Page 62 of My Dark Ever After
My laughter was hollow and hard, spent shell casings at our feet. “That is not how things are done. You take power either through blood right or by blood. Even if we had wanted to do things peacefully, it would have upended the hornet’s nest. Men would have felt shunned or angry that they were not chosen, and angry mafiosi argue with their fists and guns and knives. My family still would have been forfeit in the ensuing power struggle.”
“Barbaric,” she murmured again, obviously horrified by the practice. “So you always knew you would go back. England was just a brief reprieve.”
“Yes and no. I had suggested to my father that he adopt Leo,” I confessed, rubbing a hand over my mouth wearily. “Leo was raised by his mother’s brother after her death, and Tonio happened to be my father’s consigliere, his right-hand man. He took to the life like a duck to water. By the time I had made my first kill, Leo had made a dozen. My father loved him like a son, admired him more than his real son.” My smile was flat and warped on my face, like hammered metal. “It would have made sense.”
“But?”
I sighed as we turned the corner to the sandwich shop. “But nothing is so simple. My father was a man of tradition, and most Italians do not like change. Why should he adopt Leo when he had a son who could do the job, as was my birthright?”
“But you didn’t want it.”
I wondered if she noticed the parallels, though my stakes were so much higher, between her relationship with her father and my own.
Both had wanted us to follow paths we did not truly want to walk, and we had both succumbed to the pressure. Guinevere had a chanceto rebel, but it seemed she would not take it. I was the last person who should be able to judge her for that.
“That did not matter to my father,” I said with a bitter twist of a smile before I turned slightly to face her just outside the shop. “I am who I am because of the way the world made me. You might see blood on my hands, but I wish you could see that they have never held anyone as tenderly as they have held you.”
“Raffa,” she murmured. “It’s just not that simple.”
“No, nothing worth fighting for ever is.”
“I want you to know,” she said, taking one of my hands between both of hers, clutching it tight as if she did not want to let me go. “I do not think you are a monster, no matter what you say or how much you try to scare me away. I may have fallen in love with only some part of you, but I realize now that was the best you had to offer me. Knowing what I do now, I can say you let me fall in love with your soul, and it’s as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen.”
“Even bloodstained as it is?” I asked, because it hurt to hear her say the words but not follow them up with any apologies or promises to stay, to love me still.
“Red is your favorite color,” she retorted with a wry grin. “And it’s definitely growing on me too.”
Chapter Fourteen
Guinevere
Raffa did not let me join him for his meeting with the Albanian Mafia.
“If you were my partner,” he said with an easy shrug, “it would be different. I would introduce you to the Albanians so they knew who reigned with me. As it is, it is better for you to remain unseen. We do not need more criminals with a memory of your name and face than are necessary.”
It irritated me, but the only person I could be annoyed with was myself.
I wanted to be there beside him, both because I wanted to support Raffa and because I was rabidly curious about the inner workings of his business. With every subject I learned about, there were that many more questions to ask. I turned the idea of the Camorra business structure over and over in my brain like a Rubik’s Cube, studying its bizarre and wonderful complexities.
I thought that, if given the chance, I might have a lot to offer such an outfit.
I wondered if Raffa knew what he was doing in keeping me away, stoking the fires of curiosity and hidden desire until they burned under my skin.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I whispered to myself as I banged my head back against the seat.
“Mi dica, signorina?” Philippe asked from the front seat.
“I need to go for a walk,” I said, suddenly desperate to get out of the car. “Can we?”
My bodyguard/driver peered at me in the rearview mirror, obviously weighing my desires against whether or not his boss would crucify him for taking me away somewhere.
“I can text him to let him know where I’ve gone,” I suggested. “He might not see it right away, but it will mean he won’t worry. Please, Philippe, I don’t know when I’ll be back in Florence.”
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his buzzed head. “I see why the boss likes you,” he muttered. “Americans are persuasive.”
I huffed a shocked breath of laughter. If I was more persuasive, I would be at the meeting with Raffa, Renzo, Carmine, and Martina.
We were close enough to the Duomo that I headed there automatically. Even in mid-October, the city was thriving, packed with tourists looking through their telephoto lenses and locals swerving deftly through the masses. I loved the hodgepodge of Italian, English, and other languages, the sound of a street performer singing one of Raffa’s favorite songs by Pavarotti.
