by Bethany-Kris
Gian’s gaze narrowed. “You don’t know that.”
“No one else visits me. And I know he’s trailing me again. You’re not as smooth as you think, Gian.”
“Never mind, you.” He swatted her ass with a firm pat, sending her flying into the living room with a giggle. “Cover up with something. You’re indecent.”
“You pulled me out of bed this way!”
“Yes, for me. Not for the neighbors.”
Cara stuck her tongue out at him, but still pulled an afghan blanket over her lower half as Gian headed for the door. A quick check through the peephole confirmed Cara’s theory. Chris waited behind the door, his gaze trained on something down the hall.
Gian pulled it open with a scowl. “Do you not know how to use a fucking phone, or what?”
Chris barely blinked in the face of Gian’s rage. “Did I interrupt your morning—”
“Finish that statement.”
The enforcer grinned instead.
The fucker.
“What do you want?” Gian demanded.
Chris held up the item in his hands; a brown box, taped across the top, though the tape had been sliced through and it looked as though it had been opened. “This was delivered to me this morning by a friend, of sorts.”
Gian eyed the box. “What friend?”
“One of Edmond’s enforcers that knew I was more likely to question him first, before shooting. I suspect that’s why the old fucker sent him over.”
Well, then.
Gian took the box, looking over the cut tape again. “Why did you open it, if you were told it was meant for me?”
“One bomb is quite enough for you, don’t you think?” Chris asked quietly. “I didn’t go through the contents, only cut and opened to make sure nothing was waiting to go boom.”
Gian wasn’t the least bit surprised that Chris had chosen to take the risk of opening the box himself before handing it over to his boss. It was that length of loyalty that made Gian appreciate the man even more.
“Thank you,” Gian said.
Chris nodded once. “And I am sorry about, you know, interrupting. If I did.”
Gian scowled again. “Yeah, you did.”
“Sorry, boss.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
With a quick goodbye, Gian closed the door on his man, and headed back for the table. Cara seemed distracted by whatever was on the television, and Gian used that time to his advantage. He pulled open the top of the brown box—no bigger than a shoebox—and emptied out the contents. A small memory card rested on top of a tablet, and photographs fell across the table.
A small, hand-written note fell out last.
A gift, it read. This has gone on long enough, Gian. Here is what you’ve been looking for, and it’s time to end the rest. –Edmond
Gian’s gaze scoured the photos first.
Constantino.
A man Gian didn’t recognize.
He distinguished quickly enough from the images that a trade of sorts was happening—money exchanged hands in the darkness of an alley, and that was it. A few other pictures, taken in the daylight, showed Constantino having multiple meetups with several younger Capos, and even a few of the older ones.
That might not have been such a bad thing, but it unsettled Gian. It bothered him because Constantino had no reason—no business—to be running between Capo to Capo, not when he had his own territory and crew to manage. The dates on the photographs showed Gian that all of those meets had happened before Corrado’s murder.
Gian glanced over at the couch, seeing Cara was still lost in the television. He plugged the memory card into the side of the tablet and turned it on. He put the volume on low as he scrolled through the images and the one video that loaded from the card. More photos of Constantino showed up, although these showcased him visiting Edmond.
Gian tensed all over as he pressed play on the one video the card held.
A video of Claud Rossi lit up the screen, taken off to the side, slightly grainy, but still distinctive enough for Gian to discern who was in the room with Constantino’s father. Edmond, and Matthew, the new boss’s consigliere.
“He’s gotten himself mixed up in some kind of shit this time,” Claud said.
“Do tell,” Edmond urged.
“I think Constantino’s found himself over his head. Maybe he overheard me talking to my wife that the boss seemed unwell, or something. He jumped off my radar a lot more often than he usually does, and I took notice.”
“Me, too,” Edmond said. “Or rather, he was close to Gian. I needed to keep an eye on everyone close to him for a while.”
“I didn’t want to speculate.”
“But you did.”
“I can’t have my son hiding things from me in this business, not in this life of ours,” Claud muttered heavily. “It makes for dangerous things. I followed him, sometimes, and noticed he was trailing Gian some days, others he was off on his own. I started looking around, asking some questions to the men in the crew. A few pointed me in the direction of the kind of business Constantino had been asking about.”
“What kind of business?”
“A hired man.”
Gian’s chest tightened painfully at what he was hearing. He didn’t want to believe it, but certain things—his old friend’s behaviors over the last few months—had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth.
“That’s not all, though,” Edmond said. “After Corrado, I was having a lot of the men watched, because everybody knew that kill came from the inside. I wanted to know who. I owed it to Corrado because, like him, I didn’t see it coming until it was too late.”
Claud shifted on his chair. “And what did you find, boss?”
“He had the bomb planted on Gian’s car. I got photos of the meets and the payment exchanging hands. It speaks for itself.”
“Gian is his friend.”
“Gian is his way to the top,” Edmond corrected with a shrug. “Gian was not making the moves that perhaps Constantino felt he should be after Corrado’s murder, and so, I believe he thought to simply push Gian in the direction he wanted.”
“As in, he didn’t mean to kill him, only knock him down for a bit.”
“So he would get up swinging.” Edmond chuckled. “Frankly, no one knows Gian better than Constantino, if you think about it. Maybe he knew exactly how to push to get what he wanted.”
Edmond had a good point, as much as Gian hated to admit it. Constantino had, on more than one occasion, made comments about Gian’s habits. Like always using his car starter to start his vehicle in the winter, even though it was hard on the engines to do so in the freezing cold weather.
“And if he had fucked up?” Edmond considered out loud. “Well, then I suppose Constantino probably thought of Gian as fodder. He would still get what he wanted, in a way. A war between the younger and older generations that would open up seats all the way across the board.”
“What do I do now?” Claud asked. “He’s my son.”
“He’s a made man,” Edmond replied just as fast. “And because of that, you’ll let him answer as one, no matter who demands their retribution. That’s how made men have always done this—it’s how we always will.”
Gian shut off the tablet.
He had never agreed more with something Edmond said.
He never would again.
“Something smells fantastic,” Gian said as he came up behind Cara at the stove.
She leaned into his touch, grinning when his kiss landed softly on the pulse point of her throat. His hand rubbed her back as he peered over her shoulder.
“What are you making?”
“A steak and potato mess,” Cara replied, “fit for a king.”
“I don’t think you’ve ever cooked for me.”
“You always order in.”
“Not always, but it is faster.”
Cara rolled her eyes. “You’ve never cooked for me.”
“I’ll rectify that soon.”
>
“Can you even cook, or will you grab a bunch of takeout and set it up on dishes to make it look good?”
Gian swept her hair further behind her ear and nipped playfully on the lobe. “How little you think of me, pretty girl.”
Cara tried damn hard to hide her shiver, and failed miserably. “So you can cook?”
“I have a French mother who had an Italian mother and a very Italian grandmother from my father’s side. Yes, I can cook. I learned with bruised knuckles from my grandmama’s favorite wooden spoon. My mother, on the other hand, preferred the French dishes, and I found those easier to make, really.”
“Why was that?”
“Different teaching methods,” Gian said with a chuckle. “Of course, the only reason they thought to teach my brother and I to cook was because my sister absolutely refused to do anything in the kitchen, and they needed to pass something on.”
“Ah. Well, then you owe me something Italian and French.”
“I will see what I can do.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” Cara said sweetly.
She went back to attending her steaks, slathering them in a special homemade sauce that very few people had the recipe to. She preferred to cook her steaks in the oven, rather than on a frying pan. The meat always came out a bit more tender.
Gian moved around her in his penthouse, grabbing items out of the fridge and setting them up on the counter for Cara when she asked. He also pulled out a beer, popping the top off and taking a hearty swig from the amber-colored bottle. Just the way he stared at her, told Cara something was on his mind.
What, exactly, she didn’t know.
She could just see it.
Their ruined date a few nights earlier had mostly been brushed under the rug. Cara hadn’t seen her cousin since, and she didn’t plan to seek the asshole out. Gian, on the other hand, kept Cara closer than ever since that evening and the morning after. In fact, he’d packed a bag for her to bring to his penthouse, and he hadn’t let her leave since, only for school.
Cara didn’t mind, really.
She liked being there with him.
“Everything okay?” Cara asked.
Gian shrugged. “It could be better, but I’ll get there.”
“Do tell.”
“It’s not for you to worry about, bella. Just nonsense making noise in my head, like it sometimes does. It’ll all go away soon.”
“If you’re sure …”
“Positive.” Gian took another drink from his beer as Cara slipped the casserole dish, filled with the marinated steaks, into the oven. “I do have a question for you, though.”
“Oh?”
“What do you want in the future?”
Cara straightened quickly as she closed the oven, and leaned against the warm metal to regard Gian as she spoke. “For what?”
“Us, I guess.”
“I want you,” Cara said simply.
“That’s a broad statement, though. I meant … the details, Cara. Of life, you know. The little things. What do you want with me in all of that?”
“What’s brought this on?”
Gian smirked in that way of his. “I told you once that if you asked me for something more, I would try my very best to give it to you. I’ve done that so far, but now I wonder what you want beyond what we have, that’s all.”
“I want you,” she repeated firmer.
“Yeah, but—”
“Everything, Gian. I want everything with you.”
“Everything,” he echoed.
“I mean, yeah. As it comes, you know.”
“With me.”
“Who the hell else?”
Gian gave her one of his usual smiles, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “All right, then. That’s all I needed to hear.”
“And nothing’s wrong?”
“No, I needed to hear that. From you.”
It was one of the strangest interactions of Cara’s life, certainly the oddest she’d ever had with Gian, but who was she to question the things that roamed around in his mind? Sometimes, he was so quiet, she wondered what his mind must be like.
“I have some shit to do, so give me a shout when the food is ready, okay?”
Cara nodded. “Sure.”
Something was definitely wrong, she decided as Gian walked away.
She still didn’t call him on it.
“Gian?” Cara rapped her knuckles on the opened office door and peered in to find Gian still had his head bent down as he looked over something on his laptop. “Supper is ready.”
“Can it wait for a minute?”
“It’s set out on the table, but it’ll be warm for a bit.”
“Good. Come here for a second.”
Cara stepped into the office, taking a seat on the couch closest to the window. “What’s up?”
“I bought you a ticket. It’s for tomorrow afternoon. To Chicago’s O’Hare.”
She wasn’t sure she heard him right.
“I beg your pardon?”
Gian looked over at her, his expression blank as he redelivered the news. “You’re going to have to leave for a while. I need you to go, for your own safety, as things are not good here on my end of things. Chicago is the best place to send you, considering everything.”
“No.”
“Cara—”
She stood fast from the couch. “Absolutely not, Gian.”
“It doesn’t matter how much you argue with me about this, and I know you’re going to try, mon ange, but it’s already been done. The ticket is bought. You’ll be in a first-class seat tomorrow afternoon, on your way to Chicago.”
“Like hell.”
“I already talked to your brother as well. He knows when to expect you. He’ll be there to pick you up.”
Cara didn’t care, and she was no longer listening. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Gian sighed. “Is that how you want to do this then?”
“I want to stay with you, Gian!”
“If I didn’t have to send you away, if I could choose any other option but this one, I would do that, Cara. I can’t. This is the only option that completely takes you out of the equation. That way, I can focus on the things I need to for a short while. The faster I get you into a safe zone, the quicker I can get you back with me. Don’t you understand that?”
“I said—”
Gian held up a single hand, quieting Cara instantly. “It is for your best interests.”
“Fuck you.”
He barely reacted to her stinging insult. Even she was surprised at the venom that her tone held.
“Are you angry that I’m sending you away, or because of where I’m sending you, Cara?” he asked.
She refused to give him an answer. Instead, she headed out of the office, going back the way she had come from the kitchen. Gian’s footsteps echoed behind hers, albeit slower than her anger induced speed.
“Don’t run away from me,” Gian called out from behind her.
“Go to hell, Gian.”
“Stop swearing at me, Cara.”
“Not likely.”
She held back from calling him an asshole, but barely.
“Is this what you’re going to do, then?” Gian asked, as Cara strolled into the kitchen. “Fucking run because I did something you don’t like?”
“I’m not—”
“You always run when shit goes south, Cara.”
Fuck him again.
She made her way to the plate she had made for herself, and sat down at the table to eat. Gian stood at the other end, in front of his own plate, with his arms crossed as he stared her down.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Not running, clearly. I made food. I want to fucking eat it, if you don’t mind.”
Gian’s jaw clenched. “And then what? Because Chicago is non-negotiable, Cara.”
She ignored him, grabbing a steak knife to cut into the slab of meat on her plate.
“You’re going to be on that
flight tomorrow,” he said when she stayed quiet.
“Will you shut the fuck up and eat?”
Gian yanked the chair out from the table with more force than was necessary. The two of them ate like that, both irritated and angry with the other, silent and stewing in their frustrations. Cara barely looked at Gian, and she could feel his damn eyes burning into her.
She hated that he had been right. She understood shit was bad in Toronto right now for him and the Guzzi family as a whole. He had been going non-stop for days, on the phone, out of the penthouse, and then back at odd hours. She overheard some of his phone calls, though she knew better than to eavesdrop.
Shit was going down.
Or it was about to be going that way fast.
Gian was trying to prepare as best he could for it.
Cara was likely one of those things, but he was so fucking right. It was not that he was sending her away, but where he was sending her away to. It was Chicago, and all the hell and pain that was about to accompany her on a long trip down a memory lane she didn’t want to walk through.
Certainly not alone, anyhow.
And fuck him for knowing it would hurt her, and doing it anyway.
Fuck him for that.
It was only after they had finished the food, after she had cleared the table, that the yelling really got started between them. She had never fought with Gian, certainly not with raised voices and something to actually shout about. Not for something she was truly angry with him over.
This was not the same.
It was the first time Cara yelled in a long fucking time.
She raged.
She was pissed.
Gian let her.
She had the distinct feeling he did that because regardless of how much she screamed, fought, swore at him, and said no, she was still going.
And it was going to hurt.
A lot.
Gian closed his laptop the second he heard familiar mumblings coming from down the hall. Cara sounded less annoyed than she had the night before. He took a phone call as he listened to the soft patter of feet down the hall, followed by the click of a closing door. The bathroom, likely.
By the time he was done with his call, Cara stood in the office doorway. She hadn’t bothered to put any clothes on; she still wore that frilly, delicate lace that she’d gone to bed in. And that was only the panties, not the bra. She had simply tossed his dress shirt on—unbuttoned—which did very fucking little to cover her breasts.