It didn't matter how much sneaking around she did—and I slept lightly enough to know she did her fair amount—she was never going to find it. She would give up and decide I had greased the right palms in the city to avoid having another entrance to my apartment. And because she'd never seen the outside of the building, she had no reason to doubt that.
Aside from the sneaking around, she hadn't been as much of an inconvenience as I had worried. She kicked around in the living room in the mornings, eating whatever I ordered, or one of the guards brought up. She watched TV. Or, rather, she put the TV on, then stared blankly out the window. When I had to run out, the guards said she went back into her room, locking the door. They had no idea what she did in there.
And she only seemed to come back out when she heard me return.
I didn't know if she distrusted my men, or trusted me. And I shouldn't have been pleased at the prospect of the latter.
When I got back, she came out dressed in one of the new outfits I'd had the men pick up for her, asked what we were ordering for dinner, then immediately told me what a shitty choice I'd made before suggesting something else.
When the food came, we tended to fall into some conversation while we ate.
Usually with her going off on a diatribe about the family, the mafia in general, and people stepping on the little guy; always managing to circle back to how kidnapping and false imprisonment were wrong.
She did all of this with a lifted chin and unnerving eye contact. Apparently, like her father, she had a temper on her, one that flared up unexpectedly and with vengeance. But she also seemed capable of dousing the flames without batting an eye, turning the conversation back to something more generic. About life. About the city. About the bakery she'd been working in since she was even younger.
It was in those moments that the reality seemed to slip away. She wasn't just some victim. I wasn't just her attacker.
And it was in those moments, too, that it got easier to forget that she was a kid. There were just ways she said things, observations about life, that she made that made her seem older, more mature.
And then, of course, I had to berate myself for thinking that shit because it was fucked. I refused to be that dickhead pedo who claimed "she was mature for her age." Or some other bullshit like that.
"Isn't Pearl Jam a little before your time?" I asked on the fourth night over Chinese that we were eating right out of the containers.
"And Frank Sinatra isn't before yours?" she shot back, referencing my knee-jerk response to the typical favorite singer question.
"Fair enough," I agreed. "Little emo of you too, no?"
"Please. Like Sinatra isn't the biggest cliché ever. Especially being who you are."
"And what am I, kid?" I shot back, daring her to say it. But she was too quick for her own good, refusing to be baited. When she wanted to dress me down with an observation about my lifestyle, she did so on her own, not because I goaded her to do it.
"Italian," she decided, giving me a saucy brow raise.
"Nice recovery."
"I do my best," she agreed, waving her chopsticks in the air. "So am I going to have to suffer through another of your awful movie choices, or can I pick this time?" she asked.
I hadn't been one for TV for a long time. In fact, I'd spent more time in my own apartment since she'd shown up than I had in months.
Before Gigi, I didn't remember the last time I watched a single movie, let alone one every single night.
She was right, though.
I had always been the kind to control the remote. And she'd sat valiantly through several lengthy action and war dramas that she clearly didn't enjoy.
"It better not be some fucking rom-com, kid," I warned her, tossing the remote in her direction.
"Don't insult me," she said, clicking through the options. "Okay this one. This was my favorite when I was in... when I first saw it," she said, and I didn't miss the slip, but couldn't figure out what—if anything—it meant.
"Arrival," I read before she clicked play. "What's it about?"
"First encounters with aliens."
"Seriously?" I asked, smirking. "You're a nerd, huh?"
"I just think that movies should be an escape. Watching sad war movies based on real events is depressing. I'd rather watch a bunch of people try to figure out how to speak to aliens."
"Or watch people fight with lightsabers? Or go on a quest for a special ring?"
"Careful," she said, pointing her chopsticks at me. "You might have taken all the knives away, but I'm pretty sure one of these bad boys can go straight through the eye and into the brain." The way she said it made me think she'd given the action some thought, before ultimately deciding she wasn't capable of that.
I shouldn't have found the idea of a—at the very least—chopstick lobotomy charming. But there was no denying the smile that tugged at my lips.
I liked her spirit.
It would have been easy, I imagined, to fall into the hopelessness of this situation. As the days passed and her father didn't seem to be worried about her or looking for her—turning up every rock in the city to find her.
But aside from the occasional rants, she had just settled in.
Almost like she didn't expect her father to look for her at all. Or to pay up even if he did know where she was and why she was taken.
That thought kept me awake at night, staring up at my ceiling, realizing that even my asshole father would have noticed me missing, and immediately moved heaven and earth to find me. If for no other reason, than his pride.
It said a lot about Leon that he wasn't missing his little girl.
It said more about her that she knew exactly what to expect from her father. And didn't even seem worked up about it.
I hated to think what my father would do—or order me to do—if Leon didn't end up giving a fuck about his daughter. Well, I knew I'd be tasked with killing Leon. But what would happen to Giana, this woman who had been kidnapped, so she couldn't exactly be set free?
"Hey, no," she snapped a couple moments later, shooting forward in her seat to smack my hand as I reached for a piece of sweet & sour chicken. "You're a sauce hog," she informed me.
"There's a whole pint of sauce," I reminded her.
"And you will somehow manage to use a third of that on one piece of chicken."
"You believe this shit?" I asked, looking at Christopher at the door. "I'm being rationed in my own fucking home."
"Don't talk to him. I'm this close to getting him on my side," Gigi claimed, squeezing her chopsticks close together.
Chris and I shared a look, both of us knowing it was family over everything. Always has been, always will be. But it was cute that she thought there was any way around that.
While she was distracted, I reached for the chicken, going to dip it, and dropping the whole fucking thing in the sauce.
When I glanced up, she was sending me the most I told you so look I'd ever seen in my life.
It was fucked up, but it was nice to have someone around. Sure, there were women in and out of my life. Always more out than in, usually not even coming into my space. The fewer people you invited into your personal space when you did the kind of shit I did for a living, the better. Your chances of trusting the wrong person, walking away, and having them plant a bug while you were in the bathroom were nil if you always went to their place to fuck. So, I hadn't really known what it was like to share a space with a person since I lived at home.
It was surprisingly nice not to be alone when you came home. And ate dinner. And watched TV.
And I was finding I was delegating work more and more to spend time in my apartment. I tried to justify it as "needing to keep an eye on Gigi," even if I knew damn well that was bullshit.
A couple hours later, I was forced to admit she had solid movie choices, that I was a sauce hog, and that the dessert I ordered was, apparently, "shit."
"Really, it's not your fault. You only thought it was good because yo
u've never had a decent Tartufo."
"And you can make a better one?" I challenged.
"Yes. I've been making them for the bakery since I was fourteen."
"So, what, three years makes you an expert? What?" I asked when her eyes went round, like I'd said something wrong.
"Nothing. It's nothing. Look, you don't want to believe me, fine. If you want to believe me, go down to the bakery and get some for yourself."
"That wouldn't prove anything, if you weren't there to make them."
"Yes, well, I can't be there right now, can I?" she shot back, tone going cool. "Will I ever be able to go back?" she asked, point-blank.
"We are doing everything in our power to make that happen."
"No, actually, you're not. If you were doing everything in your power, you would call off your guard, and let me walk out of here. You are doing everything in your power to keep me here. You can't play the victim when you're the fucking bad guy," she spat at me.
"Look I—"
"He's here," Christopher said, cutting off my response, a response that was likely only going to lead to a bigger blow up.
I wasn't supposed to linger with Gigi eating dinner and watching movies and bullshitting. I was supposed to grab a quick bite, shoo her into her room, then have Gio Morelli over to talk about some deal his family—another of the Five Families—were making with the local cartel, that my father thought might piss on his deal with the Russians. It was always something. And usually blown out of proportion.
"Christopher, bring Gio up," I demanded, reaching for a couple of the cartons of food. "Go to your room," I demanded as I carried cartons to the fridge, tucking them inside.
I don't know why she grabbed for the rest of the cartons, if it was some knee-jerk reaction from being told to help clear the table in childhood. She actually looked pissed when she handed them to me.
"Why?" she asked, snatching her hand back when my fingers brushed her, like touching me made her feel slimy. Which, I guess, was fair, given the situation. "I've seen you and a bunch of your minions already."
Minions.
"Just go to your fucking room, Gigi," I demanded, no heat in my words, but she didn't like them anyway, her chin angling up, her jaw getting tight, her arms crossing over her chest.
"You're going to have to make me," she told me, daring me to do it, wanting more reasons to dislike me.
I was turning back from the fridge to do just that when the doors chimed as they slid open, bringing my guest in.
Gio was a couple years younger than me, tall, a bit more solidly built thanks to his borderline obsession with the gym. Dark brown hair, brown eyes. He had a pretty boy look about him—dimples and all—that women tended to find charming. Gio knew this. And enjoyed the benefits as much as any man would in his position.
"Lorenzo, I didn't know you had a girl," he observed, eyes moving over Giana.
"Girl being the operative word, Gio," I snapped. "She's a kid. Stop eye-fucking her," I demanded, watching as his brows furrowed as he glanced back at Giana again before looking at me.
"If you say so, Enz. What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Gigi," Giana supplied easily, seemingly taken aback by his smile.
"Gigi, I'm Gio. Giovani Morelli," he supplied. Gio was never the sort to lie low, or downplay his position in one of the Five Families. He liked when people knew who he was, and how he was connected.
"Gio," she repeated, giving him a small smile. "And what do you do, Gio?"
"Me? I'm a brick layer," he supplied, making me roll my eyes.
"What? Like... construction?" Gigi asked innocently.
"Something like that," Gio agreed, nodding, dimples out.
It was nothing like that.
Gio laid bricks, alright.
Of the cocaine variety.
To stock brokers and white-collar businessmen of all sorts. Federal judges. The goddamn chief of police.
"Gigi, you'll excuse us for a minute," I told her, leading Gio away, down the hall into the gym.
"Don't worry. I'm not asking," he said, shaking his head, waving an arm out toward the main area.
"Good. Because I wasn't going to tell you anyway," I told him, getting a chuckle out of him because we both knew how it worked. As a whole, the Costas minded their own business, as did the Morellis, even the D'Onofrios to an extent. It was the Espositos and Lombardis that were always trying to figure out the angles of the other families.
"Your old man, all due respect, you know I got love for your family, but he needs to calm the fuck down with the accusations already. Like we are going around trying to fuck with his business. We needed to make a deal with the cartels to get the shit shipped in. Has nothing to do with the fucking Russians or the Russians importing. They are coming in from a completely different direction with a completely different product. I don't see the issue. I know I'm being a little frank with you, but if we let our old men hash this out with veiled threats and subtlety, shit would go on for a year or two. You and me, we can handle this shit like adults in ten minutes, yeah?"
And that was why I liked Gio, why I called him instead of his father to talk about the deal with the cartel and the issue—that was no issue at all—with the Russians. Gio Sr. would have taken offense, would have made a big deal about it. The next thing we'd know, all the families would be involved, and something that could have been handled in ten minutes—as he said—would take months or years. All the while, tensions flared and money was lost. No one wanted that. Gio Jr. and I understood that.
"You tell me the supply chain, leaving out a couple vital details because I respect your right to keep that to yourself, and I will convince my father that there is no conflict of interest," I agreed, nodding.
Five minutes later, we emerged from the gym, making our way into the living space where Giana was brewing a pot of coffee.
"Oh, Gio, hold up. I have a package for you," I told him.
"Yeah, yeah. Take your time. I will be over here saying goodbye to Little Gigi. Maybe trying to convince her to hook me up with some of that coffee to go."
I was gone all of two minutes.
But when I walked back out, the air in the living space felt thick, tense. My gaze went immediately to Giana, finding her shoulders tight, back straight, eyes wide and flighty.
Beside her, Gio seemed calm as ever, holding a mug of coffee in his hands.
Not wanting to start shit with Gio if there was no shit to start, I handed off the package, watched him leave, then turned back to Giana.
"What happened?"
"What? Nothing." She said it too fast. Her words were too choked. Something happened in those two minutes. And I needed to know what.
"Bullshit, Gigi," I told her, moving into the kitchen space, grabbing one of the mugs she had set out, pouring a cup. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing of consequence," she insisted, looking away, busying herself by wiping down the counter.
Nothing of consequence.
There it was again.
A turn of phrase I didn't expect out of someone her age.
I shook off that thought, though, knowing I needed to focus on whatever Gio had said to make her so uncomfortable. Especially because I didn't typically think of Gio as someone who made women—or girls—feel that way.
"Giana, I walked away and you were calm. I came back, you were pale and stiff. He said something. What was it?"
"It doesn't matter what he said. Or didn't say."
"It matters to me."
"I can't imagine why. I'm a prisoner here, remember?" she snapped.
"If for no other reason than this is my home. And if someone is made to feel uncomfortable inside it, that is disrespectful to me."
"Right. Only you get to do that," she told me, brows lifting. "And heaven forbid anyone dares disrespect the Great Lorenzo Costa," she mocked, moving out of the kitchen.
"Giana," I snapped, reaching out, grabbing her arm, turning her back, watching as her eyes flared.
&
nbsp; "Oh, right," she said, recovering, ice slipping into her tone. "I am just a lowly inmate here. May I please go back to my cell now, warden?" she asked, actually fluttering her lashes at me while the venom slipped from between her lips. "Or are you not done manhandling me yet?" she added, making my hand drop her arm like it'd caught fire, not liking that insinuation. That I would hurt her.
With that, she glared at me for another second, then stormed off, slamming her door as she went.
My gaze shifted to Chris who had moved back into his position in front of the elevator.
"The fuck did I do?" I asked, shaking my head, at a loss.
To that, he shrugged.
"Kids," he said, shaking his head.
Yeah, maybe that was it.
She was just acting her age.
Chapter Six
Giana
"What's your game, sweetheart?" Gio asked as soon as Lorenzo disappeared down the hall, moving in closer, so we could speak privately.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I insisted, but felt my stomach tightening. Because something about this man said he could see right through me.
"You can flutter your eyes and you can play the innocent card. But you and I know you're no kid, Gigi. You're twenty if you're a day. And I just can't figure out why you would play that hand."
On the one hand, I felt like there wasn't a single person in this world I could trust. On the other, something inside me said that this man would only make things worse for me if I lied to him.
So I gave him the most comfortable truth I could.
"I am trying to make it so they won't kill me," I admitted, expecting those words to have some sort of impact on Gio. But nothing crossed his face at them.
"Alright," he said, nodding.
"Alright?" I repeated, spine straightening.
"Your business is your business, sweetheart. I dunno what you did. I don't need to know. Way I see it, you've got a right to use whatever you got to plead for your life. But can I give you a little tip?"
"Sure."
"If that kid card fails, the woman card might get you even further. You're just Lorenzo's type."
"I'm not going to whore myself out to live," I shot back, voice raising.
The Woman in the Trunk Page 6