Chapter MARCELLO
Zia Rosa left hours ago, but the fridge is filled with my favorite dishes. Underneath a glass-covered cake display is an arrangement of cookies and Italian pastries, also my favorites. Zia Rosa must have been cooking and baking up a storm all day.
I lift the surprisingly heavy dome lid and fish out a sospiri. The lemon zest incites a party on my taste buds, tangy and sweet. I revel in its taste. So much better than the hospital grub. Not that I had much of it, most of the time I was out, but what I did get to taste was… fucking disgusting.
My stomach protests the sweetness, reminding me that it hasn't had any real food in weeks. A sospiri might not have been my best choice.
"Can't sleep?" Luciano enters from the family area.
Automatically, my hand moves for my gun, and I realize with a start that I'm not carrying. "Jesus, Luciano, you nearly gave me a heart attack."
The motherfucker grins from ear to ear, "Have to take advantage of your state while I can."
I slap his side with the crutch, making him chuckle while he snags a couple of butter cookies.
"What are you still doing here? Don't you have your own apartment?" I pretend to be annoyed, taking a butter cookie for the hell of it.
"I got so used to being around your ugly mug twenty-four-seven, I have to ease into my withdrawal." He counters.
I hobble to the fridge to see what I can find of real food. Pieces of fried chicken catch my eye. A drumstick is just what my body needs right now. "Want one?"
Luciano stuffs his face with more cookies, "Wouldn't want to rob you of your food, what with you convalescing and all."
"You don't seem to have a problem with eating all my cookies," I reply, biting into the cold chicken.
"Those are bad for you. Just trying to save your ass," Luciano lies with a smirk.
"Sophia hasn't answered me back," I tell him. "I left a message and texted. If she hasn't replied by tomorrow, I'll need you to drive me over to her place."
"I don't think Violet will be happy with you leaving the bed," Luciano cautions.
"Violet works for me; she follows my orders, not the other way around." I set him straight.
A short snort escapes him. "I'll let you have your delusions for now since you don't know her that well yet."
I chew thoughtfully on the soft meat, the way only Zia Rosa can make it so tasty that even cold, it's delicious, while I mull his words over.
Don't know her that well yet… He's right—and wrong.
Because somehow, I feel like I already do.
And everything I don't know? I want to spend the rest of my life finding out.
"She's not like your other women, you know," Luciano says offhandedly. Too offhandedly. I lift my head and scrutinize his expression.
"You like her?"
"I respect her," he corrects. That's a new one.
"She's fierce and brave. She's got balls, too," he chuckles.
He'd better not be telling me he's in love with her, because… because… I want her. Shit, I really do. What the hell is wrong with me?
"What do we know about her?" I ask, keeping my voice level, keeping the appearance up of me just doing my due diligence—vetting a new hire. Not obsessing over a woman I shouldn't even be thinking about.
He rubs his chin. "She's been in New York since she was five.
Hasn't left. She studied nursing and has been working at St. Raphael's since she graduated.
She's well-liked, respected, and has been promoted several times.
The only vacation she takes is with her family at a lake house.
She was engaged, but she broke it off a couple of months ago. "
A muscle in my jaw tightens. Engaged.
Some part of me wants to know his name. Wants to know what kind of man gets down on one knee for a woman like Violet and then lets her go. Wants to find him. See if he still thinks he made the right decision with a broken nose.
I shouldn't care. Shouldn't want to dig into her past. But that protective, territorial instinct is already in me, rising like smoke off dry kindling. Whoever he was, he didn't deserve her.
Just like Mina didn't deserve me.
The thought strikes harder than I expect. Huh. We both dumped our fiancés. Maybe that's why this already feels different. Clean slate. No lies. No expectations. She's not chasing my crown. I'm not chasing her down the aisle. And yet…
She's everything I didn't know I was looking for.
And if she ever lets me get close enough?
I won't be the idiot who lets her walk away.
The part he isn't telling me grabs my attention: "What happened before she was five?"
"That's the strange part. Nothing. She's a ghost. So are her mother and siblings. There's nothing on them before twenty years ago."
Intriguing. Whatever it is she's hiding, though I doubt she even knows she's hiding it. "Concentrate on the mother. I want to know everything."
"I've got Luca on it," he fills me in. It's a good choice. Despite his being only nineteen years old, Luca Boddigo is a beast of a hacker. If there is a secret, he'll find it.
"I'm going home now," Luciano grabs more cookies, "I need a shower and to sleep in my own bed."
"Couldn't agree more." I throw the chicken bone into the garbage. I'm still hungry, but my stomach is making angry sounds, telling me I should take it easy.
"See you in the morning." Luciano moves toward the door that leads into the antechamber where the elevator and the guards are stationed. "Get some rest."
"Yes, Mom." I grin sarcastically at him before I add, "And, thank you."
"Yeah, I'll add it to your tab." He grins back.
Restless, I move to the balcony and stand outside for a while.
Down below, traffic rolls through the streets uncaring that it is one o'clock in the morning.
NYC is always busy. The sky is too bright from all the lights to make out any stars.
Maybe Enrico has it right. He lives in a mansion in the suburbs, where you can see the stars at night.
But I love this city too much to consider moving.
I saw plenty of stars in Sicily. This city is more alive than any other place I've ever been.
I missed it when I was gone. At least, on the few occasions I had time to miss anything.
My phone vibrates. A message from Sophia.
Sophia:
Glad to hear you're out. I'm out of the city for a few days.
I push dial and call her. I don't have the patience for long, drawn-out text messages.
“How are you?” She greets me.
"Where are you?" I ask right back.
"Los Angeles. Roberto has some business here, so I decided to go shopping," she replies.
"Who the fuck are you talking to?" A male voice sounds out, making me grind my jaw.
"It's just Marcello," Sophia responds, and I don't like the tone in her voice. I don't know her well enough anymore—something I want to remedy—but the inflection of fear is there, as if she screamed it out loud.
"Let me talk to him," I order, clenching my teeth.
"He wants to talk to you." Sophia's voice is merely a whisper.
"Christ, it's ten at night. Tell him I'll call him tomorrow."
"Now!" I bark loud enough that he hears it.
"You do know there's a time diff—" a man's voice, Roberto, I assume, comes on the line.
I don't let him finish. "She's my blood, Roberto. If I find out you hurt her, I'll break every bone in your body with my bare hands—and when I'm done, I'll get creative."
"You've got it twisted, Marcello. I take care of your sister. You think I'd be stupid enough to lay a hand on her?" He responds, sounding more flustered than outraged.
"I think you're arrogant enough to think you can get away with it." The edge is still in my voice, and if he has any brain, he'll take the hint.
"Don't threaten me over nothing. She's emotional. She exaggerates."
He's giving me the perfect opening, so I coldly educate him: "So do I. Except I don't scream—I break things. And people."
Now he sounds sullen, "We're on vacation. She's fine."
"For your sake, I hope so. Because if she's not? You'll be my vacation. Now put her back on the line."
There is a quick shuffle, then Sophia comes back on. "What did you say to him?"
"Just made it clear that hurting you won't be good for his health, Soph."
"He doesn't—"
I don't let her finish her lie. "We'll talk when you come back. When are you coming back?"
"Just a few days," she replies.
"If he touches you, you call me."
Her nervous laugh doesn't reassure me in the least. As soon as they're back, I'm going to have a word with her and him. Separately. "He doesn't hurt me, Marcello."
"We'll talk about it when I see you," I say, disconnecting the call before I get on my jet and fly to California to paint the inside of their hotel suite red. Because I want to. God knows, I want to.
But I can't.
Not yet.
I'm still healing from the damn gunshot wounds. Hell, I'm still limping. The enemy tried to erase me. I need to show New York I'm still standing before I fly off to play executioner in LA. Power is perception, and I've only just started clawing mine back.
I'll kill Roberto—but I'll do it on my terms. The fucker won't dare touch her in the next few days, I'm sure of it.
I might not know him, but I know his kind—spineless bastards, who at the first sign of trouble, cry for their mammas.
Instead of calling my jet, I do the sensible thing.
Pour myself a glass of Blue Label and hobble back onto the patio to drink it, staring out into the night.
At my city. It doesn't know it yet, but I'm still its king.
Wherever I go, doors will open. People will fall over themselves to seat me at the best table, serve the best food, and offer the finest clothes.
I've been gone for weeks; I've been weak and bleeding.
That's about to end.
My next act is already in motion: finding out who the fuck had the balls to try and kill me—not once, not twice, but three times!
And when I'm done?
There will be nothing left to bury.
Nobody left to mourn.