15. Gio
GIO
Istand. “You’re late.”
Elio has the good sense to look ashamed. “Chiedo scusa. Non succederà più.”
“You’re fucking right it won’t happen again.” I wave him to the corner before taking Viviana by the elbow and guiding her to her chair. She smells of sun and jasmine and, for one awful second, I want to know if she tastes as good as she smells. As sweet.
It’s an insane, lawless craving that sneaks up on me so fast my steps fall out of rhythm. Viviana looks at me through lowered eyelashes. Her cheeks are flushed. I foolishly wonder if she can read my thoughts. “You can let me go,” she murmurs.
I do, pretending neither of us notices it takes several seconds longer than it should. Or that I can’t stop staring at her mouth.
Viviana sits. I feel four sets of eyes track me as I return to the head of the table.
I’ve barely put my ass in the chair before Lucia jumps straight into the deep end.
“Well, Gio—aren’t you going to introduce us?
” Her tone turns conspiratorial, her lips curled into what is supposed to be a private smile.
Like she thinks the two of us would ever share a secret.
“This funny little creature can’t be your wife. Who is she?”
Viviana freezes at the other woman’s comment, water glass halfway to her mouth.
Francesca shifts uncomfortably.
Elio tenses.
Edoardo is the only one oblivious to the dangerous territory his wife has so carelessly stepped into.
“No, definitely not your wife,” Lucia muses, shaking her head as she gives Viviana a thorough inspection.
“I know! You’ve finally caved and gotten yourself an assistant.
It’s about time.” She directs a loaded look at Francesca.
“You need someone who can actually relieve some of the pressure, Gio. You’re looking… stressed. Isn’t he, Edo?”
Her repugnant husband drags his attention away from his meal long enough to glance my way before running assessing eyes up and down Viviana.
A flake of fish clings to his lips. “If you say so, Princepessa.” He looks at me.
“She’s a little dull, though, isn’t she?
Even for an assistant. Not what I would’ve pegged as your style, Giovanni.
Would’ve expected you to go for someone a little less… ”
He pauses, thinking, utterly oblivious to the fact that every word gets him closer to a death sentence.
Everyone else in the room is still, barely breathing. Edoardo taps his knife against his plate, his puffy eyes brightening. “Frumpy! That’s it. She’s painfully frumpy. And fat. You could do so much better, Gio. She might just be an employee, but you still have to look at her.”
In all the decades my family has owned the Villa d'Osso, I can think of only three times someone has been executed in this room.
The first was when my grandfather shot a traitor between the eyes on Christmas Eve, a full decade before I was born.
The second was when my father unearthed a mole in our operations, calmly sipping his espresso as the man choked to death on the rat poison Chef had put in his food.
I was only a baby then. I don’t remember it at all.
But I do have a very clear memory of the third time. When my mother used a carving knife to slit the throat of another woman who, coincidentally, was sitting in the same place Lucia is now.
My mother’s victim had dared to insult the female line of our family. Questioned their loyalty and suitability. In a far kinder tone than Edoardo and Lucia just have.
I’ve never been tempted to slaughter anyone in here.
I’m not a fan of spilling blood in the same place I eat my food.
But there is clearly a first time for everything, because their casual cruelty to Viviana does something to me.
Triggers a protectiveness I shouldn’t feel, a wildly inconvenient urge to defend her, no matter the cost.
I’m performing, I tell myself. Playing the part of the capo who will murder anyone who dares to dishonor his wife.
Except it doesn’t feel like a performance when I stand behind Edoardo’s chair and press my knife against his jugular. It feels justified. Right.
The Romanos are vile all on their own. Compared to my soft-hearted, wild animal-saving wife, they are scum of the earth.
Everything I know about Viviana and her past vanishes as I mentally replay Edoardo’s insults, his tobacco-stained nails scrabbling against my forearm like rats on the boards of a sinking ship.
I can feel Elio hovering on my side, his body language telegraphing what a bad idea this is. Across the table, Francesca is watching me intently.
The knife is sharp. Shaper than I’d like. More efficient, less excruciating. A trickle of blood is already cutting a path down Edoardo’s neck, staining his collar a violent red.
“Gio!” He yanks harder at my arm, trying to put distance between his flesh and my blade. “Giovanni, stop. Signor Marchetti, please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please. I didn’t mean…”
Lucia stumbles out of her horrified silence and drops to her knees at my feet. “Vi chiediamo umilmente perdono. We humbly beg your forgiveness, Signore. Edoardo never intended to insult you or your assistant that way. Neither did I, I swear.”
I press the knife even closer to her husband’s skin. He trembles. His wife blubbers.
“Not my assistant, you figlio di puttana. Viviana is my wife.”
“Oddio. Vi chiediamo umilmente perdono, vi chiediamo umilmente perdono,” she repeats. “Just as Edoardo is my husband, Giovanni. Gio, please. We are so sorry, we didn’t mean to offend. Please, let us go. We’ll do anything you ask, just please let us go.”
I look up from the woman sniveling at my feet and lock eyes with Viviana. She’s gaping at me from across the table, white completely rimming her irises. All of the blood has drained from her face, and she’s mouthing a single word, over and over.
No. No. No.
Viviana Salviati is as cold-blooded as they come. I have the proof of my own eyes. I’ve seen what this soft, innocent-looking woman is capable of. Yet, she’s staring at me like I’m the worst kind of villain.
I stare back, wordlessly demanding she drop the pretense. That she show us her true colors. The homicidal ones that landed her here in the first place.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she’s begging me with those sky-blue eyes to show mercy to the bastards who insulted her in her own home.
Her reaction makes me more confused by the second.
Makes me so twisted up that I’m actually questioning my own judgment and asking, “What is it to be, Viviana: execution or clemency?”
The room goes deathly quiet.
We all hear Viviana swallow, the scrape of her chair as she rises from the table. She stands opposite me, looking so quietly fierce. “Let them go, Giovanni. No matter how rude they were or how mean, he doesn’t deserve to die for it. No insult warrants a death sentence.”
A falser statement has never been spoken.
Still, I was the one who asked for her verdict. She’s given it.
There’ll be no executions today.
Attention locked on my captive bride, I lower my blade at the same time I drop my mouth to Edoardo’s ear. “You were lucky today, pezzo di merda. My wife was feeling generous even when I wasn’t. It doesn’t matter what god you pray to, you’ll never receive salvation like that again. Go. Get out.”
“But our lead, our contact, the drugs,” Lucia gasps. “You need us!“
“Like fuck I do. Get OUT!”
Lucia is the first to spring to her feet, tripping over her stupidly high heels as she makes a rapid exit. Breathless and bloody, her husband follows.
I haul him back by the scruff of the neck before he makes it to the door. “All business between us is over, Romano. If you or your wife ever step foot in Marchetti territory again, I promise you’ll only live long enough to regret it.”
“Sì, sì, Signor Marchetti. Vi chiediamo umilmente perdono.” He repeats the plea over and over until I release him. He scurries away. Fucking vermin.
Elio is immediately on his tail, radioing the other guards to make sure the Ramanos get off the island before I change my mind.
Once my soldier leaves the room, it’s just me, my wife, and Francesca. And as the silence gets deafening, I realize I’ve never actually introduced them to each other.
The women are motionless as I move to their side of the table. Viviana is still standing. I take her hand and hold out my other for Francesca. The second woman rises, carefully offering her hand.
I sandwich their palms between both of mine.
To the redhead, I say, “Viviana, this is Francesca. A highly valued and trusted member of our family.”
To the brunette: “Francesca, you’ve seen her before, but consider this your formal introduction—this is Viviana. My wife.”
If either of the women notices how I bite out that last word, neither reacts. They just stand there frozen, silent, until I release them and walk away.
Oh, yeah. We’re just one big happy fucking family.