Page 26 of Mafia Mistress

“I had to work last night or else I would have been up.”

I picked at a fingernail under the table. For some reason, I didn’t want Giulio to think the worst of me. “I should apologize for getting so drunk. I’m sure I was a hot mess, so thank you for helping me.”

When I woke up, my hair had been pulled back, my face cleaned, and I was dressed in a t-shirt three sizes too big. Two pain pills and water had been waiting on my bedside table. Best of all, my vomit-stained clothing was nowhere to be found, hopefully incinerated.

“You’re welcome. You are a cute drunk. I don’t think you stopped talking—between the bouts of vomiting, of course.”

“Oh, my God.” I dropped my face into my hands. “What did I say?”

“You told me about Toronto, about your sisters. David, who I have to assume was the boyfriend my father told me about. Oh, and you talked about my father. A lot.”

My head snapped up, disbelief and horror warring inside me. “I did? About how much I hate him, no doubt.” God, please let that be the case.

“It didn’t sound entirely like hate. Fear, yes. But mostly fascination. You asked me many questions about him as a father, as a capo...as a man.”

As a man? What did that mean?

Giulio wasn’t finished, apparently. “You also were very curious about Katarzyna.”

I wanted to crawl under the table. How mortifying. Giulio must have assumed I’m jealous, that I’m attracted to his father. Which I was...but reluctantly. Regardless of my out of control hormones, I certainly didn’t want his son—my supposed future husband—to know as much. “Isn’t everyone fascinated with Fausto Ravazzani?”

“Definitely, especially women. He’s like the man from that film. You know, The Godfather.”

“Don Corleone?” The elder Ravazzani was ten times more handsome than Marlon Brando.

“No, the don reminds me of Uncle Toni. I meant the young Marlon Brando, back when he was young. Like from Streetcar Named Desire. That is more like my father, no?”

I didn’t know the movie, so I couldn’t say. Wanting to get off the topic of Fausto’s looks, I asked, “Is Uncle Toni your mother’s brother?”

“He is my father’s cousin, but I call him Zio. Like Marco.”

“You have a lot of relatives.”

“The ’Ndrangheta is all about family. The only way in is to be related to the capo.”

How had I not known this? “Really? In Toronto, not all my father’s men were related to us.”

“Allowances are made for ’ndrine outside of Italy. But we take blood ties very seriously here.”

Hence why Ravazzani needed Giulio to start making babies. A group of waiters arrived then, sparing me the need to fret over my role in this patriarchal mafia nightmare. One poured the sparkling water, while the others arranged dishes on the table. The selections made my mouth water. There were three different pasta dishes, fried artichokes, steak with butter sauce, pork chops, bruschetta with ham and tomatoes, and fish soup. When we were alone, I gestured to the food. “Do they think we can seriously eat all this?”

“No. They want to impress us.”

We started sampling dishes, and I could not believe how delicious every bite was. I moaned as I swallowed another bite of fettuccine with beef ragout. “This is the best thing I’ve ever had.”

Giulio leaned in, like he was sharing a secret. “Zia’s is better.”

“Impossible.”

He grinned and cut me a piece of his pork chop, putting it on my plate. “Try this. I think you’ll love it.”

“Wait, is this a Ravazzani pig?” I saw some yesterday on the estate and they were so adorable and sweet. While I wasn’t a vegetarian, I felt bad for those little piglets.

“Frankie, you had no problem eating the steak or the beef ragout.”

“Cows aren’t as cute as piglets.”

He shook his head, probably thinking I was ridiculous, and reached to take the piece off my plate. I stabbed his hand with my fork. “I didn’t say you could have it, stronzo.”

---