4. Allie #3
The second I reach the garden, the scent of fresh soil and ripe tomatoes fills my lungs.
Basil leaves stretch toward the sun, herbs beg to be picked, and the air smells like a farm-to-table dream.
The dirt calls to me, practically begging me to plunge my fingers into it and feel like an actual human for five seconds.
I’m tempted to do just that—to crouch down, sink my hands into the soft soil, and pretend that I’m not a mafia princess but just Allie, the girl who likes to prune tomato plants and doesn’t have to answer to anyone.
Once I’m sure I’m alone—no lurking Capos or nosy housekeepers—I pull out my phone to see a text waiting from Marco. Of course, the man can’t just call once and let it go. Nope. Text follow-up required.
Nonnatus: I don’t appreciate my calls going unanswered.
He might be The Don, but seriously? Not everyone can leap into action the second he graces their phone screen. Then again, Papa does exactly that—family dinners, church, business meetings. If Marco calls, the man practically backflips to answer no matter where he is or what he’s doing.
I click on his contact and call back, muttering a quick prayer and crossing myself for good measure. Let’s hope he picks up and doesn’t go full petty on me by letting it ring just to teach me a lesson.
“About time,” Marco mutters by way of greeting. No hello, no how’s life?, just straight to condescension. “You realize I’m a busy man, Alessandra. I don’t have all day to wait around for your call.”
I bite my lip to keep from pointing out that he clearly does have time, considering how quickly he answered. “I was with Papa,” I explain. “I couldn’t exactly pick up while sitting in front of him.”
“Ah, right. Because he doesn’t know...” His voice dips in that you’ve made my life a pain in the ass way. “You do realize that helping you leave the Cosa Nostra isn’t exactly easy when I can’t tell one of my most trusted men about it, and worse, it’s his own daughter?”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I offer a half-hearted apology, though I’m not really sure what for. Needing to escape this life? That feels like something he should apologize for, honestly.
“I’ve found a way for you to leave,” Marco says, cutting through my thoughts.
My brain barely registers the words before my heart starts doing flips.
Free. I’m going to be free. My toes curl into the soft grass, pantyhose forgotten, green dye seeping into my skin, and I have the sudden urge to break into a full-on Sound of Music moment and twirl around singing about hills and freedom.
“But,” Marco continues, snapping me back to reality with the most dangerous word in the history of language.
Nothing good ever starts with “’but.”
“As I told you before, there will be conditions.”
Right. The conditions. How could I forget?
Not only does he get to decide when I leave, but how. I’m desperate enough to agree to just about anything at this point. My list of hard no’s has shrunk significantly in the last few months, and with Carlo Romano showing up for dinner, that list might catch fire by the end of the night.
“Yes, of course,” I say, nodding furiously even though he can’t see me.
“How soon? Carlo Romano is coming for dinner tonight. Papa seems… eager.” Eager being code for practically salivating over the idea.
The Romanos are powerful, influential, and just the kind of family Papa would love to marry me off into—while I’d rather hurl myself off a Manhattan skyscraper.
“I’m well aware Carlo wants to wed and bed you,” Marco says flatly.
I’m mid-sigh of relief when he drops it.
“But…”
Dammit. There it is again. But.
“When can we meet? We need to discuss terms.”
There’s a crunch of grass behind me, and I spin around to find Vinnie standing there with a shrug. I swear he’s a shadow reincarnated as a person. I can’t go anywhere without him finding me, and he never apologizes for it.
“Any time,” I say quickly, well aware my voice borders on desperate. “I can meet before dinner. Whenever you want.” Please, for the love of everything holy, rescue me from Carlo and his creepy basement eyes.
“Be in my office in two hours,” Marco commands.
I freeze, doing quick mental math. “But I live out in Greenwich.”
“Guess you’d better get moving.” The line goes dead.
I stare at my phone for a second, blinking, and then turn to Vinnie. “How did you know where I was?”
He just gives me that deadpan stare. No response needed. Of course, he knew where I was. He’s my personal shadow. I wouldn’t be surprised if he waits outside the bathroom every time I pee, just in case an assassin decides to jump me mid-stream.
“We need to get to Manhattan. Marco wants to meet in two hours,” I tell him, already making my way across the grass barefoot, pantyhose shredded, heels swinging from my hand like weapons.
Vinnie rubs his beard, thinking. “That’s pushing it with traffic, but if we leave now…”
“We. Have. To. Be. There.” I don’t need to explain the reasons, the top being Carlo Romano for dinner and all that.
“I’ll get the car ready. Tell your Papa I’m taking you shopping.”
Shopping. The foolproof excuse. Papa never questions my shopping trips. Never.