Page 25 of Broken Vows

I woke up telling myself absolutely nothing happened between me and Gigi Trapani. If our last words haunt me for the rest of my life, I only have myself to blame.

13

GIGI

It’s not often I get summoned, but this was a summons. Don Trapani’s message was stark and clear: I’m needed on Lake Como this weekend.

When I tried to wriggle out of it, I got a message from Carla. It’s been a month since I’ve seen her in Monte Carlo, and she’s halfway through her summer vacation. Her rather desperate message swayed me. I glance down to my phone and read it again:I know you’re busy, but I need to see you. Please come stay a couple of days. I miss you.

I miss her more, but this type of request has become so few and far between, I can’t help wondering what’s going on. We might be close, but like any young adult, Carla has a life beyond what she chooses to share with me. If she’s in trouble, could she just brush some broad strokes to give me a basic idea? I glance down at the rest of our message chain, trying to read between the lines, but there’s nothing giving me pause.

With Carla and Don Trapani coming at me from both sides, I can’t say no. Besides, going to Papa’s vacation home on Lake Como is always fun, and it holds some of the most treasured childhood memories of me and Carla before Mom died.

I look at the ETA to our destination. Half an hour to the villa. I have no clue whether Vincenzo is going to be there. At the thought of my stepbrother, my stomach turns, and I shoot up a prayer he won’t be there to ruin my short visit.

For the past month, a rare rumor has been spreading that a major Mafia kingpin had been killed in Sicily. When the name Randazzo popped up, I had to take the afternoon off to digest. You don’t grow up in Sicily, never mind the Mafia, without knowing the name Randazzo. And if it doesn’t fill you with cold stark fear and dread, it’s because you’re already dead.

Nobody has confirmed the rumor, and beyond asking Don Trapani directly if he knew something, which he denied, I’ve let it slide. And yet, for the past two weeks, Papa’s words to me on Carla’s eighteenth birthday, the premonition that monsters are rising, have haunted me, and now it feels as if I could be walking into a trap. But it’s family, and it’s home, and surely, Don Trapani—Papa—will look out for me. And if he doesn’t, I’ll do so myself.

The driver takes the road winding down the valley, and far off, lights flicker on the scalloped edge of the dark water mass. Lake Como rests quietly in the summer’s evening. The sky is a slate blue, the sun long gone, but its presence lingering at this time of year. It’s late to arrive on a Friday night, but it’s intentional. A quick in and out. I’ll be gone by Sunday morning because of work.

As the driver pulls up to the house, I notice only the outside entry lights are on. There seems to be nobody at home. It’s notthatlate. I thank the driver, remind him of my Sunday morning flight back to London, and grab my bag. I’ve mastered the art of traveling light and can get away with this tote for the weekend.

I walk up the stairs, and as I reach the door, it swings open.

“Gigi. My dear sister.” Vincenzo stands there, as if he was waiting for me.

I curse under my breath. There’s a reason I’ve been avoiding Vincenzo. As he hugs me close, his hands slide three inches lower than the accepted familial distance to my ass.

I push him away.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here.” Even if the signs were there, I couldn’t ignore the call of duty. “Where’s Papa? And Carla?”

“We’re in the library.”

Strange. It’s so pleasant on the terrace, the peak of the summer, and perfectly balmy outside. Vincenzo has his hand on my elbow, guiding me as if I don’t know where to go. I spot a bodyguard in my peripheral—Carla’s bodyguard. There will be others, of course, but Don Trapani has always liked the discreet look.

When our gazes connect, he blinks at me. I try to recall his name. We were only introduced once. Every other time I saw Carla, he was always on the periphery, not cramping her style. I’d glanced through his resume, but that was it. Vito… Vittorio Rossi. Not your usual bodyguard profile. He speaks five languages and is ex-navy. He’s big for an Italian; the size that doesn’t like to be squashed into a submarine.

I nod at him and try to shrug Vincenzo’s hold loose.

“I know my way to the library. Where’s Carla?” I ask again, showing my nerves.

“She’s in the library. As I said.” Vincenzo pinches my elbow, holding tight. “We have guests,cara, and I need you to play along.”

His tone is soft, but fear sparks down my spine.

Why did I come? Honestly, my sixth sense has been on high alert for weeks now, but I know why I came. I came for Carla. I came to fetch my sister. To take her to London for the rest of the summer. For longer if needed. There’s a storm brewing, and I don’t want either of us to be caught in it.

The corridor’s lights are dimmed, and this is a restored period villa, but I can’t recall it being so dark in here. As we pass one room after the other, I notice the shutters are closed, not even allowing in the moonlight.

“Vincenzo…Cenzo—” I sound uncertain and hate how I revert to his childhood nickname in this begging tone, with a little crack in my voice giving me away.

“It’s all good, Gigi. It’s just a negotiation. One you could have avoided ten years ago if you’d just married me.”

Not this.I escaped then. What’s awaiting me now? I bite my lip and let him literally drag me to the closed double doors of the library. My legs are jelly, begging for the surge of adrenaline that will allow me to sprint away, but I must go in there. I must see Carla.

Vincenzo opens the door, and the little glow from the few standing lamps inside makes it hard to take in the room with one glance. Don Trapani’s desk. The endless library shelves with their priceless Italian collection. The fireplace. The aged leather sofas. The dark corners where I used to play hide-and-seek with Carla when she was a toddler.

---