closer despite every rational thought screaming at me to stop.
Desmond Connelly. That’s how he was introduced to me at the bar. The name has been nagging in the back of my mind, reminding me that I should know him somehow—or know of him, at least. But I haven’t been able to place why.
As I pause on the other side of the crosswalk, it hits me. Desmond Connelly. Siobhan Connelly.
Desmond was Ronan’s brother-in-law. Until Siobhan died.
Annie is out on a date with Ronan's dead wife's brother.
What the fuck?
I don’t know anything about the relationship between the O’Malleys and the Connelly family except that Ronan married the oldest Connelly daughter—I think there was a younger one, still a child when I left Boston—and that Siobhan died violently.
That her death spun the events into motion that eventually led to me being here, taking over from Rocco, her murderer.
Ronan hasn’t talked about it beyond the absolutely necessary details, and the last thing I intended to do was pry.
But he hadn’t mentioned Desmond. And I wonder, watching the two of them, what Annie is doing with Siobhan’s brother.
The rational part of my brain knows I should walk away. The rational part of my brain knows that Annie O'Malley's dating life is none of my business, that she's a grown woman who can make her own choices, that getting involved would be the fastest way to destroy everything I've built here.
But rationality has nothing to do with the rage that floods my system when Desmond pulls Annie closer, then leans down and presses his lips to hers.
She doesn't pull away. She doesn't resist. She lets him kiss her right there on the street, lets him stake his claim where anyone can see.
Where I can see.
My hands clench into fists at my sides, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to cross the street and rip him away from her. Not to show him exactly what happens to men who touch things that belong to me.
Except she doesn't belong to me. She never has, and she never will.
The kiss ends, and Annie's cheeks are flushed when she pulls back. Desmond says something that makes her laugh again, and the sound is like acid in my veins.
As if sensing my stare, she glances in my direction. Our eyes meet across the distance, and I see surprise flicker across her features. Then something else—guilt? Embarrassment? She says something to Desmond, who follows her gaze and spots me watching them.
His expression hardens, and he pulls Annie closer to his side in a gesture that's clearly territorial. A warning. A claim. Then he's guiding her toward a black Mercedes parked at the curb, his hand still possessively touching her back.
She doesn't look at me again before they drive away.
I stand there on the sidewalk for a long time after their taillights disappear, trying to process what I just witnessed. Trying to compartmentalize the fact that seeing Annie with another man feels like someone reached into my chest and tore out my heart with their bare hands.
My phone buzzes with a text message, and I pull it out with hands that aren't quite steady.
Gia: Thank you again for dinner. I really am looking forward to the next time we see each other.
I stare at the message for a long moment, then delete it without responding.
Because suddenly, the idea of marrying Gia Marcelli—of marrying anyone who isn't Annie O'Malley—feels impossible.
And that realization terrifies me more than anything else that's happened since I came back to Boston.