9. Sicily
SICILY
Adriano was eating chocolate cereal in an almost overflowing bowl when I walked into the sitting room the next morning.
I’d slept well, better than I had the night of the wedding. Perhaps the nightmares of torture had been replaced with nightmares of my asshole husband’s rules and regulations, but at least the look on his face when I’d said I was fucking Matteo had soothed me to sleep.
Milan Lucca was terrifying, but pushing his buttons when Adriano was around was…cathartic.
“You look like you’re thinking,” Adriano said around a mouthful of his cereal. He was slouched on the couch in his usual casual home attire, the TV on low in the background, his laptop resting precariously on the couch’s arm.
It was peaceful with him here, warmer.
I yawned loudly, slumping onto the couch beside him as I teased, “You look like you shouldn’t be eating in here. There are very strict rules we have to abide by in this jail, Adriano.”
Adriano rolled his eyes playfully, handing me the bowl and spoon as the loud rumble of my stomach alerted the entire universe that I was starving. “Still can’t believe you won that fucking poker game.” He shook his head, laughing quietly as he turned to his laptop.
I shrugged. “Still can’t believe he didn’t say thank you.” The ‘he’ mentioned didn’t need any further explanation; there was no other devil that I worried could be summoned by their name.
“He didn’t?”
“No way,” I slurped around the spoon of chocolatey milk. “He chewed me out for sleeping with Matteo instead. Ungrateful asshole.”
“Are you fucking Bonafede?”
I smirked. Adriano was a deviant little gossip, it seemed.
“Absolutely not.” I faked a gag. “He’s like my brother, and besides—” I stopped myself before I slipped anything about a certain relationship. Adriano had already seen too much at the wedding.
The Consigliere opened his mouth, definitely ready to ask all the questions he shouldn’t, but a creak in the floorboards had our attention turning to the door.
Milan stood there with the loudest scowl I’d ever seen, but that was the least of my problems.
He had no shirt on, and fuck me, was he muscled.
Ripples and rings of taut muscle stretched beneath his skin, and I thought his body would never end as I raked my gaze up and down his tall figure, but it finally did at the waistband of a pair of sinful-looking gray sweatpants.
My eyebrows rose; gray sweatpants never left much to the imagination, but my mind filled in the blanks. His cock was huge, and I couldn’t help but imagine what he would look like sitting in my studio as my model.
“Good morning, Milano,” Adriano said with a curt nod.
Milano. That nickname again.
I’d heard it once, on the balcony after the shooting when Milan became lost in himself. He’d repeated that one phrase over and over again, compulsively, repetitively, like it haunted him.
You are capable, Milano.
It sounded like praise, but I didn’t think it was. Was Adriano to blame for it?
Milan stayed silent for a moment before he strolled into the lounge and stiffly sat on the cream armchair opposite us, his unblinking stare never leaving my face.
“Why’re you naked?” I asked suddenly to break the tension, wanting to poke and probe whatever awful mood he’d woken up in today.
“I am not naked.” He jolted like I’d slapped him. “I am showing an equal amount of skin as you are in those strange pink pajama shorts.” He shuffled in place, still remaining rigid. “Why are you discussing Matteo Bonafede in my home?”
I slurped a spoonful of milk from the bowl, watching in satisfaction as he winced. “Because I was thinking of inviting him over for dinner, obviously.”
Adriano choked on his laughter.
Milan frowned at him as he said firmly, “That is not permitted.”
“So, who is permitted then?” I shrugged, feigning my curiosity. “You said I can fuck—”
“Do not say that word.”
“Have sex with anyone I want if I’m discreet. You didn’t specify Matteo was out of the ‘anyone’. Why are you discriminating against the Bonafedes? That’s not very kind.”
He blinked at me, his mouth opening but not speaking, and a wave of triumph rolled over me. He didn’t have anything to say. For once, he didn’t have an answer, or at least one he wanted to say.
I’d won this one.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence, but Adriano didn’t seem to care. He simply carried on clicking away at his laptop like this was normal, and I wondered how much of their time was spent in silence.
“What time are we expected?” Milan said, keeping his eye on me as he changed the subject.
“Any time,” Adriano replied, not taking his eyes from the screen. “It’s not like he keeps particularly busy.”
“Where are you going?” I asked instantly.
Adriano snapped, “Nowhere” at the same time as Milan said, “The Outfit.”
A look passed between them, one that said I certainly wasn’t invited, but I was surprised.
The Chicago Outfit wasn’t exactly the Cosa Nostra’s enemy, but they weren’t well-liked amongst the Famiglia for their worse reputation than my father’s.
Matteo had once told me that they specialized in brothels and strip clubs and had worked with my father on some occasions, but generally, they were sleazy people who cut corners at the expense of the women they used.
I had no idea who the Capo was, but he couldn’t be good news.
“We are going to see Francesco Carbone. The Capo dei Capi of the Outfit,” Milan announced like it was a fun outing.
The name hit me as he said it.
Francesco, like the Francesco that Adriano had ordered around the night of the wedding?
The Francesco who wore the same earring in his ear that Adriano did around his neck?
That Francesco?
If that was true, Adriano and the head of the Outfit had been together, alone, on the upper floor of the church when I’d run to find help. That was certainly not something Milan would be thrilled about.
Was Adriano a threat to the Famiglia? Scheming behind Milan’s back?
Surely I had a duty to say something to my husband, or if not my husband, my Capo dei Capi.
As if to remind me of that fact, the faded tattoo on Milan’s chest glared at me from across the room, screaming of betrayal. It was a branding, a bloody knife with the Lucca family name wrapped around it like a ribbon.
I didn’t really care about Milan knowing Adriano’s secrets, but he was so shrouded in his own that I couldn’t help but wonder what punishment he’d dole out on me if I didn’t tell him.
I tried not to turn my head, only my eyes, but I could see Adriano doing the same, and it just looked like two people with stiff necks. From the corner of my eye, I saw his deep swallow. It was harsh, painful even, and so very hiding something.
“I want to come with you,” I announced, straightening my posture in the seat.
If Adriano was hiding something, I wasn’t going to let Milan go alone, find out, and let Adriano throw me under the bus for knowing about it.
My husband frowned. “Why?”
“Yeah, Sicily,” Adriano echoed in a growl. “Why?”
“Because it’s important to show that I support my loving, caring”—Milan scrunched his nose, his entire face committing to the disgust—“talented husband, isn’t it?”
He stared at me intently, only rising to his feet when his ogling drifted down my body. “The jet leaves in one hour and I will leave you here if you are late, Sicily.”
The room grew stale the moment Milan was gone. I stood to leave, no longer comfortable in Adriano’s presence until I knew what he was hiding.
“Sicily,” Adriano called, halting me by the door. “What are you doing?”
I didn’t turn as I said, “Figuring out what you’re hiding from your Capo.”
The plane journey to Chicago was silent.
I tried to make conversation, but Adriano was glued to his phone, rapid-typing texts, and Milan insisted on doing whatever it was that ‘work’ entailed.
Probably putting a hit out on someone or committing something violent.
After we landed, a young Outfit soldier by the unfamiliar look of him, offered to drive us, but Milan, being the control-freak asshat he was, just took the keys to the huge black vehicle and drove us himself.
We pulled up to the biggest penthouse I’d ever seen, and I held in my gasp, knowing how Milan felt about any sound out of my mouth.
There were at least fifteen floors made of pure, dark, tinted glass, and an infinity swimming pool on the balcony at the very top.
I wondered if it was a bad idea to ask Francesco Carbone to give me a tour.
I felt giddy as the concierge took one glance at Adriano and waved us through to the elevator, but that was doused in a violent reality check when Milan’s fingers attempted to snatch mine from where they rested at my sides.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed through my teeth, slapping his hand away.
“Holding your hand,” he said plainly, facing forward, refusing to look at me. “That is what a loving, caring, talented husband does, is it not?”
I pursed my lips, so I didn’t laugh.
I hated him. He was dangerous. Funny, but dangerous.
“Yeah,” I said, stepping closer to Adriano on my other side. “But that’s not actually you. You’re rude, and you hate me.”
“I do not—”
The elevator doors pinged open, and my jaw dropped to the floor, right alongside Milan’s.
The man I had barely managed to see on the night of the attack, Francesco Carbone, was lounging on a leather couch with a semi-naked woman between his legs.
The sounds of sucking and moaning reminded me of being in my studio, though it was messier and less feeling than how Elena and Matteo came together.
Francesco’s penthouse was the one with the pool, and it was as grand as it seemed from the outside.
It was all black leather and surprisingly motorcycle-themed.
He displayed a range of biker jackets, helmets, and gloves as though they were artefacts, and I liked that he had some kind of personality.
Most men, if not all of them, in the Famiglia were bland as hell; maybe the Outfit was where the fun happened.