14. Gio
GIO
My business partner Edoardo is talking about something. His wife, Lucia, chimes in, her voice obsequious and incredibly loud.
I nod, not hearing a goddamn word. My focus is locked on the two figures making their way toward the house.
Viviana and Elio.
Ever since she finagled that first walk, it’s become a daily part of her routine.
The longer it takes Pazzi to wake up, the longer she’s on the island, the more I worry she might try to escape out of her window if I don’t allow a little activity.
I’m not about to cut off my nose to spite my face. She has one hour outside, with a guard.
The duty has fallen primarily to Elio. Despite the kid having enough shit to do, Vampa says Elio needs to be tested on all levels, including how he treats my wife.
As they walk through the garden, Vivi and Elio are looking straight ahead, not speaking. But something about their body language sets my teeth on edge and turns my mood foul.
Which makes no fucking sense because the past week has been an unmitigated success.
Since the night of the storm, Viviana has thrown herself into caring for her avian patient. My men have reported that she devotes attention to the creature. By all accounts, the bird’s wing is starting to heal. It’s too early to know if it will fly again, but it’s alive and apparently on the mend.
With Viviana occupied, I haven’t had to waste critical energy thinking about what she’s doing.
If she’s eating enough. If she’s sleeping at all.
The guards tell me when her walks begin and end; I make sure to keep to my study until she’s back in her room.
Viviana has been out of sight and out of mind. The ideal scenario.
Best news of all, we’re close to tracking down the stolen cocaine. Elio was right. The Romanos seem to have a viable lead. Conversation topic number one for today’s meal.
Which is where my focus should be and not on the fact that Elio and Vivi haven’t joined us at the villa yet. I glance at my watch, my frown deepening. They’re going to be late. Today of all days, when Viviana needs to make an appearance as my wife.
I never intended to present her officially in public.
Was never going to introduce her to anyone.
But Pazzi is still in a coma, and Viviana is still in my possession.
After our appearance at the club that first night, word has spread that I’m married.
Now, her presence at certain functions is expected.
Her absence would spark gossip, hinting that something is amiss in the Family.
I refuse to take that risk. Not with the opening of the club approaching, the cocaine business still being addressed, and the Pazzi deal in limbo until the old fucker wakes up.
The last thing I need is to upset a carefully balanced apple cart.
Or feel a prick of jealousy when I think about how comfortable my wife looked in Elio’s presence. Her movements fluid, her expression relaxed. Nothing like our fraught silences and terse exchanges.
Which is exactly how you want it, bastardo.
Of all the human beings walking this planet, Viviana Marchetti can not be the one who tricks me into feeling something. Not jealousy, not curiosity. And absolutely not fucking longing.
Talk about unacceptable risk.
A risk I can’t stop staring at as she and Elio cut down a different path, veering out of sight and in the opposite direction of the villa.
“Porca miseria!”
“Gio?” Francesca hovers by my elbow, her expression that mixture of hope and adoration that is slowly driving me mad. “Everything alright?”
I nod, eyes still glued to the gardens.
“Lunch is ready.”
“Grazie. Andiamo.” I let her loop her arm through mine, and we take the lead into the house. The Romanos fall into step behind as we enter the dining room through the terrace doors.
This lunch has become a standing tradition as we’ve planned and launched the hotel and now the club. The four of us take our regular seats, me at the head, Edoardo on my right, Lucia next to him, and Francesca on my left, across from Edoardo.
Today there is a fifth seat, next to Francesca. It’s currently empty. Everyone looks. No one comments.
Around me, Francesca and the Romanos drink their wine and make idle conversation as the staff serves the first course. I don’t touch mine. I’m too wired to eat. Can’t stop wondering where the hell Elio and Viviana have gone.
I can’t keep the irritation out of my tone as I bark at Edoardo, “Romano, you said you had a tip on the stolen product. Talk.”
The man freezes mid-bite. His expression tells me he doesn’t have a fucking clue what I’m talking about.
It’s Lucia who leans forward, looking far too pleased with herself. “I’m the one with the information, Gio. Not my husband.”
“As long as it’s coming from one of you, I don’t give a fuck. What do you know?”
Her smug smile falters, but she’s still feeling confident enough to angle her tits at me in a way I’m sure she thinks is attractive.
“I’ve got a contact further north. They’ve heard rumors that a new crew is moving into Naples, and they don’t plan on doing it quietly.
They’ve spread word that they’ll be hitting the streets with a new product. Top quality.”
“My fucking quality, you mean.”
Lucia’s lips lift. “Exactly.”
“You have a name?”
“I will,” she says. “My people in Naples are working on it. They’ve promised names within the next forty-eight hours.”
Cazzo. “The club opens in six days. That’s cutting it close.
Especially since it was the audio and sound crew you recommended loading into the club the night the product was stolen.
Lots of big black cases rolling in and out…
” I let the implied accusation hang. “There couldn’t possibly be a connection between their presence and the theft, could there? ”
Lucia sputters, but Edoardo’s gob is food-free, and he jumps to his wife’s rescue.
“Gio. Honestly. Would we really be leaning on our sources and risking pissing off the scum of Naples if we were connected in any way? That’d mean putting all our other business interests in jeopardy.
We’d be shooting ourselves in the foot.”
“More like the fucking face,” I grumble. “Bene. You have forty-eight hours to pass on whatever intel your contacts give you. Then we’ll see how coincidental it all is.”
The Romanos settle into their chairs, resume eating.
The salad is cleared, the entree is on the table.
There’s still no sign of Viviana, and I’ve started itemizing all the body parts I can cut off Castiglione and keep him alive.
Vaffanculo! He should’ve brought her to me by now. What the fuck is he doing?
I drain my glass of wine, grab the bottle from a nearby server, refill and drain a second glass in rapid succession.
“Gio, what’s wrong?” Francesca looks at my untouched food. “Should I send it back? Do you want me to ask Chef to make something else?”
She’s already giving a nearby staff member an agitated gesture. I motion for both of them to stand down. “Non ti preoccupare. It’s fine, Francesca. Don’t worry about it.”
Lucia is watching us, ignoring whatever her husband is saying so she can eavesdrop on our conversation.
Francesca lowers her voice. “You need to keep your energy up. To do that, you must eat, Gio. You must?—”
“Basta!” I slam my fist on the table, surprising everyone.
Fuck. My anger is too close to the surface.
My control slipping. Closing my eyes, I force air in and out of my nose.
“That’s enough, Francesca. I said I’m fine, so I’m fine.
It isn’t your place to worry. You are not my mother. You are not my?—”
Wife.
I don’t have to say it for Francesca to go pale, the color leaching out from beneath her olive-toned skin. Her hair, clothes, and makeup are as immaculate as ever, but the way her mouth pulls down in one corner is the telltale sign that she’s unnerved.
“I know I’m not your wife, Gio,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”
“Cazzo.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, find her hand under the table, and give it a brotherly pat. “Forgive me. I’m just tired.”
Whatever else our relationship is, we’ve been allies for a long time.
Friends, even. She also knows the reprehensible things the Pazzis have done.
What they are capable of doing. It’s one of the reasons I’ve allowed her to live on the island.
Francesca and I need each other more than we want to admit, even if I’ll never desire her the way she wants.
“What about me, Gio?” Lucia leans forward, presses her hand to the cleavage barely contained by her form-fitting dress. “Are you going to apologize to me, too? You scared the hell out of me.”
Her husband takes a particularly large bite of his fish before wrapping a possessive arm around her shoulder.
“The man is allowed to shout in his own house, Princepessa. Leave Giovanni alone.” Edoardo flicks his glance to the empty chair before smirking at me.
“He’s clearly missing his final guest. Are we waiting on your new wife?
Tell us, Giovanni. The suspense is killing us. ”
If he doesn’t stop wiggling his grotesquely bushy eyebrows at me, I’m going to shovel his eyeballs out of his skull with my spoon.
Vaffanculo.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this combative. This openly homicidal. Not since my early twenties, at least. Certainly not since becoming capo.
Control is power and power is essential. Losing either can prove fatal. Yet, the longer it takes for Viviana to get here, the more out of control I feel.
Edoardo gives up waiting for an answer. All attempts at conversation die, three sets of eyes locked on their plates.
I push mine away, down yet another glass of wine, and am about to say fuck it to what’s left of the meal when Elio and Viviana arrive.