Page 56 of Giovanna

“Jesus Christ! He has three minutes or you two are going to physically bring him to me.”

By the time he strolls in a few minutes later in sweatpants and a t-shirt, my blood pressure is through the roof and I’m ready to go off.

He shuts the door and goes to sit down. “No. Stand,” I command him and he balks but obeys.

“You’re going to shut the fuck up and listen,” I tell him in a low, calm voice. “You might get to play pretend King out there, but at the end of the day, you answer to me. You are playing a role, nothing more. When I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it. When I tell you to cut the shit and act your age, what do you do?”

He pauses, resisting for a few seconds, and then grinds out, “Cut the shit and act my age.”

“Yes. You do. This tantrum you’ve been having about marrying Francesca ends now. Would I have cut this deal with Rossi? No. Arranged marriages aren’t my thing. But Dad set this up before he retired and he will be a fuckin’ nightmare for all of us if we don’t follow through. If you have another suitable woman you want to marry, hurry up and speak up, now. If not, count your lucky stars that you haven’t been set up with a howler.”

He is looking at the ground and I’m relieved to see a sheepishness creeping into his posture. I’m getting through to him, I think.

“Look at me!” I bark. His eyes meet mine and interestingly the animosity in them seems to be waning too. Strangely, I think I see relief settling in the dark brown eyes that look so much like my own. “Treat her with respect. The pair of you need to figure out what kind of relationship you’ll have, but the public displays of disregard for her feelings stop. Your dickhead behaviour has created the issues. I seriously do not want to have to talk to you about this again. We have much more serious shit going down that we need to be focused on. Understand?”

“Yes, boss,” he answers immediately, looking far more settled than he did when he first entered the room full of faux-bravado and very real resentment.

“When you leave this house, or when you have guests here, you are on display as the Don. We cannot afford for word to get out that we are weak because our Don is too busy indulging in piss and pussy to do his fuckin’ job. You need to act the part. The men need to have confidence in you and respect you. Otherwise, we are fucked, Elio. Do you care if we are fucked?”

He nods. “Of course, I care.”

“Then brother, for the love of God, fuckin’ start acting like it.”

Elio takes a deep breath and speaks to all of us. “I’m sorry. This isn’t the life I wanted, but I know I’m not the only one who feels like that. I’ll straighten up my act. I just don’t know how I’m going to get Francesca to stop hating me though…”

I snort. “Well, I’ve got her scheming traitorous brother to worry about. You’re going to have to figure out the mafia princess all on your own.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Giovanna

32 Years Old

The bitter taste of vomit lingers in my mouth and thumping rage has my heart leaping out of my chest as I take the stairs two at a time.

There’s a loud crack as the door flies open with so much force it collides with the wall. I linger in the doorway for a moment sucking in a few deep breaths to bring my fury down to a level where it can be harnessed rather than unleashed.

Dad looks up from his desk impassively, but Paul and David Rossi just about jump out of their seats.

In two strides I’m in front of the monster with my fist closing around his collar as I yank him up out of his chair. His head connects with the wall with a dull thud and I shove my forearm into his throat.

“What are you doing?!” exclaims Paul. He hasn’t left his seat to assist his brother, he just sits waving his arms as if that will help. “Sandy, what is she doing?”

Dad sighs. “Giovanna?”

“TWO YEARS AGO!” I explode. “This sick fuck fucking t-touched - fuckingassaulted- Francesca and is somehow still breathing two years later!”

“Ah, yes,” Dad takes his reading glasses off and drops them on his desk.

Paul splutters and finally stands, reluctantly moving towards me before lunging for the arm I have on his brother’s throat.

Without removing the arm, I swing my other fist around and clock Paul across the face. There is a sickening crunch as his nose breaks and blood pours from his nostrils. Deep claret descends like a splitting river down his chin to drip all over his crisp white shirt. He staggers back into his chair.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” He splutters, trying to catch his own blood in his hands. “Mate? You really not gonna stop this?” He looks at my father aghast.

Landing a couple of solid hits to David’s head and ribs, I glance over to Dad. He’s sitting back in his chair watching and raises a hand to silence Paul. His face is expressionless, but a slight, barely perceptible nod tells me that I have his permission to kick the shit out of this utter scum.

David’s face reddens, his body screaming for oxygen as I force my forearm hard against his windpipe. “You deserve to die, you piece of shit. Your mates are too piss-weak to put a bullet between your eyes, but I’m not,” I growl, my face just centimetres from his.

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