Page 60 of The Merciless King

“Nice swim?” she asks, handing me a glass of juice.

“Thank you, Mama.” I say, taking it and grabbing a towel which I wrap around my waist, letting the late morning sun kiss my skin.

“He is a beautiful man, Gianna,” she says, smiling in the direction Braxton disappeared. “Your father seems to think he is someone worth going into business with.”

I take another sip.

“If there is anything he should know, it’s important you share it with him,” Angela Baldassare says.

First and foremost, she is the mafia don's wife. Dante and I have always known that. Yes, she’s a mother, but she protects this family above all else.

Self-preservation?

Who knows?

“James has done his background check. What more could I know?” I reply a little defensively. “You know men like him do not tell women anything.”

Mama watches my face, searching to see if I am telling the truth.

I am.

I told them all I know. He is a friend of Mia’s and worked with the Mancini’s. I did leave off that he also worked with Connor Barrett. The well-known, straight-laced billionaire isn’t exactly a good reference in our world.

I don’t see it as relevant.

It’s up to Braxton to share that information with them. He knows getting involved with my family is dangerous.

“Why did you bring him home?” she asks.

I sit on one of the outdoor wicker chairs and prop my feet up on the table. My eyes drift across the enormous backyard, the landscaped gardens, the lap pool, and down to the tree-lined fence.

It is not just lined with trees, but cameras and guards.

Gangsters.

I live in a fortress.

A very expensive and beautiful fortress, and it’s not just the physical boundaries that exist in my life. There are rules and expectations.

I will never escape them.

At birth, they were enforced upon me. Just by my very existence.

“Because I didn’t want him to leave. I want to keep seeing him,” I reply honestly. “I know it’s not forever, but I like him, Mama.”

She sits opposite me, and the pitiful look in her eyes irritates me. “Don’t get too attached, darling.”

“I know, Mama.” I snap, turning my head.

“It will just make it harder if you fall in love with him. Trust me,” she says.

I force myself to look at her, something clicking. “You didn’t choose Dad.”

“I chose your father.” She nods.

“Out of obligation.” I press.

My mother was once in my shoes. The daughter of a Sicilian don and moved to the United States when she was pregnant with Dante. I’ve never asked her if she fell in love with my father.

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