Page 114 of Cruelest Contract
Two of the most trusted members of Sonny’s team traveled with us. On my orders, they remain quietly in the background. As soon as we arrive at the Grimaldi estate, I send them on a mission to inspect on-site security, figuring that will keep them busy for a while.
Benvolio Grimaldi chose not to relocate after the wedding massacre. He must have had his reasons. But even at first glance it’s clear he can’t maintain the place. The vineyard itself looks unkempt and half dead. The rest of the grounds are overgrown and weed-choked. Bullet holes are still visible on the back patio.
Even the enormous villa is in bad shape. Most of it is completely closed off and boarded up. I’ve already spotted water damage on the ceiling of the dining room and there’s a vaguebut persistent odor that clings to every room. Fusty and stale, as if it rots from the inside. I’d place a bet that there’s a serious mold problem. From what I’ve seen of the foot soldiers who still wander around the place, all are past their prime and in sorry physical shape.
But it’s a tossup which is more decrepit; the rotting estate or Benvolio Grimaldi himself. Hard to believe that Cecilia’s grandfather once reigned at the top of the west coast underworld pecking order.
A year after the wedding massacre, he suffered a stroke. Now his cheeks are hollowed out and the skin sags on his face. Beady, feverish eyes blaze out of his hairless skull and he creaks his way around in a motorized wheelchair.
Ordinarily, I would have felt sorry for Grimaldi. Instead, I just feel contempt bordering on hatred.
After all, this bastard would have given Cecilia to that gross pervert Mancini without a second thought. And I can plainly see how there’s not a trace of affection when his gaze lands on his granddaughter.
Thankfully, Cecilia pays no attention to her grandfather’s disdain. She stays close to Gabe and keeps smiling.
“Look at what I’m wearing,” she says as we all sink into creaky chairs at the heavily chipped, unpolished dining room table. She holds up her necklace.
Across from us, Gabriel blinks bloodshot eyes and stares at his sister. He’s pale and lanky with sunken cheeks. His movements are twitchy. Even without the investigative reports to back up my suspicions, I’d clock him as a man with more than one vice. When he’s not drinking, he’s snorting something up his nose or dabbling with needles. Any money that lands in his pocket is quickly gambled away. He’s not a natural fighter but between his drunken swaggering and the weight of his grandfather’s expectations, he’s led in foolish, volatiledirections. Frankly, it’s difficult to imagine a man less suited to Mafia leadership.
However, when Gabe gives my wife an affectionate smile, I try to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“I remember giving you that,” he says with pride. “I saved my allowance for a month.”
“I still wear it often.” Cecilia carefully tucks the necklace back into her shirt. “Oh, I haven’t told you yet but I’ve actually been horseback riding. Well, sort of.” She giggles. “I climbed into the saddle and slow walked around the corral but I’m calling it a win anyway.”
“Is that right?” Gabe says and pours himself a glass of wine.
“The horse was a wedding present from Julian.” She touches my arm, attempting to draw me into the conversation. “He wanted me to feel at home on the ranch.”
“Huh,” mutters Gabe and downs his glass of wine. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gloomily stares at the empty fireplace to his right.
Angelo sits beside his brother and dicks around with a video game on his phone in between shoveling forkfuls of rubbery lasagna into his mouth. Good thing no one misses his sparkling conversation.
“Something wrong with your food, Tempesta?” Grimaldi fires from the head of the table. Though his body has withered with age and the stroke damage, his voice remains shrill and imperious.
“No sir,” I say and hack off a shallow bite from the lasagna lump on my plate.
Whoever is doing the cooking around here doesn’t have Enzo’s skills. Or any skills. This shit tastes like it came from the frozen food aisle and then was nuked in the microwave for too long.
I look up to find that Grimaldi is watching me with a scowl. The old man’s mood is throwing me off. I’ve spent many years acquiring a finely tuned instinct for hostility. Now I sense it coming from him. Common sense tells me to proceed with caution, although I’ve got no clue what’s got this fossil all bent out of shape.
Our family has been friendly with the Grimaldis since the old days when my grandfather was in charge. Now thanks to us, his dumbass grandson is still alive. Plus I’m doing my best to make his granddaughter happy.
So what’s his fucking problem? I mean, nobody needs to roll out the red carpet but some basic respect wouldn’t be too much.
This lasagna tastes like used shoelaces. Cecilia only took a tiny portion and it just gets pushed around her plate. She daintily sips the cheap red wine in her glass and wrinkles her nose in that cute way she has when she dislikes the taste of something.
Something happens to me whenever I look at my wife. The breath stalls in my lungs and my pulse accelerates. When I’m not with Cecilia, she’s constantly on my mind. I hate letting her out of my sight. The need to protect her and keep her all to myself is ferocious but also laced with a feeling that’s painfully gentle.
“What’s your father up to these days?” Grimaldi asks. He slurps an uneven shard of shitty lasagna through his crinkly lips. The sauce stays on his mouth. “He sure doesn’t go out of his way to stay in touch.”
“My father sends his regards,” I reply. “The Grimaldis have always been important allies and he’s very pleased that we’re officially family.”
Yeah, I’m laying it on a little thick. Whatever. These are my in-laws now and I have to kiss ass a little.
Grimaldi grunts. “That wasn’t my damn question.”
“If you want more details on my father’s hobbies, give him a call.”
