by Bethany-Kris
Everything had changed.
Again.
Now, with their mother’s death.
It was all wrong.
“Come on,” Siena murmured, forcing Ginevra to stare up at her through watery eyes, “look at me, huh? Don’t let them come in here and see this, all right? Don’t let them see what they’re doing to you—they don’t deserve that. I promise they don’t.”
Ginevra dragged in lungful after lungful of air. She willed her anxiety and raging emotions to calm, but while it helped, it still felt like a whole war continued to battle on inside her heart and mind.
“What am I going to do?”
Siena blinked. “What?”
Ginevra swallowed the lump in her throat.
It ached.
Like the rest of her, too.
“What am I going to do, Siena?” she whispered, lips trembling. “If I run, they have my sisters. If I can even run, because I never get the chance. And if I stay, then I have to marry a man I haven’t even met yet. What am I going to do?”
Siena’s fingers tightened around Ginevra’s shoulders. “For right now, you’re going to get up, let me fix your face, and then we’re going to sit down in the pew like nothing is wrong. You’re going to get through this day, thank people who offer their condolences, and make sure Kev and Darren think you’re doing everything they want. Okay?”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You’ve been doing it. This doesn’t change that.”
Ginevra let out a slow stream of air. “And then what?”
Siena’s eyes burned brightly. “Never worry about those girls, Ginny. I will look out for them, if you can’t. I promise you that. Don’t ever think you have to stay for them when there are people here who will take care of them, too.”
“I can’t just leave them to Kev and Darren.”
“Stop.” Siena gave her a look. “They’ll be fine. They are too young to be married off, and right now, they wouldn’t even consider those girls for anything else. What we have to figure out is how we’re going to get you out of this.”
“You shouldn’t help me,” Ginevra mumbled. “Look what happened to my mama.”
Siena nodded. “I know, but I can’t stand back and do nothing, either. That’s not who I am.”
Which was why she was different, Ginevra knew.
It was why she could trust her.
“What am I going to do?” she repeated.
“Give it time. We’ll figure something out.”
But would they?
• • •
The first time Ginevra met her husband-to-be, Andino Marcello said very little to her. He was kind, of course, and polite, but that was as far as it went. He didn’t seem interested in discussing the wedding with her brothers, and he certainly didn’t care to talk about it with her.
Not that she minded.
Even she was doing the very bare minimum that she could regarding the planning. If someone asked her for an opinion, she gave one, but that was it.
It wasn’t like she wanted it.
Why should she care?
The couple of meetings that happened after that first one with Andino were basically the same. Safe, kind conversation that didn’t make Ginevra think he was anything different than the other men in the mafia life. The only obvious difference about Andino was the fact he was actually an heir to a criminal empire.
The next boss, she was told.
You should be grateful, Kev had taunted her. We picked you a husband that women in this life would kill for, in a position they would give anything for. And you cry about it?
Like she should be happy.
She wasn’t.
It wasn’t Andino as much as it was everything else. She didn’t blame him, either, and she tried to be polite to him—not only because her brothers threatened her, but it was who she was, anyway—but that didn’t mean she wanted any of this.
“Do you talk at all?” Andino asked.
Ginevra looked up from the gross salad in front of her, and frowned. “I do, I’m sorry.”
Andino tipped his head sideways at that reply. “Why?”
It took Ginevra entirely too long to respond to that. Mostly because she didn’t know how to respond. No other man around her, but especially not her brothers, seemed to give even one damn about why for anything in her life. They didn’t ask her questions, they simply told her what to do, and expected her to follow through.
It was that simple.
Andino’s question surprised her.
“Why, what?” she asked.
“Why are you apologizing to me?”
She focused her attention on her plate, using the fork to play with the salad as she spoke. “For not being ... whatever you would like, I guess. That’s what I was told to be today—whatever you would like. And with everyone else, that usually means staying quiet and out of sight, if possible. I can’t exactly be out of your sight when I have to sit right in front of you at the table, so being quiet seemed like the way to go. Sorry if that’s not what you want.”
Ginevra didn’t miss the way Andino glanced a few tables over at her brothers where they sat enjoying their steaks and potatoes, while she had been forced—by them—to order a salad. The other thing she didn’t miss?
The anger in Andino’s face.
What was that?
What did it mean?
“I neither want, nor need, for you to be a piece of art beside me,” Andino eventually replied.
Her brow knotted as she met his gaze, confused.
“Pretty, but inanimate,” he added after a moment, shrugging. “If that’s what they expect, then that’s another story. When they are around, you can behave however they deem appropriate as to not cause yourself trouble. With me, you can be whatever you feel like in the moment.”
“Right now, I would prefer to be anywhere else.”
Andino smirked.
That surprised her, too.
Mostly, this man seemed like a statue. Cold, and immovable. Like he didn’t have emotions at all, or rather, none he outwardly showed to those around him. It was why she found it so hard to read him. It was why she didn’t understand his motives here.
“I do appreciate a woman who isn’t a liar,” he said, “but for the sake of appearances, let’s at least play nice.”
Okay.
He didn’t want a liar?
She could do that.
“I don’t want to marry you, Andino. I don’t want to be here, and I certainly don’t want to pretend to give a damn about anything you want to talk about right now. So, if it’s okay with you, I would much prefer to sit here and occasionally nod when you talk so that you might think I give a shit. But really, we’ll both know I don’t.”
It took a second for him to reply, but when he did, it stunned her.
Silent.
“Oh, good. Then, we’re on the same page.”
He didn’t want to marry her, either.
Then why were they here?
Ginevra didn’t get the chance to ask.
Just as quickly, he asked, “Did they choose the salad for you, too? Because I wouldn’t willingly eat that without some kind of steak to weigh it down.”
She almost smiled.
Almost.
“They did—heaven forbid you thought I ate too much.”
Andino made a noise, shaking his head. “I prefer women who enjoy themselves, actually. Not that it’ll matter what I prefer from you. Some other man, perhaps, but not me. You would do well to remember that.”
She met his gaze again.
Andino smiled back.
“What does that mean?”
Because she was desperately hoping it meant one thing.
That this wedding wouldn’t happen.
But how?
Andino pushed his plate of chicken parmesan across the table for her to take, winking as he did so. “You’ll find out when the time comes. And here, take my food. At least, you won’t leave here hungry, and my mothe
r taught me to always make sure a woman was happy when she left a table with me. Eat up.”
She did.
Still wondering if she could trust him.
Or what might happen now.
16.
Alessio
“Holy Christ, Les.”
Alessio licked the salty, heady flavor of Corrado’s cum from his lips as he slinked over his lover’s body, using his hands to fist into the sheets covering their mattress as he hovered above him. Corrado lifted to kiss Alessio, his tongue slashing against his like he was ready to take the taste of him back.
“Fuck,” Corrado said, falling back to the bed.
Grinning like the asshole he was, Alessio flashed his teeth, letting that cockiness of his come out to play. Because that’s what he did, and Corrado liked it. If only because he could challenge it.
Corrado was probably the only person in Alessio’s life—and that had never changed in the nearly five years that they’d been doing this shit together, whatever it was—who could deal with his nonsense. Not to mention, give it back just as hard.
He needed that.
Craved it, really.
Alessio dealt with all sorts of people on a daily basis. People he couldn’t stand, and people that drove him up the wall. He came across too many personalities to name, and very rarely did he find one that actually interested him, or kept his attention.
His job, still being an assassin for The League, meant he went from one person to the next, taking on assignments and seeing the world over and over again.
Yet, he still wanted to be here.
In this bed, or this penthouse.
With Corrado.
It was where he found peace.
And happiness.
“Why ...” Corrado let out a hard breath, his tongue snaking out to lick the corner of his lips as his hands drove through the longer bits of hair at the top of his head. Out of breath, his chest still heaved from that orgasm. Alessio like that sight more than anything else. He liked knowing he affected him. Why lie? “Why were we doing that again?”
Alessio dropped to the bed beside Corrado, propping himself up with his elbow, and resting his head on his hand. “That chick—the Poland job.”
Corrado nodded. “Yeah ... shit, yeah, okay. She was a screamer. How did the talk of the Poland job turn into you sucking my dick, though?”
He chuckled.
“Good memories.”
Mostly, Alessio wanted to make Corrado shout, too.
He’d done that.
It worked.
Why did he have to explain it?
“And I just got back,” Alessio added, rolling to his back to stare up at the glass shard chandelier that hung above their four-poster bed. Tucked against floor-to-ceiling windows in the penthouse’s master bedroom, they had ample view of the busy Vegas city, although they were just high enough that unless someone was watching their windows with fucking binoculars, no one was seeing what they were doing. And if they were watching ...
Well, shit.
Alessio hoped they enjoyed the show.
Nightly.
Corrado shifted to his side, and Alessio caught his gaze with his own. Not saying a single word, he reached over and pressed his thumb to the corner of Alessio’s mouth. The pad of Corrado’s digit dragged across his lower lip with the softest touch.
The silence stretched on, but that was okay. He’d learned after all these years with Corrado that, sometimes, quiet was better. It was in their stillness where they found the best connection.
They didn’t always need words.
They just needed moments.
Quiet, soft moments.
Sometimes, they came when neither of them expected it, too. Between bursts of busy schedules, and chaotic careers that sent them both running all over the world doing jobs for The League, and different clients. After the danger waned, and the violence was gone, it was just the two of them again.
They ended up back here.
In their life.
Together.
Quiet.
Alessio knew that from the outside looking in, he and Corrado didn’t make sense to other people. They didn’t have a label. Far too many overlooked them, and assumed they weren’t a thing together. Not that they ever gave people a reason to know the truth, either.
You know, beyond living together.
For nearly five years ...
Still, people didn’t know.
They could only assume.
He partly blamed himself, and Corrado, too. Not that he ever said that to anyone, or his lover. A long time ago, they’d decided this was what they were going to be. Together, but only to each other. A thing, but it wasn’t open to public consumption.
Alessio was willing to do that.
It gave him what he wanted.
Corrado.
Somehow, they found a familiar rhythm like this. He didn’t push for something else, or for more, because what else was there to have when ... in a lot of ways, he had it all.
Or did he?
People wouldn’t understand.
They shared everything.
A life.
Work.
A home.
Women.
Sex.
There was nothing in their lives that wasn’t somehow touched by both of them. So much so, that those closest to Corrado and Alessio thought the two of them were often extensions of the other. Without one, the other wasn’t right.
Nothing was right.
“What are you thinking about, huh?” Corrado asked, his voice thick with sleep and bliss. Probably still humming from that orgasm, and if all went well, Alessio would be the next one. “You’re quiet over there.”
“You like that, anyway.”
“Sometimes.”
Alessio grinned.
Corrado smirked right back.
Reaching over, he drifted his fingertips down the line of Corrado’s jaw still shadowed with a few days’ worth of scruff. “You do like it when I’m quiet. Admit it.”
It was true.
Corrado thrived on attention.
Alessio just liked to watch.
“And when you’re a shit,” Corrado added.
He laughed. “Yeah, that, too.”
“And don’t deflect. What were you thinking?”
Alessio sighed, his gaze going back to the large, glimmering light fixture above the bed. Only Corrado would know something was going on in Alessio’s mind when he was quiet. No one else saw him in his silent moments and thought, something’s happening there. They were all too willing to let him stew, even if they didn’t know that’s what he was doing.
Not Corrado, though.
He often wondered, how, at eighteen—although now, just a month or so shy of his twenty-third birthday—had he found his person. He knew some people went their whole lives without ever finding that person that was meant to be only theirs.
He found his early.
Corrado was still there, too.
God.
And he loved him.
Loved him fucking stupid.
Loved him enough to still be here even when shit held Corrado back, and forced them into his strange place where they were something, but they weren’t at the same time. Where they shared women in bed, and had a whole life together behind closed doors, but out in the world ... they weren’t anything. Where they dictated this thing between them with rules that had followed them from damn near the beginning, but neither of them said three little words to cement it.
I love you.
But that was too deep.
Corrado didn’t do deep.
So, Alessio lied.
“I was thinking one of us needs to take the black Porsche out, and open it up,” he murmured, swallowing the emotions in his throat, “it’s been a while since it’s been taken out.”
Corrado glanced over at him, and if he knew he was lying, he didn’t say. Not that he ever brought up that kind of shit; it might open a can of worms that he was
n’t willing to face yet, and Alessio had a bad habit of letting Corrado have what he wanted.
Even if it hurt him.
“Yeah, all right,” Corrado replied.
Crisis averted.
As per usual.
The ringing phone on Corrado’s nightstand saved the two of them from saying anything more. Corrado rolled over, and snatched the phone while Les pushed out of the bed, and started grabbing the few clothes he’d discarded earlier. A shirt, his pants ...
Corrado had nothing on.
He tossed his clothes over, too.
“Thanks,” he mouthed, answering the phone at the same time. “Marcus.”
Alessio stilled, shooting a look over his shoulder. Not that it was unusual for Corrado to get calls from his family because that was all too normal. Usually a couple a day, really. If not his mother, then it might be the man’s twin, his father, or any one of his other three brothers.
All of which Alessio knew.
And well.
It was one of the reasons why this thing between them didn’t make any fucking sense, not that Corrado liked it when he pointed it out. Alessio wasn’t hidden from Corrado’s family like he was a dirty secret to be kept. He sat at their dinner table—he attended their parties, and celebrations. They knew him.
And he suspected, they knew why he was there.
But no one asked.
So, no one told.
He just didn’t understand.
Why?
What did it matter after all this time?
“But can’t they just—” Corrado sighed harshly, telling his brother, “Fine, Marcus. Yes, they can throw a double birthday party for us, and you.”
Then, Corrado added, “I assume Les will come, why wouldn’t he? Tell Ma yeah for that.”
Alessio went back to pulling on his clothes, slightly annoyed. Not so much at the conversation happening behind him, but the topic. His family just expected Alessio would be around for something like Corrado’s birthday party his mother and father wanted to throw in a few weeks—although his birthday was sooner than that—because they had to know.
They had to know what he was to Corrado.
Why he was important.
That this thing was a fucking thing.