Page 114 of Mafia Mistress

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Francesca

When I came downstairsfor breakfast, I found Zia in the kitchen. Fausto had retreated to his office an hour ago, and Giulio was probably still sleeping.

“Buongiorno, la nipote,” she said, giving me a sly smile from the range.

What did that word mean? Pregnant mistress? Stupid woman who forgot about her birth control shot and let a mafia king impregnate her?

With Zia, it was hard to say. The crafty old woman.

I went and kissed her cheek. “Buongiorno, Zia.”

When I tried to make a cup of espresso, she smacked my hand. “La caffeina fa male al bambino.”

“Ouch, Zia. I need coffee.” I pointed at the espresso maker. “Per favore?” I put my hands together like I was praying and shook them, pleading. I might die if she didn’t let me have coffee.

“No. Fausto’s bambino.” She pointed at my stomach, as if I needed a reminder.

Pouting, I dropped onto a stool. “How did you know?” When she frowned, I thought about the Italian I’d learned. “Come...sapere...bambino?” “Sapere” was the verb “to know” but they couldn’t expect me to start conjugating this soon.

Zia came closer and lifted my chin with one of her bony fingers. She tilted my face this way and that. “La tua pelle bellissima.”

When she went back to the stove, I used my translation app and learned “pelle” was skin. Huh.

I still couldn’t believe I was pregnant. I was going to have a baby. Fausto’s baby. I felt too young to be a mother. I wasn’t even nineteen. I barely knew how to take care of myself, let alone someone else.

Let me be happy enough for both of us until I can convince you.

Of course, Fausto was happy about this. He didn’t have to do the hard part, which was to grow and then push a watermelon out of his vagina. Plus, he had all the money in the world to hire nannies and tutors, and pay for private schools. I could leave the child here in Italy and return to Canada.

My hand slipped to my belly. Could I do that? Move away and leave my child here in Italy?

I remember the twins after Mama died, how confused and sad they’d been, the nightmares and tantrums that had followed in the months after the funeral. Papà had been no help whatsoever, so I did whatever I could to give them stability and care. To make sure they felt loved.

The answer to my current dilemma was obvious. I couldn’t do it. I would never want this baby thinking I had abandoned them. No matter what happened with Fausto, I would raise this child.

I needed to think about the conditions of our agreement. Once he agreed and signed off on them, then I could relax a little over my future.

Zia put two cornetti and juice in front of me and gestured that I should eat.

I was starving, so I didn’t argue.

Giulio came in the back door, whistling, dressed in last night’s clothes. “Someone got laid,” I murmured through a mouthful of cornetto.

He smirked and went to kiss Zia’s cheeks. She began speaking in rapid Italian, clearly cross with him. Then she gestured to me. “What is she saying?” I asked.

He exchanged a few words with Zia, then said, “She is berating me for staying out all night. Saying the bambino needs calm and stability in the house, not a boy out at parties and coming home at all hours.”

My stomach sank and the cornetto turned to dust in my mouth. Thanks to Fausto’s sperm, my days of parties and staying out all night were over, clearly.

Giulio sat next to me. “Do not look so sad, la matrigna.”

Zia chuckled and I cast a suspicious glance at him. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but what does that mean?”

His smile was playful and slick. “Stepmother.”

I shoved his shoulder. “Fuck off. That is not even funny.”

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