by Bethany-Kris
“Gian—”
“It’s true. Even if they don’t mean to, or it’s a by-product of someone else’s actions, they hurt you. Your parents, your siblings, or friends. And so you prep for the next person you let in to hurt you, too, and when they do, you get to fall, dust it off, and keep going with a few more bruises on your soul.”
She almost hated how he saw those things.
She wanted to hate that she had never needed to tell him those things.
“But what’s more amazing,” Gian continued, “is that you let me in. And that, in some crazy way, you still lower your walls enough to let someone climb over for a time. So here we are, you waiting for me to fuck up, even if I do love you, and even if you do love me, because it always happens, regardless. And you’ll be fine when it does—if it does—because that’s who you are, Cara Rossi. And we don’t get to be anything but exactly who we are.”
Cara’s exhale felt painful as it rushed out, but with that pain came a sense of relief. “Saves me the trouble of explaining all of that to you.”
Gian shrugged. “I never asked for an explanation.”
“No, you didn’t,” she agreed quietly. “Don’t you think it’s a little sad that you love someone who is just waiting for the other shoe to drop?”
“I think it’s sad that the woman I love feels like she has to wait on that at all.”
Well, then …
“What about all the shit I don’t like?” Cara asked. “The business you do, the things that life has taken from me, and how it hurts me? What if that bitterness I feel and the distrust that’s settled deep inside of me never goes away? Doesn’t that—in a way—reflect on us? Doesn’t that make us doomed?”
“There are a million things that could doom us, Cara,” Gian said, stepping forward to stroke her cheek and push a stray curl behind her ear. She smiled at his touch, feeling that familiar shiver race down her spine at his contact. “You know what else could doom us? That instead of taking that risk with me—jumping off the cliff that scares you—you want to debate how and why I love you inside of a liquor store at ten at night. Because that’s what you’ll keep doing, about everything, on all the little details about us, instead of just being.”
Cara frowned. “You don’t know that.”
“I know you worry about details all the time. Right now, you’re worried about the details of us, of something like love. That should be the easiest, most honest thing you can feel. And your very nature is to question it, Cara, and to question me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“But you do. And you know what, that’s okay, too. As long as you be with me, I don’t care about the rest. I don’t care about those details and the nonsense. I don’t hear the noise of everyone else telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing with you. I don’t give a single fuck about any of that, because I love you. Nothing else matters. The rest will figure itself out on its own. I believe that entirely.”
“Why would anyone tell you not to be with me, Gian?”
That time, he was the one to look away.
Cara didn’t miss it.
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter.”
She wondered if it should, though.
“Say it, again,” Cara demanded.
Gian—once more—didn’t hesitate. “I love you, Cara.”
It became easier to hear each time he said it.
It became easier to believe.
It became easier to understand.
“I want you to say it back,” he told her, “but I don’t need you to say it because I want you to. I don’t need you to say something that scares you enough to send you running away from me for three weeks, only to call me when you can’t take it anymore. I don’t need you to justify what I already know, amore.”
“But?”
“But I do need you to be with me, Cara. That’s all.”
An older gentleman slipped down the aisle, making Cara move closer to Gian to avoid being bumped into by the guy’s shoulder. She didn’t mind.
She liked it there.
“I do, though,” she said.
“Hmm?”
“Love you, Gian.”
His smile grew and he kissed her quickly before pulling her into his side. Heading toward the cash with a six-pack under his arm, and a bottle of wine in her hand, Cara felt … settled. For the first time in weeks, she was okay.
“Now do we go back to pretending like we’re good and the last few weeks didn’t happen?” Cara asked.
“There’s no need to pretend. We’re perfect, mon ange. We always were.”
“In a crazy way, maybe.”
“In our way,” Gian murmured before he kissed the top of her head.
So, maybe loving this man wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Maybe.
“Now, we’re going to go to your place, put one of those ugly fucking rom-com things on you like, get drunk, and then fuck tomorrow morning away,” he told her as he sat the liquor down on the counter.
The cashier’s eyes widened, and her cheeks pinked as she reached for the wine first to ring it through. “Usually, I’m supposed to greet customers, but I’m not sure what to say right now, so excuse me for saying nothing.”
Gian flashed the girl a smile. “Just tell me what I owe.”
“Thirty-five, twenty-two,” the girl said faintly.
Cara couldn’t even bother to feel embarrassed as she shook her head. “You are awful, Gian.”
“Yes, and you love it.”
They did exactly as he said they would—shitty movie, liquor, and all. But even when the morning came, and Cara was sure she was going to die from the way Gian’s tongue fucked her senseless, she still wanted to hear him say it.
Again and again.
Over and over.
“Say it again,” Cara demanded in a whisper.
Gian’s chuckles rocked against her inner thigh, and then higher as his lips kissed a path from her pubic bone to below her right breast. “Again?”
“Again.”
“Ti amo. Je t'aime. I love you. I can say it in three languages, donna, what more do you want?”
Cara wasn’t sure what she wanted, really.
Not entirely.
More mornings like this, definitely.
Soft sheets. Sunlight on her face. Gian in her bed.
Was that how love was supposed to go? Cara didn’t know.
If it was, she had already been doing this with Gian for months.
So why did it feel different now?
Why was it better?
“Again?” he asked, hovering over her on the bed.
Cara smiled, pushing up on her elbows to kiss his mouth that tasted like her. “I love you.”
Gian smirked. “Again?”
“Always.”
Gian found it was a strange feeling to have so many eyes watching him, waiting on him to speak. Like his words and his direction, was the only thing that mattered. Of course, he’d always been in some sort of position of power, regarding the mafia as an underboss. He always had some sort of control. His direction had always been followed when he had given it.
This didn’t feel entirely the same.
This was different, because his word had become law to these men. To them, there was no one above him, no one for them to look at to ensure the direction he was giving, the demands he was making, were the right ones. It was only his word, and his wants, that now mattered.
Before, Gian had not felt the heavy weight of that kind of responsibility on his shoulders where the men of his Cosa Nostra were concerned. He shared that weight between himself, his grandfather, and Edmond. He’d never fully understood how important it was to say the right thing, to make the right choice, the first time.
Maybe he had been spoiled in that way.
“As we expected, Edmond is not backing down,” Gian said. “But no one is surprised about that, right?”
None of the men answered, not that he expected them to.
&
nbsp; It was their time to listen.
It was his time to talk.
“There’s only one thing to do now—push harder, put more pressure on him, on his men, on his territory—where ever the hell we need to, in order to get what we want. None of us should want a street war. As it is, we have too many bodies piling up. We have too much official attention. The police won’t leave us alone. The bigger problem is, neither will Edmond. He’s not going to back down, and we won’t either.”
Gian stopped his spiel long enough to take a drink from the server that approached his table. Two fingers of whiskey burned all the way down his throat as he drank it in one fast gulp. He probably should’ve sipped the drink, as it deserved, but he wasn’t in the mood. What he wanted, were quiet streets, compliant men, and Edmond in a grave.
Gian didn’t think he was asking for much.
However, if their lives were that simple, then everything would be a hell of a lot cleaner. And as the old saying went, nothing worth having would come easy.
It was his own fault for not being better prepared for this.
Gian only blamed himself for that.
He had spent too much time after Corrado’s death, stuck in his own problems, wandering around lost in his own world. Instead of handling the issue that was Edmond from the very beginning, Gian had let it fester. And now what had been a small wound, was a gaping, infected hole, eating away at his la famiglia.
“You could always hire someone to finish Edmond, if that’s what—”
Gian’s gaze cut to the Capo in the corner booth, and the action quieted the man instantly. “Like he did for my grandfather?”
Or, Gian still assumed that had been done by Edmond. He had no reason to believe otherwise, and the fool didn’t offer one.
“Well …”
“Say it. That’s what you mean.”
The Capo gave a single nod. “Fine, sì, that’s what I mean, boss. Consider what we might gain by ending it quicker.”
“In a coward’s way,” Gian said slowly. “A way that makes us the coward.”
“No—”
“Yes.”
“He wouldn’t be the first to die by the hands of a hired gun,” the Capo muttered under his breath.
“You’re right, he certainly wouldn’t be.”
The Capo also had a good point. Killing Edmond by way of a hired man, someone he didn’t know and was not expecting, would end everything. Strangely, Gian did not feel okay with making that call, regardless of the positives that could come out of the situation. He felt—in a way—that it would make him no better than Edmond, killing his rival and not giving the man even a chance to properly defend himself.
Had Corrado been given the chance to see his death coming, might it have ended differently? Would his grandfather have made the choice the Capo was suggesting?
Gian didn’t have the answers for those questions.
And he wasn’t Corrado Guzzi.
He was only himself.
“But the answer is no,” Gian said firmly, “so drop it.”
The Capo’s confirmative reply was enough for Gian to move on, satisfied his point was made.
“This will all be over soon enough,” he assured. “Just keep doing what you’ve been doing. Clearly, someone wanted a war, and now they’ve got one. Maybe once they realize that they’ve gotten what they wanted, it won’t be as nice, after all.”
Despite wanting to get the hell out of the meeting with the men, and get on with his day, Gian ordered lunch and readied himself for more conversation. As an underboss, he had simply needed to check in on the Capos and their dealings to make sure everything was on the up and up. His responsibilities kept him on the move, going from one man to the next, without stopping for very long. As a boss, he was learning it was not quite the same.
He had to talk.
A lot.
He had to listen, too.
It almost made him miss the years before he was a made man, when all he had to do was slam his fist into someone’s face to get what he wanted.
Life was not that easy, now.
Frankly, it was better he had learned to tamper his temper. Bosses—good ones—didn’t need to use violence as a first resort to get business done. That simply wasn’t how Cosa Nostra men behaved. Gian had been lucky enough to get all of the roughness out of his system before he earned his button, and it made the transition of becoming a made man easier.
To an extent …
His phone buzzed in his pocket as the men droned on around him. He almost didn’t pick up the call, as all the people who would usually be calling him at that time of day were sitting around the restaurant, waiting on their meals. Cara, the only one who might call him, should have been at university.
When the buzzing persisted, Gian pulled the cell out and checked the screen. The sexy image of Cara shooting him the peace sign and winking lit up the phone. Gian answered the call instantly. He put the phone to his ear as he stood from the table, turning his back to the men and walking away so his conversation couldn’t be overheard.
“Ciao, bonjour.”
“I saw it again.”
Gian tensed. “Saw what, mon ange?”
“The car. The car, Gian. I saw it again!”
He didn’t have a damn clue what she was talking about, but the frantic pitch her tone took on was enough to make him turn back and head for his table again. He grabbed the jacket hanging off the back of the chair, waved Constantino off when the man stood with questioning eyes, and headed for the front of the restaurant.
“Okay, you saw a car, Cara. What car?”
She made a desperate noise that cut him deep, her panic searing through the phone like she was standing right in front of him. She was across the city, but damn it, Gian swore he could feel her fucking fear radiating all the way to him.
He was already out of the restaurant and moving toward his car and waiting enforcer by the time she gained enough of a breath to answer him.
“The car! With Chris—that day, Gian. All the noise and the gunfire. The fucking car!”
“Are you sure?”
Gian only asked because Cara insisted she remembered nothing about her drive-by attack, except the pain she felt when she hit the ground. She didn’t have distinct memories of what happened leading up to it, and discussing it was an emotionally taxing event.
“Yes,” Cara hissed. “I saw it and I knew.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“Where are you right now?” he asked.
“At the café I like. I wanted a snack before my next class.”
“Can you stay there?”
“I’m not leaving!”
Her screech almost made his ear bleed.
“I’m twenty minutes away, Cara. Get something to drink, I’ll be there by the time you’re done.”
“Okay.”
Fuck.
He wished she didn’t sound so frightened and panicked. He knew she had a lot of baggage regarding the drive-by simply because it reminded her of Lea, and of that event. Her memories of her attack were clouded with the ones she had of Lea’s, and even trying to talk about it put Cara in a bad place. That—and only that—was the reason why Gian didn’t push.
Gian scrubbed a hand down his face. “It’s fine. It’ll all be fine, bella.”
“Hurry,” she mumbled.
“Already on my way. Try to relax.”
Easier said than done, he knew.
Gian said goodbye, and slipped his phone into his pocket as he took the keys to his car from the enforcer. He did not leave his car unattended after the bomb incident. “Follow me in your own car.”
Chris nodded. “Got it, boss.”
Gian broke at least a dozen traffic laws, but he cut the twenty-minute drive in half. He couldn’t find a place to park, so he simply yanked his car over to the side of the road right in front of the café windows, ignoring the horns honking behind him.
Cara flew out of the café damn near to the second Gian cut
the engine, and jumped into the vehicle without even looking over her shoulder once. He pulled the car back onto the road, much to the chagrin of the other drivers he had cut off, and hit the gas hard.
“I thought it was going to happen again,” Cara whispered in the passenger seat.
“It’s not going to happen again. Tell me what you saw.”
“The car.”
“Yeah, I got that. I need a bit more info to go on, though.”
Cara let out a hard breath and ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t even know how I forgot that was the car—it’s so fucking yellow.”
Immediately, Gian hit the brakes and pulled the car into the nearest parking lot. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“The color of the car.”
“Yellow?”
Gian nodded. “You’re sure that’s what it was.”
Cara blinked. “It was yellow. I see cars all the damn time, but not one like that.”
“All right.”
Gian cut the engine and got out of his vehicle, rounding the side to open Cara’s door. She simply stared up at him, unsure of what she was supposed to do. Chris had pulled up behind them, his car still running and waiting.
“Come on, get out,” Gian said, holding his hand for Cara to take.
“Why?”
“I have some business to handle, now.”
“Do you know who owns the car?”
“I know who owns a yellow car,” Gian replied unfazed. It was an odd color to have, especially in their business, when the intention was not to draw attention. “And that’s not for you to worry about.”
Chris had finally exited his own vehicle as Gian managed to convince Cara to get out of his car. He nodded to the man, and urged his lover toward the enforcer with a smile that was entirely forced.
Because inside?
Yeah, there he was pissed.
“Chris will take you to my penthouse for the evening,” Gian said. “I will be home later.”
Cara glanced over her shoulder at him. “Will you?”
“Of course.”
After he hurt somebody.
Louis Portella.
Gian repeated the name as he tugged his driving gloves at the wrists, making sure they were snug against his skin. He watched the twenty-three-year-old solider, Edmond’s grandson, stroll out of a strip joint with a grin on his face and not a fucking care in the world.