TWELVE
Benito
N astasya’s footsteps stay close behind as I walk back to the house. She believes that I could be the same man she knew as a boy, that my heart would remain innocent after all the bullshit I’ve seen. Of all people, she should fucking know better. A lot has changed me over the years. The shifts were small, little fractures in my soul with every sin I committed. At first, I would have believed what she said; I fooled myself into thinking I could remain the same at heart—loving and just. But as the years rolled by, I felt the sickness etch itself deep inside, burrowing in to eradicate whatever light was left.
I would have sought counsel from my elders. A little advice. But how the fuck was I supposed to do that when I couldn’t talk?
Instead, I embraced what I’ve become. I took the power back. The issue with my depravity was always in my resistance to it. A weight shifted as soon as I took responsibility for who I’d become. But one thing I’d never let rest was how I became the man I am today. She doesn’t know—Nastasya—but the man who caused me this harm sits at our table tonight. Family. The people you’re supposed to trust with your fucking life. And yet mine are the devils who take it away.
I grow increasingly aware of the tap of her shoes along the paved path, of her proximity to my back. Of the goddamn fact that she’s remained quiet the whole walk indoors. She could have bombarded me with questions and demanded answers. But she took the news of my inability to voice my feelings again in her stride. She may be na?ve about the man I became, but she’s blinded by love—I’d put money on it. A woman ignorant of her life doesn’t naturally fall into the role of a Bratva woman.
Quiet. Stoic. Submissive.
I chance a look over my shoulder and note how she walks with her head down, gaze cast to the side at the flowerbeds that line the pathway. A storm brews behind those dull eyes, quiet and deadly.
A lot like me.
I slow my pace so she can catch up and hold my right hand toward her. She glances between the offer and my face, finally settling her warm palm against mine. I wrap my fingers around her hand and continue up the patio steps toward where our parents and family mingle.
It insulted me, at first, that Papa would marry me off like a goddamn commodity. He assumes I’m unable to find love on my own terms, but then I spent a while thinking about it when I should have been asleep. He chose the one woman he knows I risked it all for. He chose the woman for whom I paid the ultimate price.
If he’d wanted to insult me, he could have done it in far too many other ways.
As we reach the door, I cast my gaze down at the woman by my side. Her eyes fixate on the people behind the glass; the sound muted thanks to the thick, reinforced panes. Apprehension coats the downturn of those cherry lips, her brow slightly wrinkled between her eyebrows. Stas hasn’t spoken a word since we left the pergola—a mere few minutes ago—and already I miss the sound of her voice. I can only imagine what it’s like for her to know she’ll never hear mine again.
I won’t be able to tell her I love her or whisper good morning in her ear as I wake her the best way possible: with bodies sweaty and entwined. I won’t be able to reassure her when she needs my strength, to speak up and defend her when the occasion calls for it.
I’ll never be able to teach our children to speak, should we get that far.
As I reach up and run my fingertip around the shell of her ear, I’m reminded of why I agreed to walk away all those years ago. Because the man I am now will never be the man she deserves.
I’ll never be enough.
A sigh slips through my lips as I turn my heated stare to the man responsible for my suffering. He registers our presence when I depress the door handle and usher Nastasya in before me, breaking his conversation to offer a smug smirk before raking his unwanted attention down her body.
I could kill the man where he stands if it weren’t for our shared last name.
“Here they are, the happy couple.” Uncle Naz’s words drip with contempt. “Sneaking around like forbidden lovers already.”
He fucking well knows I understand the innuendo in his words. I smash my shoulder against him as I walk past, Stas on my other arm. Papa frowns at the interaction, and I offer a dismissive shrug. An accident, I lie.
“Let’s not delay.” Mama claps her hands together, making my brothers rise from where they’d sat in discussion on a far sofa. “The chef has outdone himself tonight.”
We’re ushered into the dining room; Arseni gives me a long look before he walks ahead of his daughter. The wiry man’s lack of good graces has always rubbed me up the wrong way, but after today, it has me ready to spit blood. His only child had her life threatened mere days ago, and here he is, making her act the part in his puppet show of power. I’m under no illusion that this union benefits him more than it does us, but my question is, what motivated him to pick now to instigate it?
“Boys, sit together.” Mama gestures for me and my brothers to take the far end of the table. “Arseni, have the seat opposite mine, beside Gennaro. Ignazio can sit at the far end to watch the children tonight.”
The clench of my uncle’s jaw must near split his fucking teeth. He pins my mother with a suffering scowl and then situates himself at the opposite end of the solid marble table to my father. I pull Nastasya’s chair out, placing myself between her and my uncle. To my frustration, Alessio sits opposite her, Dion facing my chair.
“Must rip your clenched asshole to have to sit with the kiddies,” Dion teases our uncle. He flicks his napkin into his lap, not bothering to spare the seething elder a glance.
“Somebody has to keep you assholes in line.”
I don’t need to look at Ignazio to know he delivered the line solely to me. He thinks what he did kept me loyal to him—to the family—but all he managed was to create the most dangerous enemy of all. My silence should never be mistaken for submission. Ever.
“Wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t four empty seats between us and them.” Alessio glowers at our parents. “I don’t know why we have to sit down here like we’re fucking five.”
“Perhaps, so you don’t solicit your unwanted opinions in their discussions.” Dion leans back in his seat, arm slung over the back of our younger brother’s chair.
Alessio flicks his napkin at him, collecting Dion in the face.
Ignazio snatches it out of Dion’s grip before they can start a proper fight. “Perhaps if you didn’t act like you’re fucking five, you wouldn’t get treated like children.”
“I apologize for my family’s lack of manners, Nastasya.” Dion smiles sweetly at my bride-to-be. “But there’s no point pretending to be anything other than what we are now that you’re one of us.”
“She’s not a De Santis yet,” Alessio snaps.
I slam my fist on the table to shut them both up. Stas takes me aback when she gently rests her hand atop mine.
“Perhaps I never will be.” She tilts her head and locks gazes with Ignazio. “They discuss the terms tonight, am I right?”
My uncle nods, hands tucked beneath his chin and elbows resting on the table. It’s a relaxed stance, yet he somehow manages to make it arrogant—just like him. The staff slips through the service door to table our first course.
“Risotto.” Ignazio stabs his fork into the bowl. “I thought you said the chef had outdone himself,” he booms down the length of the table.
Mama lifts her head from a conversation with Arseni and frowns.
“If you don’t like it,” Dion snaps. “Fuck off home and cook your own dinner.”
“This should be my home,” Ignazio grumbles.
I draw a deep breath and lash out with my left hand, catching the lip of his bowl to upend the contents in his ungrateful lap. Stas gasps beside me, Alessio chuckling at our uncle’s misfortune.
The jackass roars with anger, launching himself backward in his seat, the metal legs screeching across the hardwood floor. “You disrespecting little shit!”
“Ignazio,” Papa hollers, rising to his feet. “Compose yourself.”
I grin at my uncle, relishing in his frustration as he opens his mouth to protest yet remains silent. He and I both know that if he says a thing, his complaints make him sound even more like a child than my brothers and I did just now.
“Here.” Stas rises from her seat, slipping behind me to offer my uncle a napkin. “I’m sure it was accidental.”
“Sure.” Naz rips the square of cotton from her hand. “You must be fucking blind if you believe that.”
I press both hands to the table, prepared to show my uncle the exit. The gentle touch of Stas’s fingers on my shoulder keeps me where I am.
“I’m sure he meant to offend you,” she clarifies in a low tone only for those at our end of the table. “The accident is that he wasted such a lovely risotto.”
Alessio snorts.
I disguise my grin behind one hand while Nastasya takes her seat. She rendered the jaded asshole silent, which speaks volumes. Uncle Naz isn’t one to back away from confrontation, even when it makes an unwarranted scene. He drops into his seat, jumping it toward the table again. Using his napkin and the one Stas offered, he does his best to clean himself off while the rest of us eat the starter course. Rice and vegetables sit on the floor around him like a goddamn three-year-old took his place. I cast my periphery down at the mess and snort.
“Something to say?”
My grin widens, eyebrow raised as though to ask, “Seriously?”
He leers. “Didn’t think so.”
I give him my middle finger in return.
“Kids,” Dion warns. “Plenty of time to sling mud at each other later. But we have guests tonight.”
“Is it always like this?” Stas asks, suppressing a smile—badly.
Alessio lifts his gaze, peering out from under a stern brow. “I’m sure you’ll find out once you’re warming his bed.”
I catch the fucker’s gaze and look pointedly toward his bowl. Want me to throw that in your lap, too? Alessio rolls his eyes and finishes the last forkfuls.
The staff sweeps in again, exchanging dishes for the night’s first course. I lean back in my seat as they set the two giant lobsters in the center of the table, laying my arm along the back of Stas’s chair. She straightens, making her subtle point by leaning the backs of her shoulders against my forearm. A platonic touch, but one that is more sexual than anything I’ve had lately. The simplest gesture means so much more when delivered from her.
Nine years and my attraction for her hasn’t waned. Only my sense of worthiness.
“Not eating?” Alessio eyes Stas as he tears a claw from the lobster.
“No. Thank you.”
Naz huffs, taking the tail. “Don’t tell me our food isn’t good enough for you.” He meets her eye. “Would you prefer something familiar, like borscht?
“Are you for fucking real?” Dion asks. “Nice stereotype, asshole.”
“I hate borscht,” Stas responds with a slight laugh. She pins Naz with a cutting glare. “I have an allergy to shellfish, if you must know.”
The fucker snorts. “Don’t give Nastasya oysters on the honeymoon, Benito. You’ll be fucking a puffer fish.”
I slam the heel of my boot into his shin and then wiggle my head, brow raised. Sorry.
“You fucking touch me again and?—”
“And what?” Dion hisses. “Behave yourselves, for fuck’s sake.”
“Everything okay down there?” Papa calls out. “How are you liking your meal, Nastasya?” He eyes her empty plate.
“My daughter believes shellfish is bad for her.” Arseni laughs. “I think she’s a fussy eater. Always the dramatic one.”
I’m ready to rip half the men at this table limb from limb. For most, family dinner is a special occasion full of cherished memories. We should look forward to these moments now that we live in separate residences. But instead, the De Santis get together, and common decency packs up and fucks off for the night. Mama blames having too much testosterone in one room. I blame Alessio and Ignazio for being absolute cunts.
I choose not to partake in the lobster, given Nastasya’s allergy. She hasn’t indicated as much, but should I get the chance to kiss her later, I don’t want to be the one responsible for sending her into anaphylactic shock because I still carry the taste of lobster. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’m not keen to find out. I cast my gaze her way and relax when I find her watching me also. She takes a deep breath and turns away, observing our parents instead.
Perhaps we didn’t make as much progress outside as I thought. Stas’s silence appeared at face value to be an acceptance of my situation, but if I know anything about women, they like to pick their moment. Maybe she sits beside me, working out the best way to call this off, slowly growing increasingly disgusted at what she saw.
What I revealed.
I haven’t told anyone outside the family the reason for my lack of voice. Sure, I can make sounds. Horrible fucking tones that would make the most hardened man shiver with repulsion. I chose pretty quickly to say nothing over sounding like an absolute imbecile. People respect the mystery of my silence, but they’d mock my muted attempts to speak.
To retain any power in the family, I need to keep my reputation as unblemished as possible, which is why we all hold the secret.
The only assurance I need is that my new wife will do the same.