Chapter 8 Leo
LEO
Tie hanging loosely around my neck, several buttons undone on my shirt, I sling one leg over a side of the overstuffed leather armchair where I recline.
Stiff martini in hand, I’m grateful that while my father turned in for the night after the rehearsal dinner guests left, Miko, Gio, and the twins joined me for a final nightcap—or three.
“I can’t believe you’re getting married tomorrow,” Raf says, his lips quirking into a crooked grin as he swirls the vodka around his glass.
“I genuinely thought we’d lose you to a heart attack at eighty years old, three pretty young birds naked in your bed, one with her lips wrapped around your cock. ”
“You’re disgusting,” Miko says, launching a throw pillow at him, which Raf snatches out of the air.
“Seriously, what the hell are you doing picturing my death or my sex life? You’re disturbed,” I add.
“Just saying,” he quips. “I didn’t think dear old Dad would get you to the altar so easily.”
“Not like I have much of a choice,” I grumble, downing the rest of my drink and sitting up to prop my elbows on my knees. “Feeling generous?” I ask, tipping my empty glass toward Gio.
“You should slow down unless you want to be drunk for the ceremony tomorrow,” he warns, but still, Giovanni rises from his chair to make me another.
“Don’t tempt me,” I warn darkly.
“You really don’t want her, do you?” Sandro asks, tilting his head as he studies me curiously. “She’s pretty enough. It’ll be good for the family, so what’s the big deal?”
“It’s not about how pretty she is, Sandro,” Raf says, slapping his identical twin lightly on the shoulder.
If Raf is the brains, Sandro’s the brawn of my two youngest brothers, two halves to an indestructible whole, and for all Raf’s intelligence and cold, hard logic, Sandro is the one with enough emotion for them both.
Typically, it manifests in massive explosions of violent rage that he’s learned to focus somewhat—which is why he spends so much time in the fighting pits.
But when it comes to Raf, Sandro has never once raised his hand.
He won’t even spar with his twin, though he and Miko train with each other regularly, which his why they’re the brothers no one wants to screw with.
“Leo wants the freedom to pick his own wife—or not pick one, rather. Why settle down when he has a constant source of fresh pussy at his disposal, right, Bro?” Raf finishes.
“Lay off him, Raf. You know that’s not why he’s doing it,” Gio cuts in.
I swear peacemaking is built into his DNA, but tonight, I’m grateful for it, because my mind is too preoccupied to keep my younger brothers in line.
And annoyingly, it’s a specific Japanese bride whom I can’t seem to get off my mind.
“If it’s any comfort, I agree that it would be better to go to war than accept this alliance with the Yakuza,” Miko says. “I don’t trust them any more than you do.”
Casting him a sidelong glance, I give a grateful nod. “Thanks.” Then I accept my next drink from Gio. “I just don’t see how this can fix things. We’ve been fighting with the Yakuza for decades.”
“And we’ve seen where fighting gets us,” Gio points out, dropping back onto the couch where he was sitting.
A heavy silence settles around the room because Gio would know better than any of us what can happen if the wrong family decides you’re their enemy.
Once upon a time, I thought he’d be my first brother to get married.
Out of all of us, he’s the only one I can genuinely believe fell in love.
Sure, Raf is married and smitten with his new bride, but what Gio and Stephanie had was something even I could get behind.
Which was why her death completely crushed him.
Since then, he’s never quite been the same.
Of course he would support a peaceful solution if it’s available.
But I just don’t see that happening with the Tanaka-kai.
“Alright, as long as everyone’s giving me their two cents, you two care to pipe in?” I ask, nodding to the twins.
Sandro just shrugs, a typical response I would expect from my brother of few words. “Like I said, she’s pretty enough, and it could work.”
“Raf? Anything to offer besides your opinion of my sex life?”
He takes a minute to consider me, his sharp gaze thoughtful.
“I would tend to agree that the Tanakas aren’t trustworthy.
Then again, if we do nothing, or worse, keep fighting, eventually, someone is going to take us out—because the Yakuza aren’t the only ones eyeing our territory.
” Then he mirrors his twin with a one-shoulder shrug.
“But I also get why you would want to make your own decisions about who and whether you even want to marry. Dad might disown you over it, but he didn’t go quite so far with me.
And if he does, there’s four more of us who can take your place.
I say pick your own path in life. We’ll always find our way. We’re family.”
“Three,” Miko cuts in before I can fully wrap my mind around my sharp-tongued brother’s surprisingly heartfelt speech.
“There are three other Chiaroscuro brothers who could take Leo’s place.
Let’s be honest, we all know the don wouldn’t give his empire to me.
I’m clearly not an option, even as the oldest. He might have adopted me, but that doesn’t make me worthy of inheriting his title. ”
Tension fills the air as he voices a fact we’ve never spoken of before.
I hate that it’s true because, frankly, Miko would make a far better Don than I would. He’s smart, cool-headed, and ruthless.
He knows how to make men respect him, and if they don’t, he knows how to make them fear him—two key talents required in ruling an empire like ours.
I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be Don without him as my right-hand man.
But he’s right.
My father would never name him heir.
The guilt that gnaws at me strangely solidifies my resolve, and I toast my brothers before taking another big swig.
“Any one of you would make a better Don than I could. Let’s face it, I’ve never wanted the job.
But I’ll marry the Tanaka girl because it’s for the family.
And who knows? Maybe it’ll actually fix this shitstorm we’re in. ”
“There he is!” Raf jokes, my other brothers clinking their glasses with his before they all drink as well. “I was starting to worry you’d be groaning all the way up to the altar.”
Gio chuckles. “He still might at this rate,” he adds, pointing to my drink.
“I’ll be fine,” I insist and take another gulp.
At least Sora is beautiful and will be fun to play with, I think with a smirk.
I just can’t stop thinking about our heated exchange in the bathroom—and how it makes her ten times more appealing that she won’t just throw herself at my feet like most women do.
I get the sense that she’s going to be much more of a handful than I imagined.
And I can’t wait to find out.
Gio was right. That’s my first thought the next morning as I wake with a groan.
My head is throbbing, my mouth dry, and when I open my eyes, the bright sunlight streaming through my window slams into my skull like a jackhammer.
I should have stopped at least two martinis sooner. But I’ve lived through worse hangovers, and the sight of two aspirin and a tall glass of water on my bedside table reminds me that today,
I don’t have the luxury of sleeping it off.
“Up. Go take a shower,” Gio says, smacking the flat of my foot sticking out from my blankets.
“What time is it?” I rasp, sitting up and tossing back the painkillers.
I chase them with a gulp of flavored water that confirms it’s packed with electrolytes.
Thank God for Gio, who somehow manages to keep us all alive. I don’t know what I’d do without him.
Then again, he is also the one who kept making me drinks when he should have cut me off.
But only Giovanni would know me well enough to realize a hangover would be the lesser of two evils if I couldn’t sleep at all last night.
And that’s exactly what would have happened if I’d gone to bed sober.
“Eleven. You should have just enough time to shower and shave. I’ve told the kitchen to send up some breakfast and a bloody Mary.”
“You’re a saint,” I groan, flopping onto my back and staring up at the ceiling as I contemplate sneaking in another five minutes of sleep.
Gio snorts. “Hardly. And don’t even think about going back to bed. Miko doesn’t have time to babysit you, and our father will straight up murder you if you’re late today, so I’m not leaving until you’re in the shower. Go. You can’t keep your bride waiting.”
Surprisingly enough, the thought of Sora does manage to nudge me out of bed, and with another groan, I do as my younger brother says.
I don’t know when he got more mature than me.
Maybe it’s because he hasn’t spent his life hellbent on pissing off our father, but whoever put him in charge of me today made the right choice.
Once I’m cleaned up and dressed and have a bit of food in my stomach, I actually feel alive again, and possibly just slightly less exhausted than if I hadn’t slept.
Still, my feet feel like lead as my last moments of freedom slip away with every step toward the great room.
It’s not far to walk—and the walk feels even shorter today—as Gio and I collect Miko and the twins along the way.
They’re all dressed in tuxedos, like me, and we head out to the terrace as a unit, my brothers having my back every step of the way.
The guests are already there, finding seats in the rows of white chairs set out and decorated with sage green sashes for the occasion.
Hundreds are in attendance for today—to witness one of the biggest weddings of the season.
Don Augusta stands at the far end of the aisle, conversing with Kenji Tanaka and the oyabun’s wife. Signora Aya Tanaka, a striking woman, who looks like an older version of her daughter, Sora, looks elegant in a yellow silk dress.
The subtle pattern in the fabric, made of a slightly softer yellow thread that only appears when it catches the sun just right, looks like cherry blossoms that cascade across the silk, falling to the ground.
With a polite nod, I greet my soon-to-be in-laws and head to the archway near the terrace railing and the officiant waiting there.
Meanwhile, my brothers pile into the chairs along the front row of my side of the aisle.
It doesn’t matter how good that bloody Mary was or how well the aspirin is working.
As I look back over the sea of guests toward the house, the brilliant summer sun makes me squint as it reflects off the white chairs and bright, cheery wedding clothes.
What I wouldn’t give for a pair of sunglasses, but I have no doubt that would be an insult to the occasion.
I can sense the last few minutes ticking by as the final guests filter into their seats to the sound of the grand piano we’ve rolled onto the terrace for the occasion.
Then, the music transitions into a traditional wedding march, and as one, the guests turn in their seats, rising when they see the glass doors open—and Sora steps out.
My heart stops.
She’s positively radiant in a simple white cap-sleeve wedding dress with a high collar made of the finest lace.
The fitted bodice tapers to her slim waist, where a thick kimono-style belt is tied, showcasing an elaborate scene of gold-and-white cranes on a red background dancing above blue waves.
The color draws my eyes down before the dress transitions into soft, gauzy layers of fabric that fall to the floor in delicate ripples.
Her veil, made of a sheer fabric studded with pearls, subtly hides her face.
A thick band of white that sits on her head like a crown holds the veil in place as it wraps around her intricate updo.
She’s breathtaking, the closest thing to an angel I think I’ve ever seen, and as she floats down the aisle on her father’s arm, she moves so gracefully, she might just be on wings.
I’ve been dreading this day for months, envisioning all the ways it could go wrong, all the possible traps the Yakuza might have set for us.
But as Sora walks down the aisle, all that melts away.
Nothing matters but her.