Chapter 24
PIETRO
Doing the right thing was proving far more unbearable than I anticipated.
Because now I was back home to a mother who tiptoed around me as if I were some wounded animal liable to bolt, and a younger sister who glared at me like I had committed an unforgivable sin.
Not murder. Victoria would have found murder at least faintly interesting.
Neglecting to bring Emily home for Christmas?
That, apparently, was a moral failing she could neither excuse nor overlook, especially since she had already bought a doll specifically for her.
My mother was no better. She had arranged the stockings on the fireplace with enough solemnity to suggest a state funeral, then unboxed the extra one she had ordered, ran her fingers over the stitched Emily, and sighed so deeply I considered whether I ought to call a doctor.
Then she placed it back in the box with the sort of tragic dignity usually reserved for widows in period dramas.
Olivero, meanwhile, made me want to commit violence. Every time I looked at him, he shook his head, and every time he did, I narrowed my eyes and balled my fist hard enough to imagine the feel of his jaw beneath my knuckles.
Yesterday Hoka and Violet arrived with the children, which helped distract Victoria from plotting my murder, and this morning Matteo Genovese and his wife, Elena, had come with two of their five children, notably excluding Niccolo to my father’s great satisfaction and Victoria’s absolute despair.
They were not staying until Christmas, only for two days, though I had my suspicions the visit had less to do with festive goodwill and more to do with the fact that I would soon be taking my place officially as sotto capo.
Still, the visit kept the house occupied enough that I was able to retreat to my room and indulge my misery in private, which at twenty-three felt both ridiculous and entirely justified.
It was my choice, and I was painfully aware of that.
Every night when I got into bed, I reminded myself why it was the right one, and every night that conviction did absolutely nothing to lessen the fact that I still ached for her.
For the feel of her against me. For the sound of her voice.
For the quiet, stupid domestic intimacy of simply knowing where she was in a room.
I lasted a grand total of five days before picking up my phone and calling her sister.
Officially, I told myself it was about the cane design.
Sophie needed to tell me what she wanted so I could have it made properly.
Unofficially, I wanted to know whether Emily looked as miserable as I felt and, if fate was feeling unusually merciful, perhaps hear her voice somewhere in the background.
Sophie answered on the second ring.
“Pietro!” she said, with the enthusiasm only fourteen-year-old girls and unrepentant extortionists ever managed naturally. “Are you calling me because you miss me?”
Something almost like a smile tried to happen. “Entirely. Though I also need the cane details before you decide on rhinestones and a sword handle.”
“That’s still on the table,” she said seriously. Then, after a beat, “Oh. Emily asked me for the details yesterday. She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
Sophie went quiet for half a second, which with her felt almost solemn. “Huh. Well. That’s annoying. Maybe she forgot. Or maybe she’s too busy being romanced by you during the Christmas season.”
I forced a laugh. “Yes, that must be it.” But the cold that settled in my chest at the realization had nothing amusing in it. “I’ll try to tone down my devastating effect on the household.”
“No, don’t.” Then, with the complete lack of delicacy unique to little sisters, she added, “But you know, Christmas is a very good season to propose. I’m just saying. I would be an amazing maid of honor.”
I closed my eyes briefly. “That is a remarkably bold request.”
And yet, even as I said it, I could see the ring in my underwear drawer, a beacon of despair.
“You know I’m right. Don’t tell her I said that though. She would kill me. Just give her a hug for me. Where is she now? With your mom?”
Sophie thought she was here and so I had to lie. “Busy as always. Okay. Let’s refocus on the cane, will you?”
“You’re no fun.”
If only you knew.
We talked another few minutes about the cane, and I wrote down her preferences while my mind stayed fixed somewhere else entirely.
By the time I ended the call, I understood two things.
The first was that Emily had not trusted me to keep my word to her sister, which bothered me.
The second was that she was about to spend Christmas alone, and for reasons I preferred not to examine too closely, that disturbed me even more.
I left my room with the vague intention of finding my mother and my aunt and asking whether what I had done was actually the right choice or merely the most dramatic one.
By the time I reached the main sitting room, however, I stopped short.
The three women were together near the fire, all of them laughing at something my mother had clearly just said.
Violet was rubbing one hand over the curve of her belly with absent affection, Elena had tears of laughter in her eyes, and my mother looked brighter than she had since my return, as if being surrounded by other women who knew exactly what our lives were had steadied something in her.
On the rug, the younger children were busy with each other while the older ones orbited around them in shifting alliances.
Yuko and Victoria appeared to be engaged in some kind of disagreement involving dolls, logic, and a complete disregard for volume, yet I found myself smiling despite everything.
My sister was only two years younger than Yuko and already more than capable of making herself a lasting inconvenience in our cousin’s life.
Another burst of laughter from the women drew my attention back, and for one brief, disorienting second I looked at Elena properly. She was happy. Married to Matteo Genovese, arguably the most unhinged mafia boss in the country, and still unmistakably happy.
Maybe I had made a mistake.
“Hey.”
I turned, startled to find Olivero standing there with an indecently large slice of cake on a plate in his hand.
“If you’re done moping for a minute,” he said, “you might want to know the men are in the library having a drink. Since you’re about to join the ranks officially, maybe you could go pretend to be one of them.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Who sent you?”
“No one,” he said. Then he shrugged. “But if you manage to get your head out of your ass, you may notice the entire house is tired of watching you suffer.”
Before I could answer, he turned and headed in the opposite direction, presumably back toward the staff quarters or possibly for a second slice of cake. With Olivero, both were equally plausible.
By the time I reached the library, the atmosphere inside was warm and steady, low male voices, the clink of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter that made my own mood worse. The second I stepped through the door, the chatter died so quickly it was almost theatrical.
I stopped just inside and narrowed my eyes at the room.
“Were you talking about me?”
“No,” my father said far too quickly.
That alone told me everything I needed to know.
Matteo, who had been leaning back in one of the armchairs with a glass of something amber in his hand, let out a long, put-upon sigh and took a drink before answering.
“Yes, we were,” he said. “And thank you for interrupting, because your little drama is becoming wildly uninteresting.”
“Well, nobody asked you, any of you, to discuss my love life.” I gave my father and uncle a pointed look. Both of them looked entirely unbothered, which only deepened my desire to raze the room.
“Nonexistent love life,” Matteo added helpfully.
That landed exactly where he intended it to.
I crossed to the sideboard, grabbed the nearest decanter without bothering to see what was in it, and poured myself what was probably the equivalent of three proper drinks into a single glass. No one stopped me, which was perhaps the clearest sign yet that I looked as bad as I felt.
I took a swallow. It burned beautifully.
“Please,” I said, turning back toward them, “enlighten me on my situation.”
“Pietro,” my father began, his voice calm enough to immediately irritate me further.
“No, no,” I said, lifting a hand. “Please. Continue. Clearly I’ve arrived just as the symposium reaches its insulting stage.”
Matteo smiled, which was never reassuring.
“I was merely telling them that I like Emily,” he said.
“Very much, in fact, and that she may have accidentally given me an elf fetish. I ordered a costume for Elena. We’re going to role-play Santa and his elf, which should provide Niccolo with brand-new trauma if he keeps walking into rooms after the door has been closed. ”
There was far too much to unpack in that sentence, several parts of which I objected to on moral, psychological, and familial grounds. But only one detail mattered enough to make my hand tighten around the glass.
“What,” I said very carefully, “do you mean by ‘you like Emily’?”
My father glanced toward Hoka and let out a slow exhale while Matteo turned in his chair to face me. The grin on his face made something in me tense at once.
“Please, Petrolino,” he said. “You cannot be that naive. Did you really think you could bring a woman into our family business, let her see what she saw, let her matter to you the way she quite obviously did, and I would not get involved? Did you think you had some special immunity because I happen to like you?” He let out a contemptuous little snort in my father’s direction.
“That boy of yours really is an idiot, isn’t he? ”
My father pinched the bridge of his nose. “Matteo, not now.”
“No, no,” I said, the liquor already burning too warmly in my throat and doing absolutely nothing to improve my temper. “Please, capo dei tutti capi, enlighten me as to the full extent of my idiocy.”