"I can assure you, uncle, that he doesn't know the extent of it. Gianna is allowed to go to her private academy and to soirees with other people from her rich girl circle. To the outside world, everything is fancy and sophisticated. Think caviar and wine tasting events. You need to be present at one of those parties to know what really goes on."
I grunt, remembering my own run-ins with trust fund kids back in the day. Cisco is right that from the outside everything looks absolutely perfect. It certainly does an amazing job to hide the fact that they're rotting from the inside.
All these Wall Street people and their rich entourage pretend their money is clean, when in fact they all have secret accounts in the Cayman Islands.
At least we're honest about not being honest.
"What he doesn't know can't hurt him. His businesses are floundering, uncle. He'll soon become desperate about finding a match to pull him out of the financial mess he's in. The last thing he'll have time to worry about is what his daughter does on a Friday night. Or who," he smirks. "And my last report tells me he already has a list of back-up grooms lined up."
"What do you want me to do?" a muscle twitches in my jaw.
"I want you to turn the rumors into reality." He turns to me, his expression serious.
"Excuse me?" I laugh.
"Rumors are rumors. It's up to people to believe them or... not. But we can't risk that," he smiles insidiously. "We can't have any potential groom go forward with a match. And that's where you go in."
"Jesus, Cisco. You want me to rape the girl?"
"Rape?" He frowns. "Of course not. Seduction? Yes," his lips tug up in a wide smile, his white teeth gleaming. "Or forced seduction," he shrugs. "Your choice."
I look at him for a moment before I burst out in laughter.
"Seduce her?" I ask. "With this face?" I point at my scars, but he doesn't seem to share my amusement.
"Indeed. I don't know if you've heard of Gianna, but she's stunning."
"She is." Both Amo and Dario agree.
"I wish I could tap that," Dario continues with a sigh.
"Then why don't you do it?" I fire back.
"Because," Cisco intervenes before Dario can answer, shifting our focus back to him. "They know us. They know how we look, and no Guerra is going to allow a DeVille anywhere near them. You, on the other hand," he pauses, his eyes perusing my face. "Not only have you been absent for the last five years, but no one would recognize you with your new look."
"Tell me you're not serious about this," I groan. "Why not just kill her?"
"We don't kill women," he replies dismissively. "And besides, death is too honorable. I need her fall from grace to be public, loud, and simply degrading."
"Fuck, Cisco, but you really planned this, didn't you?" I shake my head, the entire idea crazy to my ears.
First of all because who the fuck would fall prey to my irresistible charm? And second, because Cisco knows fully well that I don't mix with whores—of the paid or unpaid variety.
"Of course," he smirks. "Defile, debase, destroy. That is your mission. I want you to turn those rumors into reality so that no one will doubt the type of woman Gianna Guerra is."
"I'm sure she'll fall right into my arms. If she doesn't run when she sees my face," I grumble.
"How old is she?" I quickly sober up, remembering she can't be older than twenty or so.
"She just turned eighteen." Cisco replies, watching me closely.
"Eighteen?" I narrow my eyes at him. "She's barely legal, Cisco. She's a child." I shake my head in disgust.
"So?" He shrugs. "She's a Guerra. That means she's the enemy, uncle. And that means she's fair game."
"Cisco," I groan in frustration.
Of all the things I thought he'd ask me to do, I never realized he'd go this far to ruin Guerra. Do I hate them? As much as the next DeVille. But she's barely legal for fuck's sake. God, I may not be old enough to be her father, but I sure am old enough to be something.
She's what... twelve years younger than me?
"Not doing it." I reply firmly, my hand on my gun as I holster it and get up to leave.
"Uncle," Cisco's voice changes as he calls out. "May I remind you who you swore your allegiance to?"
"Yes. Your father," I reply, turning my head slightly. "And I don't think he'd approve of using a fucking child to get his revenge on Guerra."
"And I make the decisions with his blessing. Let's not forget for a moment where we both stand," he raises an eyebrow. "You swore to do everything for the family's well-being. And I'm telling you that this mission requires your expertise. And when the boss tells you something, what do you do?"
Those steely eyes of his regard me expectantly, and I know he has me cornered. And I can't refuse the mission when it was the famiglia that got me out of jail, too.
"I do it," I mumble, resuming my seat.
I've always been loyal to a fault, and I've never questioned my capo's decisions. But in this case? I have a bad feeling about this.
There's only one way this can end—in disaster.
Taking a folder from the table, he throws it towards me.
"I outlined a plan."
Opening the folder, I look to see my new identity, complete with detailed work history and a background in the military.
"You're going to become her bodyguard."
And suddenly it's clear why I was out of jail earlier. Why I was specifically chosen for this job.
Because I'm the perfect obedient soldier.
Because there's no one else who would blindly agree to anything the boss says.
A week later and I'm armed with knowledge of everything that is Gianna. Cisco hadn't been kidding when he'd said she was the furthest thing from innocent.
Parties with alcohol, drugs and sex. Orgies in fifth avenue penthouses. Trading partners like trading clothes.
She sounds like a female Dario.
And that makes me even disgusted about my mission.
Not only will I have to share a space with her and pretend to protect her, but I'll also have to touch her eventually.
I scowl at that, the thought of touching that filling me with revulsion. I don't know what went through Cisco's mind to give me this mission, when he knows I have my own hang-ups with loose women, my own mother being a prime example of one.
But it's not enough that she spreads her legs for anyone, she's also the resident mean girl.
God, but I'd perused so many reports of her outrageous behavior that I'd been wholly shocked that such a vile woman can exist.
From humiliating and betraying her friends, to throwing fits in public and playing with people's feelings, I don't think there's anything that Gianna is not guilty of.
Why, there are detailed accounts of her going off on restaurant staff, going as far as to throw a bowl of soup on a waiter who'd merely inquired if she liked her food. The man had been drenched in food, and Gianna had continued to belittle him until he'd almost burst into tears.
Safe to say, I can already imagine the barrage of insults she'll send my way when she sees my face.
Pulling my cap lower, I try to blend with the crowd as I let my eyes roam around the area.
And there she is.
For a second, I have to remind myself to breathe. The boys hadn't been joking.
She is stunning.
And pictures don't do her justice.
Honey blonde hair that reaches her knees, she has it styled in a braid that's held together with a pink bow. Her entire outfit is pink.
She's wearing a matching skirt and blazer set, both short and cropped to fit the summer weather. Underneath her blazer, I note a sheer white top, her skin peeking through, her white bra fully on display.
Her clothes don't do much to disguise what lies beneath her clothes, and fuck me if she doesn't look like any man's fantasy brought to life.
And she doesn't look like a child. No, she's all woman.
Long legs, slim waist, and perfectly sized breasts, she
has a body made for fucking. And not the gentle type of fucking, the wall banging, legs wrapped around the waist, tits bouncing in the air type of fucking.
Suddenly, I can see why no one would turn down an invitation between her thighs. She probably only needs to nod at men and they drop to their knees for her.
"Goddamn," I mutter just as she turns around, her small eyebrows pinched together in a frown.
If her body is the epitome of fuckable, then her face is the type poets write sonnets about.
Not me. Definitely not me.
But fuck if she doesn't have the most exquisite face I've ever seen. A dainty, heart-shaped face, full lips and big luminous eyes, she looks like a doll come to life.
And I'm certainly not the only one to think so.
Gianna is walking around with her nose up in the air, as if she's assessing everyone and finding them lacking. Behind her, a throng of men are following her around, all sporting the same lost puppy look, as if one acknowledgement from her would be celestial manna.
She moves and they follow.
And I follow too.
Keeping my distance, I silently observe her interactions.
She's looking at some shoes, taking a pair from the shelf and grabbing a seat nearby to try them on.
I watch in fascination as she takes off her sandals, her feet just as small and dainty as the rest of her.
Damn it all to hell!
It takes me repeated mental exercises and reciting everything I know about her so that I don't react. But even the smallest movement of her fingers as they skim over her calves is fucking sensual and my cock refuses to heed my mental warnings.
And I'm not the only one.
There are at least a couple of men that are sporting visible erections as they simply watch her in awe, their eyes following her every move.
One rather impatient bloke hurries to help her by handing her the second shoe to put on, his fingers grazing her hand.
Fuck.
I don't think I've seen such a sudden transformation in my entire life.
One moment she looks serene, her beauty almost ethereal, the next her entire face becomes a mottled mass of anger.
Snatching the shoe from his hand, she stands up, her eyes shooting daggers at him as she's saying something.
I move closer until the sound of her voice reaches my ears.
"Did anyone give you permission to touch me? With your filthy hands?"
The man doesn't reply, taking all her insults in stride.
She yells at him, calling him names no young lady of her age should know.
But if it's not enough, she takes it one step too far as she drops the shoes, her arm stretching out, her palm connecting with his cheek in a resounding slap that gets everyone's attention.
She shakes her head, a scowl on her face as she quickly puts her sandals back on. Then, grabbing her bag, she bursts out of the shopping center and into a waiting car.
Not entirely surprised by her outburst, I watch the departing sedan and I realize two things.
Touching her shouldn't be such a hardship if I manage to shut down my disgust at her past. She is, after all, delectable enough for a quick fuck.
But most of all, she needs a lesson.
She needs a nudge to fall off her high horse and realize that her beauty doesn't give her carte blanche to behave like a brat.
Ah, but suddenly this mission doesn't seem so hard.
Chapter Two
"Can you believe they gave her the bag? I've been building a relationship with the sales assistant for a year," Lindsay chatters away, complaining that her favorite exclusive brand had given her desired bag to someone else.
I just nod, turning my attention to my plate and willing my hand to move and grab the sandwich.
"I'm so glad I have you, girls. Who else would come with me on a Wednesday and binge on finger sandwiches," she sighs, taking her cucumber sandwich and gulping it in one go.
My eyes are still on my untouched food and I know I'll need to eat something before they start asking questions. It wouldn't be the first time.
Is this how you maintain your figure?
Are you on a diet?
Are you starving yourself?
A sandwich won't make you fat.
Come on, don't be such a party pooper. Eat something.
Even as the accusations ring in my ears, I have a hard time moving my hand. Like a weight holding it down, I can barely budge it. My heart is beating loudly in my chest, my mind fogging as I try to get my breathing under control—it's the only way I can get through this meal without issue.
But as I stare at the food, my mouth waters, both in hunger and at the acid reflux coming back up. My feet can't stop shaking, and so I tap my soles against the floor to hide my reactions.
A smile plastered on my face, it's like nothing is wrong.
Nothing at all.
"Aren't you eating?" Anna asks the dreaded question. "That's your favorite," she mentions, taking a bite of a small cake.
"I was just lost in thought," I wave my hand, my cheeks stretching in a painful smile.
My hand is on the table, closer to the food. Now if I could just...
Two deep breaths, and my fingers are on the fluffy bread that contains my favorite food. I open my mouth, taking a small bite of the sandwich and forcing myself to swallow.
The girls, seeing me eat, return to their previous conversation, their curiosity assuaged.
It's not like they care if I eat or not. But they do care if I'm starving myself, or if I'm on a strict diet, because that's one more piece of information to use against me.
You see, they aren't and have never been my friends. Not my real friends. They are who society dictates be my friends. They have the status, the wealth, the rearing. They go to the same private academy, live in the same residential area on the Upper East Side, and dine at the most exclusive restaurants.
They are the people my father wants me to befriend. And like the dutiful daughter that I am, I have.
"There's a party at Tommy's house this Friday," Anna suddenly says and my eyes snap to hers.
Dropping the sandwich on the plate, I gather my hands in my lap, my fists clenched as I know what's coming.
"We should meet at my place beforehand," Lindsay says. "We can dress up and I can show you my new Louis Vuitton dress. I got it custom made in Paris last week..."
I tune out her words, my eyes suddenly on my wrist watch as I count down the minutes until I can excuse myself from the table.
"You're coming, right?" Anna addresses me, and I blink twice, grounding myself.
"Of course," I reply with a fake smile. "I wouldn't dream of missing it. Everyone will be there, right?"
"Exactly. It's the last party before everyone goes on summer break," she says with a huff. "Where are you spending yours this year? Milan?"
"Cannes. At my uncle's palazzo." I reply absentmindedly.
It's where the entire family meets and plots their various illegal businesses. But I'm not supposed to know that.
"Must be nice being European," Anna mutters under her breath.
I just shrug, not deigning a reply.
The meal is soon over and I'm finally free from my social obligations for the day. As I leave the hotel, my car is outside waiting for me. My bodyguard, Manuello, nods at me and opens my door.
"Home?" he asks when I'm inside.
I shake my head slightly. "I need to grab some school books from the Strand. I need some old editions for an assignment," I lie.
Manuello purses his lips, regarding me skeptically.
"It's for a final assignment," I amend, since he knows very well school finishes in a few weeks.
Reluctantly, he nods, instructing the driver to drive towards the Strand. My attention on my watch, I keep track of the seconds that pass as we make our way through the infernal downtown traffic. I try not to think of the fact that we're on the second lane, far from the sidewalk where Manuello could swiftly pull over s
o I could get out and take a clean breath. Or how there are cars everywhere, in a cacophony of sounds as they drown out everything, even my voice.
Suddenly, I have a short flashback, seeing myself panicking and getting out of the car mid-ride, surrounded by other speeding cars and at the mercy of fate.
But just as quickly as I see the direction of my thoughts, I will myself to think of something else, pinching my arm and mentally counting to ten.
It seems to help. A little.
And as the journey continues, I try to think of the books I'll be able to peruse at the Strand, since I know it might be the last time I get to do this until we leave for Europe.
When I'll already be married.
I shut that thought down too.
I have my freedom for a bit longer, and that's the only thing that matters. I've known about my fate from when I was old enough to understand what marriage meant, and the fact that I got to choose my future husband means less horrors await me.
Because the alternative...
A shudder envelops me as my mind strays into that territory and I already feel that small bite of food coming back up.
Nails digging in the insides of my palms, my entire body tenses as I clench my fists, my breath coming in short, painful spurts.
Already, I feel my heart racing, a wave of dizziness taking over me.
I chose him. I chose Enzo.
I continue to tell myself that, since it's the only thing that gives me a sense of control over my own life.
And until the contract is signed and the ink dried on the marriage certificate, I'm still free. I'm still... me.
Once the car stops, Manuello turns to me, his expression grim.
"You have half an hour."
Biting my lip, I nod.
I would love nothing more than to argue and tell him half an hour isn't nearly enough, but I'm aware that being in a bookstore is enough of an extravagance.
For all my freedom to move in high society circles, mingling with the rich and the uber rich, my movements are rather restricted.
A party? I need to attend. A social gathering? I must be present.
Because in our world connections are everything. Education? Not so much. At least not in my case.
Frivolous: A DARK MAFIA AGE-GAP ROMANCE Page 2