"Really, it's not your fault. You only thought it was good because you've never had a decent Tartufo."
"And you can make a better one?" I challenged.
"Yes. I've been making them for the bakery since I was fourteen."
"So, what, three years makes you an expert? What?" I asked when her eyes went round, like I'd said something wrong.
"Nothing. It's nothing. Look, you don't want to believe me, fine. If you want to believe me, go down to the bakery and get some for yourself."
"That wouldn't prove anything, if you weren't there to make them."
"Yes, well, I can't be there right now, can I?" she shot back, tone going cool. "Will I ever be able to go back?" she asked, point-blank.
"We are doing everything in our power to make that happen."
"No, actually, you're not. If you were doing everything in your power, you would call off your guard, and let me walk out of here. You are doing everything in your power to keep me here. You can't play the victim when you're the fucking bad guy," she spat at me.
"Look I—"
"He's here," Christopher said, cutting off my response, a response that was likely only going to lead to a bigger blow up.
I wasn't supposed to linger with Gigi eating dinner and watching movies and bullshitting. I was supposed to grab a quick bite, shoo her into her room, then have Gio Morelli over to talk about some deal his family—another of the Five Families—were making with the local cartel, that my father thought might piss on his deal with the Russians. It was always something. And usually blown out of proportion.
"Christopher, bring Gio up," I demanded, reaching for a couple of the cartons of food. "Go to your room," I demanded as I carried cartons to the fridge, tucking them inside.
I don't know why she grabbed for the rest of the cartons, if it was some knee-jerk reaction from being told to help clear the table in childhood. She actually looked pissed when she handed them to me.
"Why?" she asked, snatching her hand back when my fingers brushed her, like touching me made her feel slimy. Which, I guess, was fair, given the situation. "I've seen you and a bunch of your minions already."
Minions.
"Just go to your fucking room, Gigi," I demanded, no heat in my words, but she didn't like them anyway, her chin angling up, her jaw getting tight, her arms crossing over her chest.
"You're going to have to make me," she told me, daring me to do it, wanting more reasons to dislike me.
I was turning back from the fridge to do just that when the doors chimed as they slid open, bringing my guest in.
Gio was a couple years younger than me, tall, a bit more solidly built thanks to his borderline obsession with the gym. Dark brown hair, brown eyes. He had a pretty boy look about him—dimples and all—that women tended to find charming. Gio knew this. And enjoyed the benefits as much as any man would in his position.
"Lorenzo, I didn't know you had a girl," he observed, eyes moving over Giana.
"Girl being the operative word, Gio," I snapped. "She's a kid. Stop eye-fucking her," I demanded, watching as his brows furrowed as he glanced back at Giana again before looking at me.
"If you say so, Enz. What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Gigi," Giana supplied easily, seemingly taken aback by his smile.
"Gigi, I'm Gio. Giovani Morelli," he supplied. Gio was never the sort to lie low, or downplay his position in one of the Five Families. He liked when people knew who he was, and how he was connected.
"Gio," she repeated, giving him a small smile. "And what do you do, Gio?"
"Me? I'm a brick layer," he supplied, making me roll my eyes.
"What? Like... construction?" Gigi asked innocently.
"Something like that," Gio agreed, nodding, dimples out.
It was nothing like that.
Gio laid bricks, alright.
Of the cocaine variety.
To stock brokers and white-collar businessmen of all sorts. Federal judges. The goddamn chief of police.
"Gigi, you'll excuse us for a minute," I told her, leading Gio away, down the hall into the gym.
"Don't worry. I'm not asking," he said, shaking his head, waving an arm out toward the main area.
"Good. Because I wasn't going to tell you anyway," I told him, getting a chuckle out of him because we both knew how it worked. As a whole, the Costas minded their own business, as did the Morellis, even the D'Onofrios to an extent. It was the Espositos and Lombardis that were always trying to figure out the angles of the other families.
"Your old man, all due respect, you know I got love for your family, but he needs to calm the fuck down with the accusations already. Like we are going around trying to fuck with his business. We needed to make a deal with the cartels to get the shit shipped in. Has nothing to do with the fucking Russians or the Russians importing. They are coming in from a completely different direction with a completely different product. I don't see the issue. I know I'm being a little frank with you, but if we let our old men hash this out with veiled threats and subtlety, shit would go on for a year or two. You and me, we can handle this shit like adults in ten minutes, yeah?"