Page 3 of Giovanna

He glares at the three of us as if we are solely responsible for his high blood pressure and not a lifetime of cigarettes, rich food, and running the mafia.

“Peta’s in a flap,” he says with a frown laced with guilt. “Given me the hard word…”

If I wasn’t worried about Dad’s health and trying to figure out how much he is downplaying this fibrillation thing, I’d laugh at how this feared mafia don listens to no one but his wife.

He clears his throat and continues. “It’s time for me to hand things over. Time for you lot to step up and to be frank, this shit with Stefan is doing my head in and the sooner it's your problem the better.” He pauses and I imagine my face looks as shocked as my brothers’.

“We’ve always talked about Elio leading theFamigliaafter me and that is still the plan on the surface...”

Elio bristles next to me and habitually runs his hand over his closely buzzed head. Anxious about whatever is to come next.

“But, we haven’t had as much time as I hoped to transition you into things, son, so behind the scenes and in a lot of practical ways Giovanna will be in charge -”

Elio explodes. “THE FUCK! When was this decided?” He glares at me as if this has happened by my design. In actual fact, I’m as dumbfounded as he is.

Long ago I accepted that due to my XX chromosomes, and the bits in my pants, I would never be my father’s heir. Women don’t lead the mafia. We cook, clean, and become mamas and then nonnas.

“Elio! You’re bloody lucky you get to be anything at all! Your sister is far more capable and if she was my son there wouldn’t even be a conversation to be had!” Dad roars slamming his palms on his desk.

Neither Matty nor I have said anything, but he lifts an eyebrow at me ever so slightly as if to say “What the fuck is going on?”

We can communicate with few words, me and Matty. We are the thinkers, the brooding, unsmiling, serious mafia kids. Elio and Massimo are the charmers. They smile and have the gift of the gab. Our polar opposites.

Elio runs a hand over his buzzed dark almost black hair again. He keeps it very short which accentuates his sharp cheekbones and dark brown eyes. All three of us have them, the high, well-defined cheekbones and deep chocolate eyes, but they make Elio look like a god. That is how women treat him anyway. And some men.

“How would this even work?” Elio is uncharacteristically short and quiet.

Dad waves his arm as if to indicate that the details are simple. “You schmooze, charm, and communicate to the world. Your sister makes all the decisions and tells you what to say. It’s just playing to your strengths.”

My brother is nodding now. Taking it all in. He seems to be hating the idea less and less. “So, G does all the work and I go to meetings and parties?” He grins at me.

“In a nutshell, yes.” Dad shrugs.

“Sold!” Elio goes to get up, but Dad motions for him to sit back down.

“Tomorrow I will be moving upstairs to the top floor. This office will become Giovanna’s as will the master suite. Elio you can keep your wing. I wouldn’t want the women of Sydney to get lost trying to find your bedroom. But you get my corporate office in the Marino Building; people need to see you are the boss there. Matty, are you still happy in the pool house?”

Matty nods. He gutted it years ago when he got out of prison and renovated it into his own suite, private gym included. It has almost no interior walls because after four years locked up my brother has an aversion to small spaces. In any interior space, his eyes dart to the windows and doors as if to map out all possible escape routes.

“...and Massimo will have the East Wing.”

“Massimo? He’s coming home?” I finally speak, the words bursting from my mouth in an excited splutter.

I’m not the most expressive of people and I do love all three of my brothers, but I was 14 when Massimo was born and I fell in love so hard with that chunky little fatty. I’ve missed him far more than anyone realises while he has been doing his O.E.

“Yes, your baby brother should be landing in Sydney in just a few hours. And, Elio… he’s bringing your wife home,” the wicked grin on Dad’s face shows just how much he is enjoying dropping this bomb on his playboy son.

Sandy Marino has always had a flair for the dramatic and he is taking this opportunity to indulge in it.

“Sorry, Dad, I could have sworn you just said ‘my wife’?” Elio is hiding behind sarcasm, but a vein in his neck is pulsating with a ferocity that betrays the panic he is feeling.

“Oh, you heard right, mate. Massimo has been looking after your wife for two years, keeping her out of trouble.”

Elio is sweating now. “I was under the impression that Massimo was partying it up with Paul Rossi’s daughter, not engaged in a secret wife-protecting mission,” he hisses.

“He was doing both. Francesca Rossi will be your wife.”

“Absolutely fuckin’ not.” Elio is on his feet now, pacing. “She’s a child for fucksake!”

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