THIRTEEN
Nastasya
T he family is an absolute train wreck. I thought Papa and I had issues, but after watching Benito’s brothers and uncle sling insults at each other all night, not to mention Benito’s outbursts, I wonder what else I don’t know about the De Santis men.
My mind keeps rolling back to what Benito revealed in the garden, gaze skimming over the faces at the table while I try to figure out if any of these people could be held responsible for his mutilation. He didn’t say it was family, but logic tells me that if one of their enemies touched him in such a way, the word would have traveled through the street.
Lord knows, Papa would have gloated for weeks if he’d been able to pull off such an insult.
“I think we’ll all retire to the parlor for coffee. Yes?” Benito’s mother rises from her seat, coaxing everyone toward the grand double doors that lead to the adjoining room.
She’s beautiful, radiant with sleek black hair and a shapely figure that she adorns with glittering silver silks tonight. I’m in awe of her strength, her unwavering class amongst a brood of animalistic men. Gennaro had said she was keen to speak with me, but I have yet to see any evidence.
I fold my napkin on the dessert plate and ease my chair back to follow the procession. Benito is quick to offer his hand, waiting beside my chair for me to join him. Rejecting his touch would raise questions; therefore, I place my palm on his and stand.
He refuses to let go.
With lithe fingers wrapped tight around my touch, he leads us to the opulent parlor, choosing a two-seater chaise for us to occupy. I resent him for it. Thanks to the delicate design of the antique sofa, our legs touch from hip to knee when we sit.
I feel sorry for him. I’m angry on his behalf. But I don’t forgive him. Not yet.
I don’t want him to get the impression that I do.
“Brandy?” Brigida lifts a glass, her soft gaze direct and unsettling.
I nod and glance toward Papa. He settles himself in an embroidery-embellished wingback, one leg slung on top of the other and arms wide on the rolled rests. He studies Gennaro and his wife with a shrewd intensity, moving his lips back and forth.
“Here you are.” Brigida passes me the short drink and then offers whiskey to Benito. “And one for my principe .”
He nods to her, clear adoration in his otherwise hard eyes. He’s a total mama’s boy. The Italian stereotype. The difference is that his mother deserves steadfast devotion. Even when we were young, she was a shining light among the darkness of our world. I don’t hold any illusions about her; she’s probably had a hand in the demise of more than a few people in her time. But whether directly or indirectly, it doesn’t matter. Unlike the men around her, she hasn’t let the hard choices of an underworld life sully her, at least not on the surface.
I’d love to dig deeper and discover what lies beneath the doting exterior.
“When do we celebrate this insanity?” Ignazio asks, already refilling his glass.
He hasn’t sat down since we entered the room; unperturbed by the risotto stain on his slacks, he appears to have nervous energy to dispel.
“Soon, but we need to be practical.” Gennaro guides his wife to a seat and then takes the one adjacent. “We have family overseas who’ll need time to make the journey.”
“As do we.” Papa hides his mouth behind steepled hands.
I assumed they’d already settled on a date, considering he organized for my cousin Lana to come in and help with the preparations. But perhaps my father made a pre-emptive move? Assumed it would be swift to settle the unrest between the families.
“With all due respect,” I say, fingers white on the crystal tumbler. “Why do we discuss the urgency of the wedding when nobody has told me if the men responsible for Caroline’s murder have been found?”
Benito’s palm slides onto my knee, his stern gaze directed at his father.
“Manuel has been charged with finding those accountable, Miss Kuznetsov.” Gennaro licks his lips, shifting his jaw to one side before he continues. “However, I cannot assume responsibility for this. Not when the order was not mine.” He pins me with unwavering intensity. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe what you said.”
Lies . He doesn’t believe the men were Italian and thinks I’m mistaken. But he doesn’t want to belittle me in front of family. I can respect him for that.
“There’s no need to delay celebrations while we wait for Manuel to do his work.” Brigida shifts to the front of her seat. “Finding those responsible could take days, weeks, or even months.”
“The point being?” I look toward Papa and find him staring at the floor to avoid my inquisition. “You’ve agreed to this already. What reason is there to rush formalities?”
Benito squeezes my leg drawing my focus to him. His twitch of a smile says it all: he knows the reason for our parents’ urgency.
“You think I’ll sabotage the wedding? Don’t you?” My jaw hangs slack. “Do I look like a runaway bride?”
Benito shakes his head.
His father, however, looks toward mine.
“Papa?” I lift my eyebrows. “ You think I’d betray everyone by finding a way out of this?”
“Nastasya,” he coos, holding his hands wide. “Everyone here knows you don’t have a reputation for listening to what I say, let alone doing as you’re told.”
Ignazio snorts, one elbow slung on the high back of Gennaro’s chair.
“You’re a headstrong woman, my girl.” Papa smirks. “You’ve never liked having the decision made for you, even when you were small.”
“I can’t believe this.” The alcohol burns a path down my throat.
The gall of the fuckers. They lump me with the burden of being the one likely to sabotage the wedding. What about Benito? He has as much say as I did in this, but nobody considers him a possible flight risk. Nope. Blame the emotional woman—the same bullshit it’s always been.
“Fine.” I hold my glass out for a refill, waggling it at Alessio when nobody moves. “Make the damn thing tomorrow for all I care.”
Benito shakes beside me with a silent chuckle. The fucker finds this amusing. I, on the other hand, feel liable to explode.
Alessio swipes my glass and paces to the drink cabinet. “What role does she get in our family?” He dumps the brandy in carelessly, sloshing the drink over the edge. “I understand you want proof of our respect and honor, Arseni, but surely you don’t expect her to take an operational role, Papa?”
Gennaro sighs, hands flexing on the ends of his armrests. “That’s yet to be discussed.” He lances his youngest son with a hard stare. “And none of your concern.”
“What the hell did you talk about at the adult end of the table, if not Nastasya’s rights as a pretend De Santis?” Ignazio holds his empty vessel out for his youngest nephew.
Alessio grumbles, snatching it from his uncle.
“Arseni tabled his conditions, and we countered with our own.”
“Well then.” I wave my hand between Benito and me. “Enlighten those of us involved.”
“Nastasya,” Papa snaps.
I know—I act out of turn but fuck it. Our elders want to play us like pawns on a chessboard. Sue me for having an opinion about it. Alessio passes me a fresh drink, and I swallow half in the first gulp.
“You keep your name,” Papa details. “As my only child, it’s important that you retain the Kuznetsov title.”
The one he threatened to strip from me just yesterday.
“We felt hyphenating the two names would be a little cumbersome,” Brigida says with a chuckle.
She isn’t half wrong.
“I also stipulated that while you will become an important voice at Benito’s table…” Papa hesitates, smirking at my husband-to-be—we’re not so stupid that we didn’t get the double innuendo. “He has no weight in issues that concern our business. All family matters will remain behind closed doors and off-limits to Benito.”
My fiancé sighs on my right. I agree—it’s predictable but petty.
“Anything else?” I lift my glass.
“Neither party will inherit a single dime from the other’s legacy.”
I shrug a dismissive shoulder, lips downturned. I can see the reasoning behind that. It’s an odd request from my father, though, when he’s the first to throw others off the ladder for better purchase on the next rung.
“Our requests,” Gennaro starts, taking his wife’s hand, “were that you both decide on a new home where you can make fresh memories, free of the ghosts of your past.”
Nice. That, at least, seems like a logical move.
“We also detailed that any children born in the marriage will forfeit their right to the De Santis empire.”
Ignazio smiles wide at this news.
I glare at the jerk. He doesn’t deserve to get off on the idea of my children being treated like mongrel pests. So, what if their mother is a Kuznetsov? The kids would still be a product of a strong De Santis man.
“That seems a little harsh.” I can’t believe I defend the honor of my hypothetical children. “They can’t help who their mother is.”
“They can’t,” Brigida agrees. “But we’re strictly traditional in our family.”
Yeah, sure. And that’s why Gennaro took the helm, not Ignazio.
“In contrast to your father’s wishes,” Gennaro states, side-eyeing my old man. “I would appreciate it if you took an active role in Benito’s dealings within the family business.” He nods toward his eldest son. “I’m sure you are aware he is mute these days.” The statement pains the Don to make.
I look at the handsome man beside me, again awed by his strength to live with this, knowing that the person responsible hasn’t been dealt their dues. “I do know, yes.”
“He would have you believe otherwise,” Gennaro says with a hint of humor, “but he could use the strong voice from time to time.”
Benito rolls his pretty eyes, slumping back in the seat. It amuses me no end. My father would have me kept quiet and submissive behind locked doors, but here is our strongest adversary requesting I help his son. What a goddamn contradiction.
“Nastasya.” Brigida rises from her seat. “Let us leave the men to talk politics.” She offers me her hand.
It’s not the kind of gesture I have a right to refuse. I finish my drink and set the glass on the side table. Benito watches me carefully when I join his mother, his focused gaze following us from the room. It takes a full minute after I’m out of sight for the warmth his attention gives me to slide away.
“Girl to girl,” Brigida starts, leading us toward the back of the house. “Do you love my son?”
I choke on my tongue. “Pardon?” They organize us to marry because my father demands proof that they don’t want me dead, and she dares to ask if I have feelings for Benito.
“I know your history with him. Gennaro told me.” The matriarch stares straight ahead, our heels clacking down the polished floor towards her favorite spot—the patio. “You will find your husband confides many things between the bedsheets that he should otherwise keep to himself.” She smirks. “They tend to let down their guard after you relieve them of their… tension.”
Jesus, take the wheel. My future mother-in-law has dived into the deep end of sex talk already.
“You never let on.” All the time Benito and I snuck around, I never once had an inkling she knew.
“Oh, I didn’t know back then.” She guides me through the doors and towards an outdoor setting backlit with floodlamps in the surrounding garden. “Gennaro informed me after.” She takes a deep breath, waiting for me to take a seat before dropping, “Benito grew quite despondent when you broke it off, and I must admit, I was disgusted that you’d abandon him like that in his most vulnerable hour.”
I have to turn my head away and blink several times to believe what I just heard. “When I broke it off?”
She nods, her brow furrowed as though she can’t understand my confusion.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. De Santis. I don’t know what Benito told you, but I wasn’t the one who broke it off.”
Her frown deepens as she leans back in her chair, hands relaxed in her lap, and her chin tilted high.
“ He was the one who broke my heart when he slept with my cousin.”