by Bethany-Kris
He had a wife.
That meant Cara …
She was his mistress.
A goomah.
Whore.
“What’s wrong?” Tommas asked, his gaze shooting from Cara to Abriella. “What happened?”
Abriella didn’t look all too concerned. “We were going through some albums and—”
Tommas was at Cara’s side before she had blinked, grabbing the album from her, only to see the last photo she had been looking at. One of Gian, and this Elena woman, kissing on an altar. Likely their first kiss, Cara didn’t know.
She didn’t care.
“Why would you do that?” Tommas asked Abriella.
“He’s married,” Cara said faintly.
Abriella stood from the couch, stoic and stone cold. “She deserved to know. I let her figure it out.”
“Abriella.”
She was already walking away.
Cara wished she could be angry.
She was, but not at Abriella.
Not even at her brother.
“Tommas, he’s married,” Cara said.
How had she not known?
Tommas looked down at her, wariness filling his eyes. “I don’t know much about it, just that he is, and that’s all.”
“I’m going home.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m going home.”
It wasn’t for her brother to decide.
Not on this.
“Do we know who showed up?” Gian asked.
Dom looked to Stephan for an answer.
“All of them,” Stephan said, the cigarette on his lips bouncing with every word.
While Gian despised Stephan for a great many reasons—including the man’s attitude and ways—he had to admit that the Capo was honest and honorable when it came down to business. After carefully going through every man Gian could find, he was surprised to find out Stephan had no hand in Constantino’s plots.
Given how fucking hard it was to find trustworthy people lately, Gian chose to allow Stephan into his very small circle. At least, for the time being. He didn’t have to particularly like the guy, he only had to trust him.
Gian found his brother watching him, doing that damn thing that Dom always did whenever he was uneasy about a situation, and needed a steady, yet invisible support to walk him through. He didn’t blame Dom for being that way at twenty-five. Shit, years ago, Gian had been the stupid kid, wading into the mafia with unrealistic expectations, needing guidance just the same.
He had looked to his grandfather. Who else fit the bill with his last name? Domenic only had Gian to look to, now.
“Ça va?” Gian asked Dom in French.
Dom shrugged one shoulder. “Je vais bien, Gian.”
He didn’t look fine.
Apparently, his attempt at using French to probe his brother’s inner emotions without embarrassing him was not lost on Stephan.
“He’s got to learn this shit and how to deal with it somehow,” Stephan muttered, walking forward and leaving the brothers behind. “Treat him like a fragile figa that needs special handling, and he’ll never be more than a walking, talking pussy, boss.”
Dom glared at the Capo’s back. “I don’t like him.”
Gian blew out a breath. Now or never, he supposed. Dom wanted to be in, he wanted his button, he wanted the title of a made man. He needed to understand what all of that meant, too.
Gian slapped his brother on the back and said, “You don’t have to like him; you do have to respect him. Especially now.”
“Yeah, cazzo.”
Fuck was right.
“Let’s get this over with,” Gian said.
Like any good made man would do, Stephan waited for Gian to catch up with him at the entrance of the old pizzeria. Gian was careful to hold the heavy duty garbage bags out at his side, lest any residual fluids leak onto his leather shoes. Stephan held the door open, allowing Gian to go in first, but making Dom hold the door for himself before he, too, could enter.
Dom was lower on the totem pole, and so the actions of those around him would reflect his status until he earned a better title or position. Even if it was something as simple as not holding the door open for him.
It was all about the respect in Cosa Nostra.
A man had to show it long before he was ever given it.
“Look who finally showed his goddamn face,” came a call from within the pizzeria as Gian strolled inside.
Gian ignored the older Capo’s half-taunting tone, but only because for the moment, the man didn’t know the position he was in, compared to his younger counterpart. The older generation of made men in the Guzzi family would always have some left-over feelings after this was all said and done, Gian was sure of it, but he hadn’t been given much of a choice.
At the end of the day, it was Guzzi for a reason.
He was not willing—no matter his age, his lesser years compared to other men, or anything else he might lack—to allow his family’s name to dim in the Cosa Nostra world. His grandfather would never have handed off the boss’s seat, nor his status and respect, to anyone who didn’t share his last name.
Gian wouldn’t do it, either.
He passed a look around the old pizzeria, taking in the many faces of men he recognized, some he’d grown up alongside, others whose feet he had chased under for years. He understood far too well that his actions would have consequences, but he sincerely hoped these men didn’t make it harder on him than it needed to be.
He would hate to have to kill people he considered family and friends.
He would do it, of course.
He simply wouldn’t like it.
“Where’s Edmond?”
“Yeah, where’s the boss?” another Capo asked.
A few men shifted in their seats, ignoring the gazes of the Capos who had asked after the boss. Or rather, who they thought was still the boss.
Gian had figured that word would have traveled by now throughout the ranks of the family, considering how many men had witnessed him murder and take the boss’s seat from Edmond. It certainly would have made part of this whole shit show easier.
No matter.
It seemed only a couple were out of the loop.
They would know soon enough.
Stephan and Dom stayed standing directly behind Gian, ready and willing to keep any man from leaving, if the need arose. Neither of them spoke as Gian tossed the extra large, heavy duty garbage bag to the checkered tiled floor a few feet in front of him.
All eyes went to the bag.
Gian didn’t make a move to acknowledge it, or even to open it.
“Seems we have a lot of problems in this family lately,” he said, still looking from man to man and never skipping a single one. “Seems we can’t get along like proper made men.”
They needed to know—all of them—that what had happened over the last several months, and the blood that had spilled throughout their streets, were all caused by their own hands. It didn’t matter if they had been the ones to pull the triggers. Their culture of avoid, evade, and ignore was enough to make them guilty in Gian’s eyes. Beyond that, the lines that had been drawn between the older generation and the younger made men, had not simply popped up all on its own. It was a divide that had come from unhappiness on one side, and entitlement on the other.
“You did this,” Gian said, loud enough for each and every man to hear.
He was not going to repeat himself after today.
A boss didn’t have to.
Not if he spoke properly the first time.
“Whether you looked away when things happened, or you personally held one of the weapons that took away members of this famiglia, you all did this,” Gian said with a shake of his head. “And you never considered who would be left cleaning up the mess.”
Gian pulled a pocketknife from his slacks, and bent down to slice a hole through the top of the garbage bag at his feet. Carefully, he grabbed the corner of the bag with the tips of his
fingers, and used the toe of his shoe to kick it over.
The contents didn’t even empty completely from the black bag before the men in the pizzeria reacted to what they were seeing.
Chairs scraped.
Shouts echoed.
He was sure he heard someone gag, too.
It wasn’t a pleasant sight—bits and pieces of bodies spilling out of a garbage bag. A hand, a few fingers, a leg from the knee down, a bit of teeth, some congealed blood and gelatinous fluid, along with two battered heads.
As loud as the men’s reactions had been, their silence came on as strongly, and just as quickly, as they took in the faces of the severed heads resting on the restaurant floor.
Edmond Portella, their former boss.
Constantino Rossi, a fellow Capo.
“One from each side,” Gian said, drawing in the attention of the room again. He ran his fingers through his hair, knowing good and damn well, each man would be focused in on his actions, and therefore, would not miss his grandfather’s ring in its rightful place. On his fucking hand.
Gian waved at the random pieces of corpses at his feet. “One from each side, you see? A traitor—my friend,” he murmured, referring to Constantino. Then, he gestured to Edmond’s head, its mouth opened grotesquely, the nose shattered. “And another traitor—my mentor. They both thought that they could manipulate me to get them, or their agenda, where they wanted it to go. This is our family because of that.”
He smirked a little, adding, “None of you considered who would be the man to clean up the mess at the end of the day. Make sure each and every one of you takes a piece of this mess with you when you go, and dispose of it properly. You each had a hand in creating it, after all, so take equal part in cleaning it, too.”
It took a second.
Then, two.
That beat of silence didn’t worry Gian. He expected shock. He was going for shock. His men answered exactly as he expected them to.
“Sì, boss.”
And …
“Yes, Don.”
“Are you going to do it, give your brother what he wants?”
Gian stared out the window of the town car, trying to decide how to properly answer his father’s question. There was no right or wrong way to answer. There was only the truth to give, and his father would not be pleased with it.
“Well?” Frederic asked pointedly.
“It’s what he wants.”
“He’s twenty-five! He doesn’t know what he wants, Gian!”
His father’s sudden burst of anger wasn’t shocking to Gian, he’d expected it. Maybe, in a way, he even felt like he deserved it, too.
“I knew what I wanted at twenty-five, and even younger than that. I always wanted to be a made man, Dad.”
“Did you really?”
“Of course.”
“He promised me,” his father said quieter. “Your grandfather promised me, Gian.”
Gian finally turned away from the passing streets to look at his father. “What?”
“He had two sons. He chose the older brother, not me, to bring into this life. I didn’t mind—I didn’t want it, anyway. And then my brother died, but I was already older, married, and had my own children.”
He didn’t like where this was going.
“You think you chose this?” Frederic demanded harshly, leaning forward in his seat, closer to Gian. A fire burned in his eyes as he stared down his oldest son. “Is that truly what you believe? You have to remember all those holidays and vacations that you would go on with your grandfather, while Dom was left behind. You have to remember all the extra gifts you were given, and the attention Corrado gave to only you.”
Gian held his tongue, but barely.
“I don’t blame you for holding him on a pedestal, Gian, because I wasn’t allowed to let you see anything different than what he wanted you to see. And you loved him so much. Mio Dio, look how much you loved him! Right to his death, into his grave, my boy. But don’t be foolish. Don’t be a stupid man, still seeing things through a child’s gaze. You’re too old, and far too intelligent, for that now.”
“I see things exactly as they are,” Gian replied quietly.
“You were the bargaining chip,” his father said, that bitterness never wavering. “You were the one I gave up, to spare the others. Your brother, your sister. He wouldn’t bother with them in this life, when he didn’t need to. He had you, like he had my brother all those years ago, and that was enough to carry on the name, Gian. He promised me—do not make your brother a made man.”
Gian wanted to deny the things his father said, but in all honestly, he couldn’t. His life had been privileged, both by the wealth of his family, and the status of his grandfather. It was only because of the affection his grandfather had given to him, that respect in his life came far easier than it did for the others. Corrado’s attentions had always focused more on Gian. Sure, he had brushed it off as a younger man, but he was not dumb enough to pretend that his grandfather’s actions had no intent behind them.
Actions always had intent.
It still didn’t change a thing.
“It’s Dom’s choice,” Gian told his father.
It would hurt him, Gian knew.
His father would be mad for a while.
It changed nothing.
“To refuse now, after everything,” Gian murmured, “would mean to kill him.”
It was the way of Cosa Nostra. Once a man had made his intentions clear with la famiglia to join their ranks and ways, there was no going back. There was no restart button, only a bullet and a grave, for those who could not follow through.
Frederic’s frown grew deeper. “And what if it kills him anyway?”
Gian had a better question. “Did you consider that for me, Dad, all those years ago, when you were made to make a choice between Dom and I?”
His father didn’t answer.
The silence was enough.
Gian had been the bargaining chip.
Frederic had made the sacrifice.
“And what about you, now?” his father asked gently.
Gian’s brow furrowed. “What about me? I’m the boss. I did what I needed to do. I’m fine.”
“You forget what that position means, son. Your image is now on display, and your weaknesses will become your biggest targets. This may have seemed easy standing on the outside looking in, but it becomes far harder to manage once you sit in the seat, and the only things keeping you worthy to be there for those men are your reputation, your image, and your actions. So far, you’ve not been doing well in that regard.”
Gian’s jaw ached from clenching so fiercely. “Say what you mean. Don’t dance around it with pretty words.”
“You know what I mean. Or rather, who I mean.”
Cara.
Gian nodded to the doorman as the older gentleman opened the door to the building. “Merci, Benjamin.”
“Have a good evening, Mr. Guzzi,” the doorman replied as Gian walked through.
He had just entered the private elevator that would take him up to his penthouse when the cell phone in his pocket began to buzz with an incoming call. Gian almost considered not answering it, and letting it go to voicemail. After the day he had, a hot shower, food, his bed, and a phone call to get Cara back home in Toronto—at his side—sounded perfetto.
She wanted to come back, and he wanted nothing more than to bring her back.
Unfortunately, being a boss meant when phone calls came in, issues usually followed.
That phone call to Cara would have to wait.
Gian picked up the call on the fourth ring, his usual Italian and French greeting at the ready. “Ciao, bonjour.”
“I have Cara booked for a flight in the morning—she’ll be in Toronto by noon.”
Tommas Rossi didn’t fuck around with pleasantries, it seemed.
“I didn’t call to ask her back, yet,” Gian said, “but I was ready to do that tonight.”
“You don’t want to do
that, Gian. Call her, I mean. Not right now.”
Gian’s shoulders tensed as the elevator dinged, and the doors opened to allow him entrance into the penthouse. White walls and gray marble stared back at him, but he wasn’t quite ready to leave the elevator.
“She texted me this morning. She can’t be that pissed off at me that I haven’t called her today, can she?”
Cara was not that kind of woman. She wasn’t spectacularly jealous, and she didn’t demand every breathing, waking moment of Gian’s days. Though if she were one of those women, and she did want those things, he would give them to her.
All of them.
Love was so messed up in that way.
He’d never understood it before.
“Listen, I tried,” Tommas muttered. “She wasn’t willing to stay here another minute. Seriously, don’t call her tonight. Give her the evening and morning to work through some of her mood, and maybe it won’t be as bad tomorrow when you see her.”
“I don’t understand,” Gian admitted.
“She knows your secret, asshole.”
Gian’s hand tightened around the phone. “What?”
Shit.
No.
Gian knew he should have been the one to tell Cara about his estranged wife, a marriage that had taken place under a set of circumstances driven by his grandfather and his wife’s father. He had not loved her, and even now, had very little to do with Elena.
That had always been by her choice.
Gian no longer cared.
“You heard me.” Tommas sighed heavily into the phone. “She deserved to know—from you, though, not like this.”
“I was going to—”
“When?”
“Soon,” Gian admitted.
“Not soon enough.”
Tommas hung up the phone without a goodbye.
Gian didn’t blame the man a bit.
“Who is she? What’s the whore’s name, Gian?”
Ouch.
That one kind of stung.
Especially, to hear it as an insult to Cara, when this woman—his wife—had no business throwing that sort of word around at anyone, given their history.
Gian wasn’t able to hide the rage. “Watch your fucking mouth, Elena.”