13. Sicily
SICILY
Milan had expertly avoided me since dropping the bomb about his death by truth a few days ago. I had a feeling it was linked to whatever had happened with his mom and sister, but also why Brenno Fera was convinced he had ruined their lives.
My husband was no more familiar to me than he had been on the day of our wedding.
He was more shrouded in mystery than ever, but at least I had grown even closer to Adriano.
Though he hadn’t let slip any of the information I needed to know, he had lived with Milan long enough that he had to know something.
It would only be a matter of time before he started unraveling too, I was sure of it, and I would jump at any chance to learn what I could, even if that meant horror movies.
I sat huddled on the couch in a black hoodie fit for a giant.
I’d found it on the upstairs banister, and though it definitely belonged to either Milan or Adriano, it was mine if I had to subject myself to Adriano’s favorite movies.
My hand stuffed into the bowl of buttery popcorn on Adriano’s lap, hiding behind his shoulder as the demons in this stupid movie jumped out at us every few seconds.
Adriano and Milan never seemed to stop working, so when he’d asked me to hang out, I’d of course agreed. It beat being alone any day.
“So,” Adriano said around a mouthful of popcorn. “Why is there a giant portrait of Milan jerking off in the hallway?”
I was glad the lights were off so he couldn’t see the flush creeping up my neck. “He’s not jerking off, he’s just…holding it. Why is it in the hallway?”
Adriano shrugged underneath my cheek. “Did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Paint him. What else?”
My nose was burning hot. “Right, yeah… I did. He was just my model, that’s all.” I sat up straighter. “Who put it in the hallway?”
“I did.”
My head snapped to the doorway, and I startled from deep inside my bones to the surface of my skin, clearly still believing that the shadowy figure belonged in Adriano’s ghost movie. Adriano burst into a fit of laughter even after I slapped his arm, causing Milan to walk in with a frown.
“You are watching entertainment that is designed to scare you on purpose.” He folded his arms as he examined the woman currently floating through the wall on the screen. “That is nonsensical.”
He wasn’t wearing his usual smart suit pants and white shirt, but rather a faded black T-shirt that spread tight across his shoulders and a pair of rugged black cargo pants. He didn’t look like Milan, or maybe he did, and this was the real version of him that I’d wanted to know for weeks.
“Leaving a painting of you naked for anyone to see also feels nonsensical,” I countered, trying to stop myself from eyeing his body again.
The corners of Milan’s lips twitched, and he moved closer, right beside me. He leaned against the arm of the couch, and his smile was always somehow noticeable even if it wasn’t a proper smile. Right there, up close, I could feel it.
Why was that hot?
No. I refused to think of my husband as hot for another second, but I didn’t look away either.
“I was not naked; my shirt remained on.” He took the remote beside me and paused the movie, flicking the lights on at the same time. “I did leave it facing the wall. If Adriano is nosy, that is not my concern.”
Adriano rolled his eyes as I buried mine underneath the head of the hoodie to avoid the bright lights, but also Milan.
I was supposed to hate and avoid him at all costs for forcing me into this life.
I was supposed to be suspicious and wary, scared even, but every time he let a little layer of himself shed, it became harder and harder to stay completely away.
If he wasn’t a sociopathic murderer, perhaps we could’ve been something.
The Consigliere groaned, rubbing his eyes. “Turn the fucking lights off.”
“Don’t use that word,” Milan scolded.
“Turn the lights off.”
I popped my head back through the hoodie and had to bite my lip to stifle my laugh at Milan’s deadpanned expression.
“I have come to ask a question,” he stated, his eyes flicking straight down to mine.
“I am going to the garage.” His gaze traced down my body for a moment, softening when he focused on the sweater, but when his eyes rose to meet mine again, there was something expectant buried there—hopeful perhaps.
“Do you wish to experience the business, Sicily?”
He was asking if I wanted to go with him to a place with sharp tools and probably no cameras.
My racing heart told me that I shouldn’t, that he made me nervous, and the thought of a screwdriver entering my brain made my skin break out in chills.
My father had once told me of the Luccas’ multi-million-dollar car business, the one that had really put them in competition with the other Five Families.
I hadn’t thought Milan himself would work on the cars; it wasn’t typical, and usually the boss had a thousand employees, so him inviting me himself didn’t feel like anything but suspicious.
He’d have to try harder than that if he wanted me dead.
I shook my head, wanting to break the contact between us but not being able to look away. “I’m kinda tired.”
He nodded once, but the air flooded with a heaviness and a deep kind of heat as he stood and left without another word, throwing a goodbye to Adrian over his shoulder.
That feeling didn’t go when he did. It settled deep in my chest, and I didn’t know why. I didn’t owe him shit, but I could feel it running deeper than that, slower, like whatever was at the garage was the front for a lot of feelings.
“What the hell was that?” Adriano said, frowning when I turned to find him beside me.
“What?” I snapped. “I am tired.”
“Bullshit. He wanted you to go. He never asks me to go.”
“I just—” I just didn’t have a clue what to say.
Adriano turned to face me fully, tossing aside the bowl of popcorn. “Okay, tell me the truth. Right now.”
It probably wasn’t the right choice to say, I’m terrified that your best friend is a mom-murdering sociopath and I don’t want to be alone with him, so I said instead, “There’s no truth, Adriano.”
“Are you scared of him?”
I choked on the small piece of popcorn I threw into my mouth as it lodged in my throat. “Why would you say that?”
“Because you look scared as fuck.” He scoffed. “He would never hurt you, you know that, right?”
“Wouldn’t he?” I whispered, not realizing what I’d said before it came out. “Just like he didn’t hurt his mom?”
My statement was begging for Adriano to tell me I was stupid and that of course Milan didn’t do that, but he didn’t.
Adriano swallowed and blinked, but the new wave of tears in his eyes didn’t go even as he blinked harder.
“I don’t know where you heard that, but don’t you dare say that in front of him.
He’s lived with what happened for years. ”
“But what did happen?” I asked, my voice coming out like a plea.
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”
“Because you’ll die too?”
His eyes widened. “Fuck, Sicily, fucking fuck.” Adriano ran a shaky hand through his hair. “You’re safe with him, with us, I swear it. I promise, he doesn’t want to hurt you; he wants to know you.”
Nobody wanted to know me, and the people who did always found out I was too much, too emotional, and too much trouble. That fear clung to the nagging want that told me I wanted to go, that part of me, no matter how scared, wanted to know him too.
If I went, Milan would see for himself why he didn’t want to get to know me.
My trust in Adriano held stronger than my fear of Milan murdering me, and I nodded, drawing in all the air I could.
The Consigliere could’ve been involved in it all, covering for him, pushing me to my death, but Adriano was an emotional being like me, and my heart could feel his breaking for his friend.
“Can you take me to him? To the garage?”
MILAN
I understood why my wife did not want to visit my garage. It was dirty with metallic silver walls and oil-ruined floors, mechanics were not her interest, and we did not spend regular time together.
I understood, but my brain had lost all of its ability to think ordinarily, forcing me to focus on her instead. It was incredibly unacceptable, nonsensical, and distracting from the last-minute Maserati order we had received.
We had received it from myself. I had ordered the Maserati for myself to fix. It was an attempted distraction technique, one that was not working.
My garage was certainly not the most delightful of locations for my wife, but the soldiers who wanted to help this business in their free time treated it as if it was their home.
It was cathartic to their busy, violent minds.
Here, they were just men amongst friends, fixing cars and listening to awful music.
“Hey, boss,” one of the young soldiers said, sidling up beside me with his toolkit. He had just become a Made Man and was a soft, emotional boy until you handed him a gun. “Can I come work with you?”
“Hello,” I said, looking up from the car’s wheel and nodding once. “You may. Are they making fun of you again, Lorenzo?”
I glanced over to the mass of men who were sniggering and joking with one another across the garage. It was all in good fun; I was aware of how men were, but he was younger, only sixteen and sensitive, and he deserved to walk away when he experienced emotional malfunction.
Many Dons expected their men to be hardened criminals, but I found that this did not make sense.
My men were expected to be decent members of society, have hobbies and families, experience joy and love.
Not only did they respect me more for it, but they had something to work for, come home to, and fight for, and they therefore worked harder.
“Yeah.” He sighed, throwing his spanner into the air and catching it again. “Because of a girl.”
My brow rose. “A girl?”