Chapter One
Marcello
It’s Sunday dinner with the family. My mother is suspiciously quiet, which can only mean one thing: I’m about to be ambushed by her and my sisters, Ginevra and Noemi.
Bring it on, dear mother. I’m ready.
We’re in the formal dining room because Mama insists on using it for our Sunday night meals.
The chandelier above us is dimmed, casting a warm golden glow over our small group.
Mama prefers soft lighting. She says it makes the food taste better, but I suspect she just likes the way it softens everyone’s faces.
Our world doesn’t have much softness.
Being part of the Foschini syndicate requires sacrifice, commitment, and a spine of steel. Mama chose this life when she married into it. At least she had a choice.
I didn’t.
I was born into it, and there are times when I wish I hadn’t been.
Ornella, our housekeeper and cook, moves around the table, clearing the soup bowls.
She’s a sturdy, compact woman with steel-gray hair pulled back tight and a face that suggests she has very little patience for nonsense.
She’s run our household for decades. She’s good at her job. Solid. Efficient. Loyal.
She adored my late brother, Adriano. She respects me, but I don’t get the feeling she’s particularly fond of me. It’s fine. I don’t need her affection. I need her to run my household, and she does that beautifully.
“So.” My sister Ginevra sets her wine glass down. She’s pretty, but not in a soft, feminine way. She has dark hair cut to her shoulders, dark eyes, angular features. “Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room, or are we going to keep pretending like everything is fine?”
“I’m fine with the second option,” I murmur.
“Of course you are.” Ginevra gives me a chiding look. “Mama, do you want to start, or should I?”
Mama gives Ginevra a wry glance. “Tact is not your strong suit, Ginevra.” Mama is a petite woman with silver hair pinned up elegantly, and even at sixty-one she’s lovely.
“Where did tact ever get anyone?” Ginevra shrugs.
“You don’t have to jump down his throat,” my youngest sister Noemi says quietly. “You catch more bees with honey than vinegar.”
Ginevra gives Noemi an impatient glance. “I’m not trying to catch bees. I’m trying to talk some sense into Marcello.”
“All right, that’s enough. I’ll handle this, girls.
” Mama folds her napkin carefully and sets it beside her plate before looking at me.
Her eyes are the same dark brown as mine.
They hold a soft perseverance that has gotten her through three syndicate wars, the loss of her beloved husband, and the raising of four children, one of whom now lies in a marble vault on the property.
“Marcello,” Mama begins. “Despite how inelegantly Ginevra has opened the conversation, it’s one we need to have. We’ve been dancing around a particular problem long enough and can ignore it no longer.”
I sigh. “What’s this problem, Mama?”
“You’re the problem, dear brother,” Ginevra interjects with a smirk.
“Ginevra, be nice,” Mama says.
“I’m tired of the whispers.” Ginevra scowls. “He’s not taking the situation seriously.”
Mama purses her lips. “I’m tired of the looks and the subtle digs as well, but I want to discuss this with Marcello calmly.”
I frown. “What digs do you get because of me?”
Mama takes a sip of wine and then says, “Well, if you must know, Agostina Albano was mocking our family this morning at Mass.”
“Excuse me?” I rumble. “She mocked us?”
“Yes. She’s subtle about it though.” Mama makes a face. “She said she was sorry for me, Marcello. She actually took my hand as we were leaving the church, looking all weepy on my behalf. She put on quite a performance for the other women.”
I frown. “A performance about what?”
“Our family.” Mama leans toward me. “She said her heart was broken for our family. She also said she’s praying for us. For you, Marcello, in particular.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why would I need that woman’s prayers?”
Mama widens her eyes. “Because you broke up with Sandro.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I give a short laugh. “That’s what this is about? What business is that of hers?”
Ginevra rolls her eyes. “Apparently everything you do is of interest to those women, Marcello.”
Mama nods. “Yes, Ginevra is right. You’re all anyone was talking about after Mass. They were all going on and on about what a tragedy it was that you broke things off with Sandro.”
I wrinkle my brow. “I think tragedy is a little dramatic. Is it unfortunate I ended things with Sandro, sure, but it’s not tragic.”
“Are you sad about the breakup?” Noemi asks. She has Mama’s softer features and warm brown eyes rather than the sharp dark ones the rest of us share. Her face shows every emotion she feels, and right now it’s showing concern. “You don’t seem sad but perhaps you’re hiding your pain.”
“I’m not actually in pain. It was unpleasant. Breaking up always is.” I meet Mama’s gaze. “Why do so many people care about my love life? The fact they think I need their prayers is ridiculous. I merely ended my relationship with Sandro. I didn’t contract the plague.”
Mama sighs, looking slightly annoyed. “You did this to yourself by breaking up with Sandro with no warning.”
“I didn’t realize I had to give warning.” I laugh. “It’s my private business.”
“Did you break up because you have another omega in your sights?” Ginevra asks, appearing hopeful.
“No.”
“Damn,” Ginevra hums. “You’re sure there’s no new omega waiting in the wings?”
I scowl. “Yes, I’m sure. Why would that matter?”
Mama sighs. “Agostina Albano is definitely a drama queen, but the problem is she’s not the only one who’s concerned about you being single again, Marcello.”
I huff. “You can’t be serious.”
“Unfortunately, I’m dead serious.” Mama grimaces. “After the service three other women came up to me with the same sad eyes. They too offered their condolences on your break up.”
“Those women are idiots,” I grumble. “I don’t care about their love lives, why do they care about mine?”
Ignoring me, Mama continues. “The worst part was when Lilly Costa, who I actually like, pulled me aside in the parking lot and told me her husband had heard things at the club. That’s when I actually started to get worried.”
“What kind of things?” I go to take a sip of wine but my glass is empty. I don’t remember finishing it.
“People are saying that you’re wobbly,” Mama says.
“In what way have I been wobbly?” I growl. I’ve been working my tail off for my syndicate and have been the complete opposite of wobbly. “I’ve honored Papa and Adriano’s memories. I haven’t lost a single inch of territory or a single dollar of income in the year I have been in this position.”
Mama puts her hand on my arm. “We know that, tesoro. This isn’t about you not working hard enough. It’s about you appearing unsettled.”
“Unsettled, my ass.” I grunt, tugging at the knot of my tie. The collar of my dress shirt feels too tight, but that has nothing to do with the clothes. The idea that people I barely tolerate are sitting around discussing my love life and if I’m wobbly or not makes me want to overturn the table.
“Of course you’ve worked hard,” Ginevra says. “No one works harder than you, brother. Most people know that. But all it takes is for a few rumors of instability to take root and trouble won’t be far behind.”
“She’s right,” Mama says. “This has been a rough time after Adriano’s death. People want a leader who’s settled. Stable. While you’re working hard for our syndicate, people are uneasy now that you’ve broken things off with Sandro.”
“What does it matter if I’m single or not? If I’m doing a good job, who gives a damn about my love life?”
“It’s just how it is,” Mama sniffs. “The Don of the Foschini syndicate is expected to have an omega. You already know this, although you do your best to ignore it.”
“I ignore it because it’s an antiquated idea.”
Mama points her finger at me. “It’s tradition, Marcello.
Snubbing your nose at that tradition is foolish.
Every Foschini who has led this family has had an omega at his side.
Your father had me. Your grandfather had Nonna Rosa.
When you reject the way things have always been done, it creates anxiety among the older alphas. ”
“I don’t care what they think.”
Ginevra frowns. “I think you dismiss the older alphas too easily, Marcello. They still hold a lot of sway.”
“She’s right.” Mama pauses. “And when they talk, people listen. Salvatore Marchetti has been telling people he thinks a more settled alpha might be better suited to lead the syndicate.”
“Over my dead body.” I pour myself more wine, anger boiling inside of me.
Salvatore Marchetti runs one of the syndicates under our protection.
He pays tribute to the Foschini family, and in return we keep his enemies from carving him up and selling the pieces.
But I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.
“He may have some power, but he doesn’t get to choose who heads the Foschini syndicate. ”
“I agree,” Mama says, “but he wasn’t the only one questioning things. He was just the loudest.”
Noemi says softly, “Salvatore is still bitter over his son, Cristiano’s, death I think.”
Ginevra glances at her. “No, that was so long ago. It’s been over ten years.”
Mama says softly, “Trust me, when you lose a son, you never get over it. I’ll grieve Adriano’s death until the day I die.”
I wince at the pain in my mother’s voice.
Ginevra grimaces. “Of course. I don’t mean Salvatore shouldn’t still grieve. But Cristiano knew what he was doing. He accepted the money from Father to take Adriano’s place in prison. If he’d lived, he’d have been a very rich man.”
Noemi glances at her older sister. “But he didn’t live. Even if it was Cristiano’s choice to accept that deal from Father, if I were Salvatore, I’d still be bitter.”
Shrugging, Ginevra says, “I don’t think that’s why Salvatore is speaking up. I think it truly bothers him that Marcello is single. And as Mama said, he’s not the only one complaining.”