27. Gianni
Chapter 27
Gianni
One Saturday afternoon, I sit at my desk trying to wrap up a list of payments I must authorize. I rush through it, hoping to have the rest of the afternoon free to spend with Genoveva.
Just then, I hear a knock at my door. Frowning, I glance up for just a second to bellow - “Come in,” - before turning back to my list.
I hear rustling footsteps and feel someone standing in front of my desk. “Get on with it,” I growl, turning the sheet in front of me.
“Sir,” a young, petrified voice reaches my ears. Its tonality is unexpected compared to what I’m used to from one of my men. I look up in surprise to find one of the pantry maids trembling before me.
I raise an eyebrow.
“There’s been a delivery, and sir - uh - we don’t know what -”
“What sort of delivery?” I ask briskly.
“Sixty pounds of chicken, fifty pounds of salmon, 3 pounds caviar, 30 pounds tomatoes” -
I raise my hand, cutting her off, confusion flickering across my face. “What exactly,” I say icily, “are we to do with all this food? Return it.”
“Sir, it’s all been paid for already, and the vendor said it’s not returnable.”
“Who paid for it?” I growl.
Her eyes shift from me towards the door behind her, and I can tell how terribly she longs for an escape.
“Who?” I ask again.
“Your wife, sir. Madam paid for it before she ever…” her words trail off. She can’t bring herself to say the word died. She clears her throat, then looks up at me with some feigned confidence.
“For the party tonight, sir. You had planned it months ago and we just had your office call a few people. Turns out,” she pales. “It was never really canceled. They’re all descending tonight - the Capos and their associates and all the wives.”
I pace the study, the cigar smoke curling upwards, and I watch it dissipate. Tonight’s dinner plays on my mind. It’s too late to cancel now. Whether I like it or not, a hundred of our closest allies and friends are going to throng our mansion tonight.
However, none of them know that Genoveva now walks among us. I need to reintroduce Genoveva without raising suspicion. It's a delicate dance: one false step and everything crumbles.
"They'll accept her without scrutiny or gossip," I mutter, tapping ash into a crystal tray. "They have to."
My mind races, plotting each move like a chess grandmaster—a casual mention of how our closest knew of the threats my wife faced. A pointed wink after explaining how feigning her death was the smartest thing to do, to throw enemies off her trail.
I clutch the cigar between my teeth and make my way to the grand hall, where Genoveva sits quietly reading a book. She looks up as I enter the room, her hazel eyes meeting mine, silently questioning. I give her a reassuring nod, hoping she understands the gravity of the situation.
She puts down the book and rises. She walks towards me, feline and graceful, and takes my hand. “Don’t worry, Gianni,” her lips curl into a calculating smile. “We’ll be confident. Brave. We shall pretend anyone and everyone who mattered knew all along. And they’ll be left reeling from the insecurity. They’ll begin lying on our behalf, confirming that they knew I was alive all along - or else, they’d risk losing face.”
I shake my head and chuckle. My wife is truly a deviant. She was the mastermind behind this carefully orchestrated lie - one where everyone would go along with the story to avoid the embarrassment of being the only people who didn’t know.
I adjust my cufflinks as I stand before the full-length mirror, my eyes darting to Genoveva's reflection. She's a vision in tussar silk, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder.
For a brief second, it feels like every other night. It reminds me of all those nights when we’d dress up together and be the very life of the party, entering one another’s arms.
Then again, tonight is anything but another night. Every single person at that party had either attended Genoveva’s funeral or sent condolences in some form or another.
And none of them would expect to see her by my side tonight. I anticipate whispers, accusations, and conversations of conspiracies. The more godly amongst us might speak of dark magic.
Unless we put on a damn good show and have them question just how close they are to us. Once they suspect they weren’t close enough to have known our plan to feign Genoveva’s death, they’d remain quiet. Not only that, but they’d also do everything in their power to curry some favor.
Including defending us if needed and informing us of those with ill intentions in the hope that they’d prove their loyalty to us.
The clinking of Genoveva’s silver bracelets pulls me out of my thoughts. She approaches me and turns. It’s a familiar routine, and I hook on the necklace she needs help with. Once done, I lean forward and brush my lips against her shoulder.
"You look stunning, amore," I murmur, my voice low and gravelly.
Genoveva meets my gaze in the mirror, her hazel eyes sparkling. "Let's go down and show them that we are the masters of our fate."
I can't help but chuckle. "And let’s pray they buy our truth.”
She turns, her movements graceful as a cat. Her delicate fingers smooth my lapels, and I feel a familiar warmth spread through my chest.
"Are you certain about this, Gianni?" she asks, her voice soft but firm. "Once we step downstairs, there's no going back. I could stay upstairs."
I cup her face in my hands. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life. You’re back by my side, Genoveva. Sooner or later, people must know. Besides, we’re going to need all the allies we can get should an enemy accidentally learn of your existence."
She nods, a small furrow appearing between her brows. "And if they don't believe us? If they still can't—"
“There is no reason why they won’t believe us,” I interrupt, my tone brooking no argument. "The alternative is too absurd.”
Genoveva's lips curve into a smile. "It is, isn’t it?" she agrees. “For them, it’d be easier to believe what we say than to think there was an underworld you brought me back to life from.”
The thing is, I want to agree with her, but there’s a strange, wistful look on her face when she speaks of the underworld. It sets me on edge and I bristle at the serene look on her face.
“Come,” I say, giving her my arm with a frown. “It’s time, and we must get going.”
She takes my arm without question, and together, we head into a night that could play out in a million different ways, each of which could prove to be dangerous if we aren’t careful.
As we step into the hallway, I can hear the murmur of voices from below. My jaw tightens. Let them talk. Soon, they'll have something else entirely to gossip about.
We pause at the top of the grand staircase, and I feel Genoveva's hand tighten on my arm. I glance at her, noting the slight tremble in her lower lip.
"Ready?" I ask, though I already know the answer.
She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and nods. "Ready."
We descend. My footsteps are heavy and purposeful, hers light and barely audible. The chatter below dies down as we come into view, and all eyes turn towards us. I scan the crowd, noting the mix of fear, respect, and curiosity on their faces.
But something's off. Their gazes slide right past Genoveva as if they’ve forgotten who she was. I feel a flicker of unease in my gut, but I push it down. It's all part of the plan, I tell myself. They're just in shock.
I grip Genoveva’s arm tighter. A few men and women waver in their attention, their gazes flickering briefly towards my elbow, which Genoveva gently rests her fingers over.
"Don Montagna," Capo Ricci greets me as we finally reach the floor, his voice oily with false warmth. "My family and I are honored to attend this lovely gathering.”
I nod curtly, waiting for him to acknowledge Genoveva. He doesn't.
“We’ve had such lovely times here,” he continues. Then, he sighs with sadness and walks away.
“Perhaps he didn’t recognize me,” Genoveva whispers in my ear. I turn to her and lean closer. “Or perhaps he’s already drunk,” I offer.
We both laugh.
“Talkin’ to yourself now, Montagna?” Frankie’s a jovial voice says from behind.
I turn to see the Italian with the potbelly.
"To my wife, Signora Genoveva," I prompt, my tone sharp. I then step aside to watch his reaction, realizing I’d been blocking Genoveva from his sight.
Frankie's eyes widen slightly, darting behind me as if searching for something. "I... of course. Signora," he says at last in the direction of Genoveva. Then, he gives me a fleeting, near-petrified look and scurries away.
I could feel Genoveva stiffen beside me, her nails digging into my arm. Something felt wrong. He didn’t ask about her or seek any explanations.
“Perhaps he got spooked,” Genoveva offers helpfully.
“Perhaps,” I narrow my eyes and watch Frankie now join a group of men. With exaggerated hand motions, he recites a tale, and then, all four men look in our direction, only to pretend they weren’t when they notice we were watching.
“I’m telling you,” Genoveva reads the situation. “They’re first going to be shocked. Tonight, everyone will pretend like nothing’s happened.”
“And tomorrow - I will plant the rumors that some knew all along. I will bribe, take in the sworn allegiances, and threaten bloody murder if I have to,” I growl, taking her hand in mine.
“I have no doubt you will,” Genoveva chuckles beside me.
“Come,” I say. “Let’s go get this dinner started.”
We stride into the dining room, our presence parting the sea of guests like Moses at the Red Sea.
“See?” I turn to face Genoveva. “They all want to take a look.”
“I see, darling,” she smiles. I lean forward, and she gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek. When I look back at the crowd, their eyes flicker between Genoveva and I, but I notice something unsettling.
Rather than fear or awe, they all look confused. I begin to worry that there will be rumors of her return that I won’t be able to control.
"Darling," I murmur, leaning close to her ear, "stay close."
She nods. I make my way to the head of the table, pulling out Genoveva's chair first. She sits, her movements graceful but uncertain. As I take my seat, I survey the room with a practiced eye, cataloging every twitch, every averted gaze.
"Well," I say, my gravelly voice cutting through the tense silence, "shall we begin?"
The room erupts into a flurry of movement as guests scramble to their seats, afraid to make me wait.
As people make it to their seats, I lean back, observing. The conversations around us feel off-kilter, like a symphony playing slightly out of tune. And still, not a single acknowledgment of my wife’s return.
What the hell is going on here? Are they truly afraid to even ask?
Suddenly, a commotion erupts at the far end of the table. Little Mike, three sheets to the wind already, stumbles through the doors.
“Sorry I’m late,” he slurs, swaying dangerously. “need... I need another chair.”
My heart leaps into my throat as I watch him lurch towards us, his tired eyes fixed on Genoveva's seat.
"Frankie," I growl, half-rising, "what the hell do you think you're doing?"
But he doesn't stop. It's like he doesn't even see her. Time slows to a crawl as he staggers closer, closer—
“Little Mike!" Genoveva's voice is panicked. "He's going to—"
I lunge into my coat pocket and stand; my hand now outstretched, gun pointed straight at Little Mike. “Stop right there!” I bellow.
The room falls silent and all eyes turn to me. Little Mike now stands straighter, holding on to the back of Genoveva’s chair for support so as not to sway. He looks at me, utterly confused and hopelessly confused.
"Can't you see my wife is sitting there?" I thunder, my voice cutting through the hush that has fallen over the room.
The words ricochet off the walls, sharp as gunshots. Forks clatter to plates; glasses freeze mid-air. Every eye in the room is locked on me, wide with shock and fear.
Little Mike's face drains of color, his drunken haze evaporating in an instant. "Capo Montagna, I don't—"
"Shut up!" I roar, my finger tightening on the trigger. My eyes burn with fury, pride, and something dangerously close to madness. "How dare you disrespect my wife like this?"
The tension in the room is suffocating. No one moves, no one breathes. I can feel Genoveva beside me, her presence a ghostly warmth, but when I glance at her, the confusion in her eyes mirrors my own.
"My wife sits at my right hand. Always. You will show her the respect she deserves, or so help me God, I'll paint these walls with your blood. Do I make myself clear?"
The silence stretches, taut as a wire. In my peripheral vision, I see hands inching towards hidden weapons.
Suddenly, a nervous titter breaks the silence. It's Antonio, one of my consiglieres, his face a mask of forced gaiety. "Come now, Boss," he says, his voice strained but light. "Let's not ruin a perfectly good dinner over a simple misunderstanding. I'm sure Little Mike meant no disrespect and had too much to drink. He would never disrespect the lady of the house."
I blink, momentarily thrown off balance. The tension in the room begins to dissipate. Slowly, hesitantly, the other guests return to their meals, though their eyes still flick nervously between me and the chair.
I lower my gun, my jaw clenched so tight I can hear my teeth grinding. "Frankie," I say, my voice low and controlled, though every fiber of my being wants to scream. "Find another chair. Now."
Frankie stumbles to his feet, sweat beading on his forehead. "Y-yes, boss. Of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"Just. Go." I cut him off, my patience hanging by a thread.
As Frankie scurries away, I sink back into my seat, my mind whirling. Something is deeply wrong here, but I can't put my finger on what. I glance at Genoveva, her presence beside me as real as ever, yet the others... they act as if...
No. It's impossible. I shake the thought away, focusing instead on maintaining my composure. They’re rattled, pretending they knew she had never died. They’re playing games, acting more nonchalant than they should, so I don’t consider them a threat. That’s probably what’s happening around here.
"Now," I say, forcing a smile that doesn't reach my eyes, "Shall we bring out the first course?"