Page 79 of Double Trouble for the Mafia Prince
I want her to see it.
I want her to know I am trying.
I mean it when I say I want this to work.
I am not ready.
I am not sure I will ever be.
But I will not run from them.
Not now.
We eat late breakfast in the garden, the four of us.
Gianna divides the fruit.
I pour the coffee.
The girls spill more juice than they drink, but no one raises their voice.
It is strangely domestic, like something from a memory that does not belong to me.
Between bites of pastrami sandwich, I tell her about the school.
She's nervous at first, but eventually agrees when she sees the earnestness in the eyes of the girls.
All I need to do is make a quick call, and they'll be in.
Once that's out of the way, I do take them all to see the horses.
The stables sit on the far edge of the estate, nearly a mile from the south wing where we sleep.
You have to pass the orchard, the vineyard, the dried-out tennis court no one’s bothered to resurface in a decade.
When I was younger, they were kept only for show, for clients, for dignitaries, for deals that required something more elegant than a dining room.
Now, they’re a luxury still, but not paraded around.
Arietta tumbles out from the golf cart after me before I can stop her, landing in a splash of muddy grit with a triumphant laugh.
Gianna’s hand shoots out instinctively to steady Alessia, who climbs down more carefully.
She wears her mother's frown today, the one that looks carved from restraint and observation.
The horses stir before we’re even through the gate.
They know the sound of our engines by now.
Costello, the jet-black stallion I never let anyone else ride, tosses his head and paws at the bedding in his stall, already impatient.
Two stablehands wait outside, nodding as we approach, their postures straightening like they’re about to meet a general.
Gianna walks between the girls.
She’s swapped her silk blouse for something plainer, more durable—tucked into dark riding pants and boots that have seen use.
Practical.
