Page 24 of Of Grief And Gratitude

My father’s Italian leather shoes tapped on the kitchen tiles as he entered in his trademark black pinstripe suit. I stiffened immediately, my back going straight out of habit. My father saw anything less than perfect posture as a man’s weakness, and he was always searching for weaknesses.

My mother didn’t seem bothered by my father’s presence, but she’d had more years to practice her poker face. “Romeo is courting!”

“No, he’s not.” My father arched a brow, looked at the food my mother made, and then placed his hands in his pockets expectantly.

My mother jumped up from her chair and hurried to take another plate from the cupboard. “Oh, let me serve you.”

She quickly assembled lunch for my father and set his plate at the head of the table because nothing less than a show of power would do for Ettore Neretti. He didn’t bother with a prayer—that was reserved for mass on Sundays where the public could see him. My mother sat primly in her seat and resumed nibbling on tiny bites, her actions demure under the judgmental eye of my father.

“Tell me about the Irish girl,” my father demanded, cutting his eggplant precisely and chewing each bite slowly and thoroughly, like a psychopath. How many times did a person need to chew a vegetable?

“Yeah, Riona.” I made sure my voice stayed even to hide my lies. “Once I gave her a chance, she was nice. Different from the other girls. I figured it couldn’t hurt to see what was there.”

“Hmm,” my father hummed as his jaw ticked. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and folded it in his lap again. “I don’t believe it.”

My mother looked between us but said nothing, afraid to anger my father and incur his wrath. The only time he tolerated noise in the house was for family dinners. Otherwise, he preferred to eat in silence unless he dictated otherwise.

“You don’t have to believe it.” I speared another bite of eggplant and pointed it at him, making his face redden in anger. “It will still be true.”

I swallowed the lie with my food, which was strangely satisfying because it pissed my father off. His jaw ticked when I smiled at him.

“We’ll see about that.” His eyes narrowed at me, and he pulled his phone from his pocket, tapping the screen more forcefully than necessary.

For a moment, I was worried my father would order his men to harm Riona, and my chest tightened with that same protectiveness I’d experienced with the reporters. It was like a fist had closed around my heart when he spoke.

“Ms. O’Neill. Ettore Neretti here.” He paused as she spoke, and I heard her voice but couldn’t make out her words. “Yes. Can you make it for dinner at my home tomorrow evening? Six. Yes. See you then.”

He ended the call, slipped his phone back into his pocket, then pushed his chair back and stood. “We’ll see what your girlfriend says about all this when she’s here tomorrow.”

He walked from the room without even thanking my mother for lunch, leaving his dirty plate on the table. The collar of my Flex polo felt constricting, but I forced myself to stay still. My mother was sometimes intentionally oblivious to the actions of the men of the family, but she wasn’t stupid. I couldn’t let her sense my lie.

“Well.” She sighed and gathered the empty plates, rinsing them in the sink and loading the dishwasher. Our housekeeper, Martina, was conveniently absent.

I set the napkins next to the sink and leaned my hip against the counter. “Mamma.”

“You must have a busy afternoon at the gym,” she rushed, a clear sign we weren’t going to discuss my father’s actions. “Is there anything Riona would prefer for dinner? Martina can find the ingredients.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy with whatever you make, Mamma. You’ve never prepared anything less than amazing.” I kissed her on the top of her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. I love you.”

She patted my cheek but stared out the kitchen window. “Ti amo, piccolo mio.”

As soon as I exited the house, I hopped in my car and headed straight to Cosimo’s strip club, Deception. I burst through the doors and found my brother sitting at the bar, going over something on a tablet with his bartenders. It was quiet after the lunch hour because most people were working their day jobs. The dark atmosphere usually felt familiar and relaxing, but I barely noticed it today.

Cosimo took one look at me and murmured something to his staff before hitching his thumb at the door to the side of the stage. “My office.”

I followed him through the back hall, past his regular office, and down the stairs to the basement, where he conducted his other business. Cosimo unlocked the door at the end of the long hall and stood aside as I entered his dungeon. When he flipped the switch on the wall, the fluorescent lights overhead flickered to life, revealing a man suspended from the ceiling. He looked like he’d seen better days.

When Cosimo locked the door behind him, he patted me on the shoulder and moved to his table of tools. “What’s up?”

“I may have fucked myself over.”

“More than you did when you had your dick out on national television?” he asked flatly.

I thought about it for a moment. “Possibly. Mamma thinks I’m dating Riona.”

“She saw the latest gossip news?” He selected a long, thin blade from the assortment of torture implements.

“Unfortunately.” I ran a hand down my face, massaging the back of my neck. The man in the middle of the room groaned, making me remember where we were. I pointed to him as Cosimo stepped onto the plastic tarp, adding his own ambient sounds to the impending torture. “What’d he do?”

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