by Bethany-Kris
He found none of those things.
Nah, because it was a raid.
Of cops.
Like an infestation.
He pulled his Lambo in past the gate, watching the scene unfold up the long, winding Guzzi driveway leading to the mansion. He couldn’t park farther in because of all the vehicles—police cars, a couple of SUVs, not to mention, all the vehicles that belonged to men who would be at the meeting with his father.
Fuck.
This was not good.
What was happening?
Bene jumped out of the Lambo with every intention of finding out. He weaved in and out of cop cars, trying to get as close to the mansion as he could. He slipped under the line of yellow tape that cut across the driveway about halfway up, uncaring that he probably just made more trouble for himself by doing it.
“Marcus!”
His brother turned at his shout, seemingly unbothered by the cop who was readying a pair of cuffs. Were those for his brother? Why?
“Bene, get the fuck out of—”
It was pandemonium.
Chaos.
Men were shoved out of the mansion one after another, two cops per guy. Each had their hands tied at their backs, and the closer Bene came, the more he realized this was getting worse by the fucking second. They hadn’t even used proper cuffs to hold the men of the Guzzi Cosa Nostra, but instead, goddamn zip ties.
What were they?
Animals?
“Where’s the fucking respect, huh?” Bene shouted at a cop who was currently shoving his other brother, Chris, against the side of a car with a set of zip ties at the ready.
“Bene, don’t,” he heard Marcus warn.
Too late.
Bene was already heading right for the mansion the second another couple of cops dragged out a familiar man. His father. It was unusual for Gian to ever leave his house before he was entirely ready for the day. That meant his hair was combed back, his three-piece suit was on, and his shoes were shined. He looked his best because his image had to come first when it came to the public, no exceptions.
Now, though?
His father looked rough.
Thing was, he’d been in a meeting.
So, he would have been dressed, and good.
Why was he missing his jacket?
Why was his shirt a mess?
His hair skewed, missing a shoe, and—
“Gian!”
“Cara, it’s okay, bella, it’s fine.”
“Let me talk to my husband!”
Bene came around the last cop car keeping him from getting to his parents when his mother came flying out of the house, too. She moved for her husband, her hands curling around the arms that were tied to his back as she begged the cops holding him to give her just one second.
Please, she cried, please let me hug him. Please, just allow me a moment with him.
Instead of being decent, and giving his mother what she begged for—something Cara never did—the one cop let go of his father, and literally ripped his mother away from Gian.
She stumbled on her way to the ground. His ma fell because a cop dared to put his hands on her when all she wanted to do was hug her husband goodbye, and Bene saw red. He wasn’t sure what happened after that, really.
Bene went all fucking in.
Might have hit a cop.
Might have threatened a couple.
It was how he found himself bent over the hood of a cop car, blood in his mouth, and his hands cuffed at his back, too.
Fucking perfect.
His night could only go up from here.
Right?
• • •
“Where were you before you arrived at your mother and father’s mansion earlier?” the detective asked.
Bene tipped his head sideways, eyeing his lawyer for a response on that. This interview, as the cops posed it, although really it was just a fucking interrogation, had been going on for an hour and a half, but he was already done with it. Entirely. Depending on how the lawyer replied would determine whether or not he answered that question. The lawyer gave him a slight nod, and shrug, saying, “Your discretion to answer, as long as you feel safe to do so.”
Right, right.
“I was in the city,” Bene said.
“Where?”
“Downtown.”
“Where?”
“At a friend’s place. Or, I tried to see her. She wasn’t home.”
“What friend?”
Bene sighed. “Why am I still sitting here? You’ve pressed no charges, and all you’ve done is piss me off, and try to insult me. Now, you want to play another round of twenty questions? I don’t have the patience for this shit.”
Keefs peered at Bene over the rim of his reading glasses. “First, you were arrested because—”
“A cop thought it was okay to rip my mother away from my father after they practically dragged him out of his home with his hands zip tied at his back. What, they don’t give you fucks enough money for a set of cuffs or two per pig, or what?”
The lawyer to his left coughed. “Easy, Bene.”
Yeah, easy his motherfucking ass. This cop could eat his whole fucking ass, too, if he thought he was going to get a single drop of respect from Bene.
Unquestioningly, his father handled the arrest with the same grace, respect, and dignity he faced everything else in his life. That was what Gian Guzzi did. It’s what a Don had to do for his family, and organization. These things were inevitable, and it was how he would be portrayed to the public after the arrest because of how he acted during the arrest that made all the difference at times. It was the same thing he taught his sons, too, even if Bene sometimes preferred to handle things in a more ... undignified manner.
Gian would have been fine.
But then his ma got in on it.
Bene wasn’t doing that shit.
At all.
“What friend?” the man asked.
Jesus Christ.
The man wasn’t going to let it go.
Not that it made a difference. Bene wasn’t concerned with letting Vanna’s name slip in this interview. She wasn’t connected to the mob, and certainly not to his family. Hell, the woman hadn’t even really known about his connections, right? She asked a bit, hinted that maybe she knew what the rumors were, but that was it.
It wouldn’t hurt.
“Vanna Falco.”
The second her name came out of his lips, the detective’s writing—whatever he was scratching to the pad of paper in front of him—stilled all at once. He continued staring at Bene, though, and while he caught the hesitation in his hand, he also saw something in his eyes.
Was that ... recognition?
Bene held the man’s stare.
Keefs swallowed hard. “Hmm.”
“Do you know her?”
The man shook his head, but Bene didn’t miss the way his gaze narrowed a bit before he looked down and said, “Can’t say that I do.”
“You sure about that?”
Tells.
Everybody had them.
Including this cop.
“Absolutely sure,” the detective replied. “I just find it interesting you were there, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“You don’t ask the questions here, young man.”
Bene scowled. “I heard what the RCMP were saying at the mansion, you know? About the maple syrup farms, and how they believe it’s being used to launder money for my father and his associates. See, the thing is ... our name isn’t even attached to those farms. Not on paper ... you look, see if you can find something, it’s all third party companies who own those yeah? My knowledge of these farms are not an admission of guilt, put that on the record, thanks, and you won’t find shit in those farms, but here’s the thing, Keefs.”
The detective arched a brow. “What about it?”
“Only family knows anything about us and those farms.”
Or famiglia.
Or anyone who might have
gotten inside his father’s office.
Things were falling together.
Bene didn’t like it.
It started with the way the detective seemed to recognize Vanna’s name. And then he had to think about other things, too. Like the fact she just showed up one day in his life, and while things like that were certainly possible, he didn’t believe in coincidences when he started adding up other facts. Her place was empty. She left him high and dry.
That woman was not who he thought she was.
“Did you have a rat talk?” Bene asked.
The detective laughed. “Again, you don’t ask the ques—”
“Then, we’re done here.”
He looked to his lawyer.
Keefs huffed. “I’m not done with this interview.”
Bene still didn’t grace the man with his attention. He simply kept his attention on his lawyer, and let the man do whatever talking for him that he needed to do to get him out of this goddamn room and interrogation. Nothing had been found on him when he was arrested, and the arrest was only because he threatened a cop that got handsy with his mother. He knew for a fact they searched his penthouse in the city because they showed him the warrant, and so far, nothing came out of that, or they surely would have let him know.
They couldn’t keep holding him.
That much was true.
Every Guzzi knew how this game with law enforcement was played. It wasn’t their first rodeo, and it wouldn’t be the last, either.
And that game?
It was all about waiting.
• • •
“To appease the bastards,” his lawyer said as they exited the building, “I set up another interview with them next week. Only this time, it’ll happen in my offices, and they’ll be required to send their questions to me three days before the interview, so we can go over it and make sure your answers are appropriate.”
Bene nodded, listening to what the man said, but more interested in the person standing on the steps of the police station. Marcus looked ready to throw a goddamn fit in his crumpled suit—but hey, at least he was standing on the steps and not inside in a jail cell.
“Later, okay?” he told his lawyer.
The man nodded. “I’ll call the others. Get everything together.”
“Grazie.”
Once the lawyer left his side, Bene headed for his oldest brother. Marcus glared at the building with a scowl that could rival the devil’s. Before he even said a word, Marcus muttered, “They’re holding dad—it’s all fucking sketchy, and I am pretty sure the charges they’ve got on him are bogus bullshit meant to keep him in a cell until they can work something out on the money laundering and whatever else.”
“You’re off, though.”
“Because they couldn’t hold me.” Marcus’s gaze swung his way. “A lot like you, it seems.”
“Yeah, well ...”
The two quieted.
Where was everyone else?
“Anyone called about Ma?”
“Corrado is flying in—the rest of them, too. She’s staying in their penthouse in the city for now, but I imagine she’ll head back to the mansion once more of us come home.”
“Chris?”
Marcus sighed. “His lawyer is finishing up inside, and he’ll be out soon, too. It was only dad, and a few other men from the family that they’re holding. It’s all about Gian, though, not them. They’re hoping the longer they hold a few made men, the better the chance they’ll start talking. Which is exactly why—”
“We’re out here.”
His brother shrugged. “They’ll never turn a Guzzi son on their father. Ever.”
Wasn’t that the fucking truth?
They’d die first.
Bene shifted on his feet, his next words playing at the tip of his tongue. He had to say them, spit it out because all his suspicions seemed more real by the second, and this was bad. For all of them, so his feelings—that shit he felt for the woman he thought Vanna was—couldn’t factor into this at all.
That hurt in his heart?
The way his soul twisted?
It was love.
Fighting to live.
He choked it out when he said, “I need to find out who she really is.”
Marcus turned to Bene, brow raised. “Who?”
“Vanna Falco. I’m not sure she’s who I thought she was.”
His brother just stared.
Bene explained everything.
16.
“I knew that dress would look good on you.”
Mario’s compliment bounced off Vanna as she continued working at the stove. Stirring the melting chocolate to ready it for a glaze on a cake she made earlier, her work was far more interesting than anything he had to say. Especially now that she could no longer attend classes at the college. Everything was different, now.
And this home didn’t feel like hers.
Even if he said it was.
“Did you hear me?”
His footsteps approached from behind.
Vanna sighed, still refusing to turn away from the stove. She didn’t want to listen to him at all, but she was. She had to, otherwise his moods could shift faster than she blinked, and if she wasn’t ready for the next swing, it might not end well for her. Mario always had a bit of a temper, but it seemed his fuse became far shorter with her.
She walked a fine line living with him.
Every single day.
“I am—I also have to continuously stir this chocolate because stopping at all will make it burn at the bottom, and the glaze won’t be nearly as good, Mario.”
“You can’t talk and stir at the same time?”
Vanna’s gaze narrowed on the swirling chocolate under her whisk. Not that he ever cared about her cooking unless he was eating it, but it was clear the man just didn’t appreciate or understand what went in to cooking a dish like this.
“Do you want cake later, or not?” she asked.
Mario sighed, coming to stand directly behind her. So fucking close, in fact, that she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck. As if that wasn’t uncomfortable enough, his fingers drifted over the column of her neck, and he leaned in closer. He always did that. Invaded her personal space whether he was wanted, or not.
Then, he pressed a kiss to the side of her throat.
Vanna would vomit.
Soon.
If he didn’t stop ...
“Easy,” he murmured at her stiffness. “Imagine how good we could be together, if you would just let it happen.”
His hand skimmed up the side of her body, tracing her curves with his fingertips, but not appreciating them. No, his touch didn’t want to enjoy having her, but rather ... to own her. That was why she felt nothing when he touched her. She would rather take a short dive off a high cliff than be living in this man’s home, sleeping in the bed across the hall from his, and playing pretend house until their wedding.
Except this was her life, now.
Hell.
And it would be her life long after she married this bastard, too. That much became painfully clear over the couple of weeks she’d been forced to be here living with Mario. He controlled everything from the clothes that she could wear to how she spent her days, and far more with no end in sight.
He tried to be nice—sometimes. He tried to make her think he cared—when he wanted to make an effort. Then, he went back to the asshole. The same person he always was.
Vanna wasn’t stupid.
He only did that shit when he was trying to get something out of her. And for the last several days, he kept wanting the same thing. For her to fuck him, or at the very least, give him something physical. He seemed to be convinced that if the two of them jumped into bed together, it would change the fact that she was only there with him because she had no other options.
If she left, he would chase her.
If he caught her, he would kill her.
If she tried to get help ... that wouldn’t end well, eithe
r.
And unfortunately, she didn’t even have the money to run. What little money remained in the trust fund her father left for her after his death was practically gone. She’d used it to live on from the time she was eighteen and put her through college—bought her penthouse that was now on the market, and likely wouldn’t sell until after she married Mario, who would then take the money from the sale.
She had nothing.
At his fucking mercy.
The bastard knew it, too.
“Come on, Vanna,” he said lowly in her ear. “It could be so good.”
“No, it’ll be you fucking a dry hole, and me wishing it was over before it even begins.”
Okay.
So, maybe she should have kept those thoughts in her head. Thing was, she had been tired of this game a long time ago, and now that she had clearly lost here, she no longer cared what happened when she opened her mouth and told the truth.
Mario’s hand connected with her hip, his fingers digging in painfully and taking her breath away. Her hand on the whisk stilled as she dragged in a quick breath. “Why?”
Vanna swallowed hard. “What?”
“Why will you fuck anything else with a dick, but you won’t even look at me?”
She didn’t fuck anything with a dick.
A whole total of three sexual partners.
Bene being one of three.
Mario’s real problem was that he wasn’t one of them.
“I—”
“Once we’re married, I’ll no longer give you the option of coming to me willingly. I hope you understand that, Vanna.”
“So you keep saying.”
His hand left her hip and found the back of her neck instead. He grabbed hard enough to leave bruises behind, she was sure.
“Knock off the fucking attitude,” he snapped. “Because I don’t mind showing you what that attitude gets you in this house, you rude little bi—”
His threat—the same one of many that he simply recycled with Vanna—was cut off by the sound of a door opening and slamming shut before footsteps echoed in the entry hallway leading to the moderate sized kitchen. All at once, with the chance someone might see him being physical with her in an abusive manner, he let her go and stepped back.