Page 70 of Giovanna

“Elio,” she answers. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Azra goes to protest, but Giovanna repeats herself in a firmer tone, “No idea, Az.”

Making it clear the discussion is over, she turns around and beckons Bluey over. He’s engaged in an intense discussion with Massimo and they’re both frowning as they join our group.

“Take Francesca home, Massimo,” she orders.

“What?! I don’t want to go home!” I’m indignant. I’ll decide when I want to go home. What the fuck is wrong with her?

“Because I said so,” she barks, grabbing my chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Do as you're told.”

“Fine, I wanted to get out of here anyway,” mutters Massimo, shooting a furious glance Bluey’s way.

My lips purse into an involuntary pout and my eyes narrow to glare at Giovanna. She scoffs as if my anger is a source of amusement for her and pulls me unexpectedly into her arms. I melt in an instant as if I hadn’t been ready to square off with her moments before.

She tilts my chin up to look at her and I feel giddy. People are watching, including Massi and Bluey, and I know that is not a good thing, but all I can feel is the thrill of the surge of need that shoots to my lower stomach and settles between my legs.

“I need you to go, darlin’. I’m gonna kill the next person who hits on you or drag you out of here like a cavewoman and I… we just can’t,” she whispers just loud enough for me to hear. “You understand?”

I’m nodding as if I am in a trance. She hypnotises me with eye contact. With touch.

“Come on, Cheska,” Massimo orders. He plants a kiss on his sister’s cheek and gently tugs me by the arm.

“Bye,” I say weakly to Giovanna. My brain has completely checked out and her friends are watching us like we are in a soap opera.

“Bye,bella,” she replies before turning away and accepting a full bottle of beer from Azra.

Chapter Thirty

Giovanna

Jesus fuckin’ Christ. I’m 38 years old. Nearly middle-aged. Fuck, wait. Am I already middle-aged? If I do another 38 years I’ll be 76. Decent innings in a mafia family. Fuck. I’m middle-aged.

What am I doing, at 38 fucking years old, going out and getting munted on a school night? Mind you, every night is a school night these days. I don’t exactly get to clock off for the weekend. Especially not when my shit of a brother goes completely MIA when he is supposed to be at least pretending to run the show.

Despite taking more than the recommended dose of painkillers before leaving home, my head is pounding. My throat is drier than a box of Weetbix even though I distinctly remember force-feeding myself a litre of water before I hit the hay last night. Worst of all, no matter how thoroughly I showered this morning and how much perfume I have doused myself in, any perspiring I do today will smell like beer and whatever spirits Az was handing me once we got toPeacocks.

I grabbed a coffee on the way into our office building in town, but the caffeine hasn’t helped as much as I had hoped. Or at all. I haven’t touched drugs for about five years now, but Christ, a bump or two of coke wouldn’t go amiss today.

Usually, I’d enjoy looking out at the view from our obnoxious glass elevator, but today I face inwards towards the doors because I’m scared I’ll projectile vomit the remains of my greasy drive-thru breaky at the sight of the world disappearing below.

What a hot mess.

I’m too old for this shit. Odds are this could turn into a two-day hangover as well. Who am I kidding, could be a triple-day torture.

This is my punishment, or maybe my penance, for giving into temptation and allowing myself to get into trouble with Francesca last night. I clearly cannot be trusted to have any alcohol around her.

Last night I played with fire. But those eyes. Those bee-stung lips. Her legs in that leather skirt.Fuck me sideways.

It’s been a while since I felt out of control like I did last night. Giving in to my emotional or physiological yearnings isn’t something I have the luxury of doing anymore. Not when they centre around Francesca Rossi anyway.

It is in my nature to maintain dominance, and control, and to be in charge. I need control to operate, to survive. I’m sure a therapist would have a field day delving into the reasons why that is.

Even before Dad dumped everything on me and Elio, my responsibilities to theFamigliarequired total discipline. I’ve learnt the importance of knowing everything about everyone, in any room, at any given time so that when I make a move it is informed.

My world is often chaotic and I find calm in directing traffic, in command of the strings I’m pulling. Mitigating risk factors and crossing out potential vulnerabilities is calming in itself.

The gym is almost a spiritual place for me. It represents structure, routine, and discipline. I’ve always used exercise as an outlet for stress and it shows in my body. Every muscle has been carefully developed by focused regimes and strict adherence to a nutritional diet.

I’m well aware that my friends call me uptight and the control I exert over myself is often not appreciated when I wield it over others. But now the survival of theFamigliadepends on me and my discipline.

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