I don’t know why I’m so damn obsessed with her. I could have just about any woman I want. There are no shortages of arranged marriages I could’ve orchestrated, but I’ve passed on every one of them.
Greta Costa, the eldest daughter in Sicily’s Costa Family. Beautiful but haughty, she told me over dinner she’d wear my ring and bear my children but only marry with a prenup. Bold for a woman like her, born to defer to the male leaders in her home, and my father didn’t trust hers. Celia D’Agostino, middle daughter of my father’s best friend. She’s only ever been like a sister to me. Cute in a nerdy, bookish way, but she jumps like a little scared bird when I move too quickly. I can’t have a skittish, fearful wife. Martina Canto, a leggy blonde born and raised on the South Shore of Boston with a reputation as long and winding as the Charles River. No one could ever prove she blew the entire fuckin’ Boston University football team, but the rumors prevailed. Mario warned me to steer clear, and on this one thing, I trust him.
I want a faithful wife, who’ll take my name and bear my children. I want a wife with a fucking spine, who doesn’t cower from a strong gust of wind but who will defer to me as head of the house and know my word is law. And is it too much to ask that I want to wed a woman I actually like? For a man in my position, who was fucking capo before he could grow a beard, I should maybe know better. But I witnessed the demise of my parents’ marriage and my grandparents’ atrophied relationship, and I want more.
I’ve got one fucking chance to live on this Earth, and goddamn if I don’t want a wife I want to come home to.
My mind goes back to the mane of wild, thick auburn hair I want to wrap my hands in. Those shimmering eyes that shift from brown to green depending on the light, intelligent and thoughtful. I can still see her sprawled on the pavement in the alley behind the bar, still feel the flare of fury at seeing her about to be victimized.
I killed for her once without thinking.
I’d do it again.
In one day, I’m more entranced with this stranger than I’ve been with women I’ve known for decades.
“Rome? Earth to Rome. Hello?” Tavi snaps his fingers, a look of concern in his eyes. “You hear a word I said just now?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, no.”
He nods, the most patient among us, and blows out a breath. “Admin’s got a meeting later in the week to go over where you want us stationed in Tuscany.” The top-level management of our family includes my father, the Boss, me, the Underboss, and the consigliere—our advisor, Leo. Our family tradition says we’ll swear in our new associates, the men who’ve risen in rank but haven’t become made men yet.
“Made men by the New Year,” I say with a nod. As my father’s faculties and mental fortitude wane, we need to strengthen the Family. The associates I choose will take the vow of Omertà, one of the most powerful oaths we ever take. The code of honor, loyalty, and silence, the oath all take when sworn into the Family. Not all men with rank in the Family have to be born into rank, but all take the oath that demands loyalty to the brotherhood above love, friends, or country.
Tavi takes notes, and will fill in the rest of our army later.
“You’re preoccupied, Rome,” he says with a knowing glint in his eyes. “Go into town, bro. Take Mario. He’ll hook you up. Spent too much time in the slammer.” His jaw clenches before he continues. He knows my last stint was in my father’s stead, that I wasn’t even guilty of the crimes I was convicted of. Doesn’t matter, though. I’ve got a list of crimes I committed as long as my arm no one knows about.
I shake my head. I can’t afford to do that, not now.
Tavi’s pacing like an old woman.
“Sit down, Tavi. Jesus.”
I sit up straighter in my chair when I hear the sound of pounding footsteps, heels clicking above us and getting louder. Growing up in The Castle, we came to identify every set of footsteps, from Mama’s high-heeled clicks to Papa’s heavy, foreboding steps that scattered us boys like ants, to Rosa’s softer steps and Santo’s leisurely stroll.
Whenever we heard Mama coming, we knew to hide our smokes or girls or whatever the case may be. Later, as I grew older, I realized that Mama wore those high heels to warn us of Papa’s entrance. She never said anything, but it became a silent understanding between us.