Chapter 20
GIA
Lucia told me this morning that she’d worn the dress I wore now to her father’s funeral so many years ago. That she’d only worn it that one time. We dubbed it the funeral dress. I decided I would burn it once I finished with it today.
While we waited for the men to return, she asked me about Dominic.
Asked if we were a couple. I hadn’t known how to answer that, so I shifted the conversation to her and her family.
The way she spoke about Salvatore, I knew she loved him.
And the way he looked at her, hell, he worshipped the ground she walked on.
I admit, I grew envious. I’d never had anything like that before. Not even close, not even with James.
Now as the men sat silent in the front seat of the SUV as we drove toward the church, I watched them, studying the physical differences, the light to the dark in physical appearance.
But the thing that impressed me more was the similarity of the darkness inside each of the brothers.
I knew the life they came from. Shrouded in shadow, they had seen and done terrible things.
Things neither would forget. Things perhaps neither should be forgiven.
I was a part of this world too. Their world.
The day I’d seen Mateo tortured and killed had plunged me into its murky depths.
We sat there now, all of us. The difference between Dominic and I, and Salvatore and Lucia, was that Salvatore and Lucia lived in the light.
They could walk away. They had once and would again.
In a matter of hours, they would shrug off the darkness and leave it behind, scrub it from their bodies before touching their children.
But Dominic and I—I knew in every cell of my body there would be no walking away.
He and I were embedded in dark. We would die in it.
“I don’t want to stay for the reading of the will,” Lucia said. “I don’t want you in there either, Salvatore.”
Her face had lost its shine and gone pale. Neither man had spoken since we’d gotten into the car, but she must have picked up on the thing vibrating off them just as I had.
Salvatore climbed out of the SUV and opened Lucia’s door. They stood there then, just outside the vehicle, heads bowed together, talking in whispers, having such a private moment I felt like an intruder to watch but found myself unable to drag my gaze away.
Salvatore wiped her tears with his hands. They stood so close. It was as though they were one person. He then kissed her forehead and lay a hand on her belly. Lucia nodded, and Salvatore met Dominic’s eyes, a signal passing between them.
“Let’s go in,” Dominic said.
My heart raced; my belly was in knots. Black sedans lined the street, the hearse already emptied, Franco Benedetti’s body likely already waiting at the top of the aisle.
“Is Victor here?” I asked, clutching the bag that held the pistol.
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t Lucia want Salvatore to go to the reading of the will?”
He shook his head, his mind obviously a million miles away.
“What is it? What did that man tell you?”
Dominic turned to me, but if he was about to tell me, he changed his mind.
“Let’s get this over with.”
He shifted his gaze to a point ahead, disappearing into thought, moving through the motions.
The organ began to play just as we entered the church. Everyone stood and turned. and I felt my face burn as every eye in the place landed on us.
The service was about to begin, but we’d interrupted. And now, we were the center of attention.
“So much for a subtle entrance,” Dominic whispered in my ear, straightening, his body seeming to grow taller.
I looked up at him, seeing how he’d schooled his features to reveal nothing, seeing his strength, the cruelty in his gaze as he scanned each and every person in the place with cold, shuttered eyes.
I shuddered beside him, grateful that gaze did not fall on me.
He placed his hand around the back of my neck, pressing the cool collar into my skin; a symbol of protection. One of possession. He would have me and everyone know it.
Dominic Benedetti owned me.
And in some strange, sick way, I wanted to be his.
I told myself it was for now. A game, a role I would play. A necessary thing. But if I scratched lightly at the surface of that thought, I’d see the lie.
We walked up the aisle slowly, purposefully. Dominic cast his gaze down every row we passed, as if he were boss. As if he owned each and every one of the people here.
The first telephone rang, and Dominic checked his watch. I looked up at him and saw the ruthless set of his eyes as he turned to the man who answered. Someone I did not know. Someone I felt sure he made a mental note of.
But then, in my periphery, I saw Angus Scava, James’ father. My would be father-in-law and Victor’s uncle.
I swallowed, unable to take my eyes from his. He cocked his head to the side, one corner of his mouth rising infinitesimally as he nodded as if to say, “well done.”
Another phone rang somewhere behind us, but we walked on. And there, just two rows ahead of Angus Scava and directly behind the near-empty pew that awaited us, stood Victor, his face red with rage, his gaze burning into mine.
My first instinct wasn’t fear. It was to laugh. He looked like he would explode.
Dominic’s hand around my neck tightened, and I clutched my bag closer, feeling the hardness of the pistol.
I returned Victor’s glare. Then, just like his father had done to me, I cocked my head to the side and narrowed my eyes, conveying to him my warning. War had come to his doorstep. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. He had killed my brother. I would kill him. Dominic would make certain of it.
Victor’s phone rang. He broke our gaze to dig it out of his pocket, and when he did, we stopped walking. We’d reached the open casket.
One more phone was answered then. Dominic’s uncle, Roman, quietly put his to his ear. Dominic glanced at Salvatore, whose eyes had narrowed. A silent understanding passed between them.
Dominic shifted his attention to me, turning my face to his, his blue-gray eyes looking for a moment like they had behind the death mask he’d worn those first days.
But then, they changed, not quite softening, no, not that.
Dominic burned too hot for that. They smoldered and burned instead, and in front of all those people and God and Franco Benedetti’s open casket, he kissed me full on the mouth.
Women gasped, and when he abruptly released me, the entire church seemed to hold its breath.
I stood shocked. His gaze challenged me, dared me to make a move while warning me to be still.
He glanced at the priest who watched this arrogance, this effrontery, this sin against God and man.
Dominic didn’t flinch. Instead, he looked once more over the assembly, satisfied with what he saw, before turning his gaze to the casket.
His face betrayed no emotion, nothing, as if he were unaffected.
I knew he was not. I knew Dominic felt. He felt deeply.
He behaved as though he didn’t give a shit, but inside, he was like a bubbling volcano of emotion, hypersensitive, and so, so well-schooled in hiding it all.
I waited with him, standing beside him until he was ready. I glanced at the old man in the box, feeling nothing myself.
Dominic turned back to me, eyes flat, and ushered me into the aisle so that I stood between him and his uncle. Roman’s face had gone white. He tucked the phone into his pocket. Dominic leaned toward him.
“Urgent call, Uncle?”
Roman stood a few inches shorter than Dominic.
His hands fisted as his throat worked, and he swallowed.
He didn’t have a chance to reply, though, because the sound of the priest clearing his throat rang out over the loudspeakers, and he began the service.
All went silent apart from the man’s booming voice, but I wondered how many in the room actually heard the service at all.
I fully expected to see Victor after the ceremony.
Or at the very least, at the cemetery. But he’d left before the service ended.
Disappointment mingled with relief as I stood at Dominic’s side while he greeted the mourners, shaking hands, making subtle comments about being back now.
Nodding when anyone said anything about Franco Benedetti.
Behind us, calla lilies covered Dominic’s mother’s and Sergio’s graves. I didn’t miss the look either brother gave those two headstones.
Salvatore and Lucia stood in the same line and beside them, Roman, looking more anxious than grieved. My gaze traveled over the soldiers circling the gathered mourners, but when I heard the familiar sound of Angus Scava clearing his throat, I turned to look up at the older man.
“Gianna.”
He took both of my hands in his, making a point of turning them over.
“Mr. Scava,” I said. He’d always called me by my full name.
“You look well.”
His gaze momentarily landed on Dominic before he touched my ring finger.
Did he think we were engaged?
“So soon after James’ death,” he added.
“James died two years ago, Mr. Scava.”
“Scava,” Dominic said from beside me, his arm circling my waist. “Where’s your nephew?”
Angus Scava’s face hardened. “He had to take care of some business.”
“He took care of some business close to home, and I don’t appreciate it,” Dominic said, tugging on the cuff of his shirt.
“No. Nor do I. He will be dealt with.”
“He kil—” I started, anger rising.
“I’ll do the dealing,” Dominic said, cutting me off.
They were talking about Mateo’s death, about my kidnapping, like it was nothing.
Scava looked at Dominic. They stood the same height, eye to eye, two powerful men unafraid of battle. Beside them, Salvatore watched, dark and dangerous.
“Gentlemen,” Roman began, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “Now is neither the time nor the place.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened as he turned his face to his uncle. He no longer tried to hide his resentment of the older man.
Mr. Scava watched the confrontation, a small smile playing along his lips.
“What time is the reading of the will, Uncle?” Dominic asked through gritted teeth.
Roman checked his watch. “Within the hour. We should go.”
Dominic nodded then turned to Scava. “This conversation isn’t over.”
“Certainly not,” the older man said. “Gianna, pleasure to see you looking so…recovered.”
Dominic’s fingers dug into the skin of my arm.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Mr. Scava watched Dominic lead me away, the look in his eyes so different to how he’d looked at me before.
“Was James like his father?” Dominic asked as we climbed into the SUV, Salvatore and Lucia taking the backseat.
Why did it feel like a taunt? “James was nothing like him.”
Dominic turned to face me. “He would have been boss of the family had he survived.”
I shook my head, perhaps being naive. I didn’t care. “He wasn’t like his father.”
“I’m like him,” Dominic said. “Ruthless. Cold. Merciless.”
I held his gaze, knowing he used his words as a warning. Knowing I would be smart to heed him.
“Not to me,” I said instead. “Not anymore.”
Dominic’s surprise at my words showed up on his face. It was the slightest change, but I didn’t miss it.
“Are you ready, brother? Roman is not going to be pleased,” Salvatore said.
“He knows how to behave. I think he’s very good at it in fact.
” With that, Dominic turned the SUV around and drove out of the cemetery and back to the house.
We sat silent. Except for Lucia, who spoke with her sister on the phone, asking about the kids.
When we arrived back at the house, I was surprised to see so many vehicles there.
Had so many family members been requested to attend the reading of the will?
It seemed strange to me. But then again, I’d never been to something like this.
Funerals, yes. There was no getting around that in the line of work my father had chosen.
But those who died around us didn’t have the money to require a will.
Dominic parked the SUV and drew in a long breath, steeling himself, then nodded to Salvatore.
“Let’s go.”
“What’s going to happen?” I asked, clutching his arm. “You know something.”
“I’m going to be named head of the family,” he said flatly.
My hand slid off his arm, and he and Salvatore walked away from Lucia and I and into the library, where about a dozen men had gathered. Two men stood outside. One of them reached to close the door, his jacket falling open, light bouncing off the pistol hidden in its holster.