Page 32 of Giovanna

I keep snatching glances at Francesca in the rearview mirror and her golden caramel eyes are burdened with a deep sadness. She’s achingly beautiful with flawless olive skin in that light purple suit. I almost tell her how beautiful she is when she gets in the car, but I swallow it down.

Elio is concentrating on the folder of notes I handed him when he got in the car. He may be a party boy, but he is intelligent and I am confident he will absorb enough to get us through this dinner.

In the long run, this arrangement is going to drive me nuts. Having to brief him on everything will take ages and we will inevitably get into situations where stuff comes up that I haven’t been able to prepare for.

I wish I knew how he really feels about it all. He seemed relieved that he would only be doing the superficial leading and that I am the decision maker. Sometimes I get the impression that he would rather just be my right-hand man, taking care of the legal shit.

This time we are making use of the private room upstairs atLa Fazendaand I lead Elio and Francesca through the packed restaurant to the stairs next to the noisy kitchen.

Diners stare at us, perhaps because Elio and Francesca are so good-looking, but most likely because they chose to dine atLa Fazendaknowing its mafia ties, and are thrilled that they have caught a glimpse of us.

The room isn’t very big and the large round table takes up most of it with a small bar tucked against the wall. Sarah hasn’t managed to get rid of the red and white tablecloth up here and paired with the dim lighting there is definitely aSopranosvibe to it.

Elio pulls his bride-to-be aside. The laughing couple I saw last night disappearing off to Elio’s rooms are nowhere to be seen and instead, Francesca looks furious as Elio places a hand on the small of her back.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him cup her face in his hands, talking softly to her. She shakes her head and shrugs. Finally, he pulls her into a hug and kisses the top of her head.

“Everything okay?” I ask him when he appears at my side.

“Yeah, we fucked last night and I wasn’t sufficiently friendly in the morning.”

“What did you do?” I wonder if I really want to know.

“What do you mean?”

“In the morning. You said you weren’t friendly, so what did you do?”

“Oh, I left before she woke up,” he has the decency to look at least a little bit ashamed.

“Yeah that’ll do it, mate,” I land a soft punch to his shoulder in faux-playfulness.

Inside, bile rises in my throat and jealousy infects me. For a moment I think I’m going to explode. Rolling my shoulders, I crack my neck and focus on bringing my breathing back to normal.

The prickling of the hair on the back of my neck tells me Francesca is watching me and I can’t help but look up to check. Her lips are slightly parted and she has a hand pressed over her heart as if to try and stop it from leaping out.

Mine.

She is supposed to be mine.

Where the fuck has this possessiveness come from? She isn’t mine and this urge to claim her is fuckin’ mental.

The lump in my throat won’t budge, but I clear my throat. “Righto. Think you two can keep it together for this?”

They nod just as we hear feet ascending the stairs.

It’s game time and Francesca and Elio immediately plaster smiles on their faces. People don’t expect me to smile anymore, so I don’t bother.

Stepping into my public persona, I fall in behind my brother. He strides forward and thrusts a large hand forward to shake the commissioner’s hand. “Mate. Good to see you.”

Commissioner Trotter strikes an imposing figure. A cop who made his way up the ranks, he knows how to draw on intimidation when necessary. He’s tall, though not as tall as Elio, and has a stocky build with a sturdy beer belly that is putting pressure on the buttons of his dress shirt. Carefully combed grey hair tops a not-unfriendly face and he looks much like any middle-class Aussie bloke with working-class roots.

The men introduce their respective partners and everyone takes their seats at the round table.

As an afterthought, Trotter raises a hand from where he sits opposite me and waves hello. I return a slight nod.

“Let’s get some wine in here before we have any shop talk,” Elio grins and calls over a waitress who stands quietly in the corner awaiting instruction. “I’ve been enjoying South Australian reds lately, any objection to cracking a bottle or two of Shiraz?”

God, he’s good at schmoozing. All smiles and charm. For the first time, I wonder if Dad maybe got this bizarre shared role spot-on because I hate this shit.

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