8. Milan
MILAN
She was here. Again.
Then I remembered that she was my wife and sighed. This was an unacceptable arrangement, but one I could do nothing about.
There was business to partake in with the people who still thought it was a choice to fall under my leadership.
I had the Gioffres and the Bianchis under my thumb, so it was only a matter of time before the other families caught up, but a gentle probe with the next family on my list was far from harmful.
The Bonafedes were next, and I was certain they would fold into my leadership with ease. Don Tommaso Bonafede cared mostly about his appearance in our society, and if he was seen to be one of the only people not following me, his image would suffer greatly.
I assumed Adriano had told Sicily of our necessary plans to attend the Bonafede poker yacht when they conversed loudly in the kitchen at seven-thirty this morning, but I was sorely mistaken, and we were fifty-five minutes late because she could not pick an outfit fast enough.
That was not preferable in the slightest.
“You good, Milan?” Adriano half-smiled as we walked through the sleek, white-paneled yacht.
I had learned that half-smiling did not mean half-happy. Adriano had once informed me that it was a filler expression, and it indicated more unhappiness than happiness, but most notably, neutrality.
“No,” I said firmly, shoving my sunglasses harder onto my face.
They were unneeded; it was the early evening, and the sun was setting and leaving an orange hue over the boat. We were also inside, on the decking under cover, but nobody could see my malfunction under them.
My Consigliere frowned. “What’s wrong?”
My focus flickered to my wife. “Her presence is disruptive.”
Sicily jumped in front of me, the black sequins on her excessively sparkly mini-dress twinkling as she forced us to stop. “My ears work, Milan. I’m literally just walking next to you.”
She could not see my eyes as I narrowed them. “That is beneficial to us both. If you could not hear yourself talking, you might be louder, and that would be more unacceptable than it is now.”
Adriano bit his lip, avoiding his laughter again.
“You’re a fucking asshole. Are you aware, Milan?”
“I am not aware of being titled this particular word; last night, I was just an ass, so I do not understand why this has developed.” I cleared my throat. “You will also not use that word tonight.”
“Wonderful.” She clapped her hands once as she continued to stand in my way, the movement causing her sweet perfume to drift toward me, and I found myself left with the need to smell her. “Let’s set the rules, shall we? Because god forbid we exist without rules made by a man.”
I was a man, and things functioned well when there were rules, so I was not opposed to this.
“Okay then. Rule one, you will not say that ridiculous word. Rule two, you will not speak of what happened at the wedding. Rule three—”
“She wasn’t being serious about the rules, Milan.” Adriano chuckled and moved her out of my way gently, putting an arm around her shoulders so we could continue walking to the other end of the deck.
Typically, where Sicily was concerned, her lack of speech was preferable, but I felt the unexpected urge to speak to fill the silence that fell between us, especially when her fingers toyed with the bandage covering her palm beneath the glittery sleeve she had hidden it with.
Adriano had entered my room last night to tell me that Sicily deserved to be spoken to about the Camorra attack.
I did not understand what she had done to deserve such an explanation until he had explained that she had not spoken negatively regarding my compromised control after the assassin’s death.
This was unusual for people who did not have the same processing patterns as me; fear often overshadowed rational thinking, and everything about me was unknown and defective.
It was a shame that Sicily was abnormally talkative and disregarded every rule she was expected to follow; there were aspects of my new wife that I may have tolerated otherwise.
Nonetheless, if Adriano believed that Sicily deserved an explanation, I would explain how I did not sleep but instead mailed the remaining pieces of the Camorrista to Naples in an envelope with my signature, called in a favor with the Capo dei Capi of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra who would soon eradicate the Camorra with my backing, and thought of how I had caught her unconscious body as she fainted instead of closing my eyes.
We continued through the large yacht, past closed doors with sounds emanating from beneath them that made me wince, past rooms that were open with sights that made me feel unclean, and through the wooden decking that was strung in yellow bulb string lights that Sicily murmured to Adriano that she liked.
I noted that.
I placed an arm before both my wife and my Consigliere, stopping us as we reached the highest outdoor deck.
It held expensive deep green poker tables, brimming glasses full of champagne, and chips worth thousands.
I found boats unsuitable for my brain, gambling counterintuitive, and the Bonafede family insufferable, but I had a duty to comply with and a past to atone for.
Tommaso Bonafede and his delinquent son Matteo were perched at the largest table, deep in conversation with the Don’s Consigliere, who did not have a name as far as I was concerned; he had never said a word, but he appeared to have a sixth sense for spotting potential danger.
He turned his head first, locating us with no expression at all, and then nudged his boss, who paused his conversation and turned too.
Tommaso was not unpleasant to look unlike Giovanni. I appreciated that. He had stiff blond hair that was gelled like mine, wide black sunglasses that were unnecessary, a tall, broad physique like his son’s, and a grin that suggested he was happy to see me when I doubted that was true.
“Milan Lucca,” the Don said with a small chuckle as he stood to shake my hand. “Come join us. Matteo will shuffle.”
Joining them would result in irreparable consequences; it always did, but once again, I found myself lacking in choice.
It was a requirement for the Bonafedes to relinquish leadership to me.
They were experts in gambling, made their money this way, kept their money this way, and did not lose.
Ever. They were the most strategic of the Five Families, and to have them in my arsenal was a strength I would not lose.
“Congratulations to the new Mrs. Lucca.” He grinned, taking my wife’s hand and showing her to an excessively red seat opposite Matteo. “I wish you many happy years together.”
Sicily’s fixation on him darted to Matteo like she was familiar with him.
I watched her bite her lip as Adriano had done previously.
She was trying not to laugh at his father, but Matteo was watching her with an interest that made him frown.
He did not look amused, but concerned, potentially for her.
I had not been made aware of a friendship between my wife and the Bonafede heir; if I had, I would have put a stop to it before the wedding.
The Bonafedes and Ferraris were in a volatile severance agreement by which the two families were forbidden from interacting with one another.
It was incredibly inconvenient for the rest of us, but it was something that had centuries of feud behind it and was unbreakable.
Sicily would not have known of this pact, but now that she was married to me, it was something she would have to know, and that meant no friendships with the Bonafedes or Ferraris that could put us in the middle of a war.
“Thank you,” Sicily finally answered, picking up a black chip in one hand and a green chip in the other and tossing them between her fingers.
I snatched it from her and set it down with a loud clink. “Do not touch that.”
She rolled her eyes, and my first instinct was to drag her out of here like I had at our wedding, but I remembered how that went and understood what a scene that would make with the people who were supposed to believe me stable.
Tommaso grinned at us, his attention flickering between us both. “Do you want to play poker, Mrs. Lucca?”
Sicily squealed, “Sure!” at the same time I snapped, “No.”
Her head spun to face me, her pupils barely open with how much she had narrowed them.
Anger, that was what that was.
“Have you ever actually played poker before, Sicily?” Adriano leaned over me to ask her.
Her cheeks blushed a light pink. “Well, no, not—"
Matteo, the insolent rule breaker that he was, began to shuffle the cards like he was a magician. The Bonafedes enjoyed flair and showmanship. “All six of us play, one hand. If Sicily wins, we agree to what Milan has actually come here to talk about.” Matteo smirked. “We let him be our Capo.”
Tommaso shared a brief look with his son before he nodded shallowly, solidifying his agreement.
This was nonsensical; Sicily had never touched a poker table in her life, and to place my chances of winning in her hands was the equivalent of throwing money directly into the ocean.
“No.” I stood. “This is insanity, and the outcome will be suboptimal for everyone involved.”
Matteo flopped back into his chair, shrugging. “Your call, Capo.”
Tommaso was too distracted filling his glass to pay attention to the audacity of his heir.
With a deep exhale, I returned to my seat, nodding once, my metaphorical hands tied because of my wife again.
Sicily raised her hand.
Matteo raised a brow, pausing his shuffling. “Yes, principessa?”
Principessa?
A conclusion was instantly created in my head; Matteo Bonafede and my wife had engaged in an emotional relationship in their lives.
I sat closer to her on the couch, choosing to ignore how her knee touched mine and sent an uncomfortable sensation through my body.
“Can I whisper to Milan if I get confused?” she asked, and I felt the urge to sit taller, straighter.