Blood Always

by Ramsower, Jill

  Game, set, match.

  Dad wins.

  Was it any wonder he was the mafia boss and I was no more than one of Santa’s little helpers? With a few simple words, he not only put me in my place, he had me feeling guilty for arguing with him. He was honor and loyalty personified, whereas I was irreparably flawed like a shiny red apple rotting from within.

  I wanted to rip at my hair and scream at myself for always being such an asshole. Instead, I cleared my throat, eyes dropping to my week-old manicure. “What can I do to help?” I wasn’t going to join the Gallo family cheerleaders, but I could calm my tits and listen to what Dad had to say.

  His posture softened, reminding me of those inflatable decorations in people’s yards when the compressor turns off and all that was left was a puddle of fabric. His job wasn’t easy, and recent weeks had been particularly challenging. The last thing he needed was an insolent daughter making his life harder.

  It wasn’t like I intended to be difficult. My emotions seized control of my brain when I wasn’t careful and kicked logic to the curb.

  The ironic part? Most people assumed I was void of emotion. I kept a brutally tight hold on my feelings in order to avoid a total overthrow of rational thought. It made me seem cold, when actually, there was a constant storm of emotions inside me raging to break free.

  “I’ve put a lot of thought into this. There are ways to help bond our families together, such as celebratory gatherings, but nothing comes close to having the same effect … as a marriage.” He let the word drift in the air like a delicate feather wafting down to the ground.

  For someone who generally reacts on an emotional level to everything, even if only internally, those devilish voices in my head were remarkably silent.

  Marriage.

  He wanted to marry someone from the Lucciano family to the Gallo family. No matter how I twisted the words around in my head, I couldn’t picture it—like one of those 3D images you had to cross your eyes to see. My mental eye squinted and stared, but nothing formed. There was just a canvas of meaningless geometric patterns.

  I’d spent my life hating the Gallos.

  Now, my father wanted us to become family?

  He gave me his explanation as to why—but how on earth did he expect that to happen? The Jews and the Palestinians didn’t just wake up one day and decide to grab dinner together. Granted, our bad history didn’t go quite that far back, but it was equally as hostile.

  “You’ve already talked to De Luca about this?” I asked, for lack of a better question. I wasn’t sure if I was stumped or in shock, but either way, my brain was a wide-open sky without a cloud in sight.

  “Yes, and he’s in agreement. In fact, he’s offering himself as the groom.”

  “Soooo, that would mean a woman from the Lucciano family would become his wife?”

  “That’s exactly what it means. I think it’s important for Matteo’s bride to be a relation to upper management. This alliance is too important to offer up the daughter of a capo. Unfortunately, that would mean the best candidates are your cousins, your sisters … and you.”

  Me.

  There were no other candidates.

  By the tone in his voice, it was clear I had caught the bouquet and would be the next one down the aisle.

  I was expected to be Mrs. Matteo De Luca, wife to the Gallo family underboss.

  For once in my godforsaken life, I didn’t overreact.

  I didn’t react at all.

  “I can’t wear white,” I said absently. The comment wasn’t all that surprising, per se, but not exactly the first thing I expected out of my mouth after finding out I was going to marry my enemy.

  Judging by his pinched brow, it wasn’t what my father had expected either. “You … what?”

  I could feel his heavy gaze pressing down on me, but my eyes stayed glued to my hands. “White. I won’t wear white.”

  “Um … okay. This is the twenty-first century. I don’t think anyone is expecting you to be a virginal bride, but you can wear whatever color you prefer, within reason.”

  “It’s not that. I just hate white weddings.” I dragged my eyes away from my cuticles and met my father’s concerned face. “If I do this, will I still be a Lucciano?”

  I sounded like a child.

  Hatred for all my inherent weaknesses painted a blush across my heated cheeks. I abhorred being weak, but no matter how hard I tried to eradicate the flaw from my person, it always resurfaced like a red stain on white carpet.

  My father closed the distance between us and pulled me to my feet, cupping my cheeks in his palms as his eyes bore into mine. “You will always be my daughter—my flesh and blood—and nothing beyond that matters. You know who you are. No label will ever change that.” His thumb gently swiped at a treacherous tear.

  I hadn’t cried since my brother died.

  I wasn’t exactly crying now.

  It was more like the hatred bottled up inside me was leaking out one drop at a time.

  “If this is what you need me to do, I’ll do it. You know I’d give my life for the family.”

  “I hate that this falls on your shoulders, but it needs to be done.”

  I nodded, pulling myself from his grasp. I needed to escape his intensity and the emotion swelling in the air around me. The room already felt like a pressure cooker—if the dial turned any higher, there were bound to be casualties.

  “If someone has to go into the lion’s den, I’d rather it was me. I’ve got the background to take care of myself. The other girls would be so far in over their heads, they’d never find the surface.”

  “That’s very admirable of you, but I do have one other request.” Dad pursed his lips. “If you do this, I need you to promise me to give Matteo a chance—to set aside your grudges and put him on equal footing as any other man.”

  I whipped back around to face him. “He’s not any other man. I can’t just ignore that.”

  “Promise me, Maria. The marriage is for the family, but this … this is for me. Promise me you’ll give him a chance to prove himself rather than condemn him before you’ve even met. And if I’m not enough reason, do it because an alliance will never happen if our people see through to your true feelings. They look to those of us at the top for guidance. If you hate your own husband, they’ll see it, and the whole thing will have been pointless.” He paused, an uncharacteristic hint of pleading in his eyes.

  His request should have been a minor one in relation to accepting a strategic marriage, but emotions are often unpredictable. The anger that hadn’t shown itself earlier suddenly came barreling to the surface. It was a thing not of this world—too hideous and malformed to be human. It wasn’t marriage that lured the creature from its cage. It was my father’s request, like chum in shark infested waters, it made the beast grow rabid.

  Marrying De Luca was one thing, but treating him with respect? That would be downright painful.

  He wasn’t deserving of my pity, let alone my respect.

  Seeing my reaction, my father’s hands lifted placatingly. “Maria, calm down.”

  My eyelids drifted shut, and I took steadying breaths through my nose until I could think without a red haze clouding my vision. There were plenty of people who were worthless piles of dog shit, and I still managed not to kill them. Surely, De Luca would be no different. We would both be busy and would only need to put on a show during public outings. I could do this.

  Opening my eyes, I met my father’s hard gaze. “Fine. I promise to give him a chance.”

  “Like any other man?”

  “Like any other man.” The words were forced through gritted teeth.

  “You know I wouldn’t ask such a thing if I didn’t have respect for him. We’ve spoken on a number of occasions, and he has impressed me each time.”

  “Whatever.” I rolled my eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in their sockets. “I better get going. Sounds like I have some research to do.”

  “Any other man means no r
esearch, Maria.”

  “I would research any other man!”

  “Well, you’re not going to research this one. You’re going to meet him with a blank slate, and that means no staking out his apartment or deep dives into his credit history.”

  “Fine.” I snatched my purse off the sofa and turned for the door.

  “Maria,” my dad called in a warning tone that gave me pause enough to look back. “While you’re here, why don’t you tell me about your fishing trip. You did go out last night, correct?”

  I played a number of roles in the outfit, most of which were on the business end of our dealings. Despite my Krav Maga training and my unerring accuracy with a gun, I wasn’t an ideal enforcer because of my size and gender. I would have enjoyed the position, but my father had never allowed it. As one of the handful of made women in the entire New York territory, my most lucrative contribution was information. A wig and some artful makeup, and I was unrecognizable to the men on my radar—that was assuming their eyes ever made it up past my tits.

  I trolled seedy neighborhoods, gleaning bits of information wherever I could. Our men reported on what they gathered as well, but it was best for upper management to have its own set of ears on the streets. We weren’t foolish enough to think that our soldiers and associates were any better than the schmucks I milked of all the intel they could provide. It was good to keep some things private. Just asking a soldier what he’d heard on a subject was information that could end up in the wrong hands.

  My father had specifically asked me to see what I could gather on the Gallo’s hunt for Sal. They were just as hungry to get their hands on him as we were, and we didn’t trust them to share if they discovered any leads on his whereabouts. Most soldiers didn’t know jack shit, but it was amazing what could be pieced together with a few tidbits of information. A meet taking place at a certain location, or a capo being absent at Sunday Mass—they were all pieces to a bigger puzzle.

  But in this particular instance, my evening mission had been derailed by a tipsy Italian.

  “I did go out, but the night was a bust.”

  His lips pursed as he nodded. “I see. Well then, you ought to know that I got a call from Luca just before you arrived. He informed me that last night Frederico Bianchi, Diego Venturi’s cousin, was hit by a truck in a tragic accident.” His eyes narrowed. “He didn’t survive.”

  My features remained perfectly schooled.

  “Karma’s a bitch. I’m sure Alessia will be relieved to know the man who helped Sal kidnap her is no longer alive.”

  “Indeed.” He lifted his chin, seemingly in answer to his own question. “Now that we’re allied with the Gallos, I expect there will be no further accidents without my knowledge.”

  My lips peeled back in a grin that would have sent small children screaming for their mothers.

  “Daddy, haven’t you ever heard? Sometimes accidents happen.”

  He shook his head slowly and waved me away.

  I happily obliged.

  ***

  Two hours later, I was back in Manhattan, outfitted in workout gear and walking into my favorite place in the world. Some girls loved spas or bookstores; others loved the park or electric nightclubs. The Krav Maga studio was where I felt most at home.

  My father put me in lessons when I was only eight years old to help teach me discipline and give my emotions an outlet. I adored Krav Maga from the very first day. It wasn’t just a sport—it was a fighting skillset and an artform, not unlike martial arts. It challenged me and empowered me, and I loved every minute of it.

  “You’re late.” Tamir called over his shoulder in a heavy Israeli accent as he transported a set of pads to the far end of the studio.

  “Had an unexpected meeting. I’m here now.”

  “Grab the last of the pads and bring them over here.”

  For the last ten years, since the age of fifteen, I’d had the same instructor. Tamir Hofi was a forty-year-old ex-Mossad soldier. He didn’t take any shit, and I made it my personal mission to test him on a daily basis. It made for interesting training sessions.

  The second I dropped the training pads next to his pile, he swept my legs out and launched himself on top of me. We were over the padded portion of the studio, but my landing still stole the breath from my lungs.

  “Fuck, Tamir. That hurt.” I groaned, then maneuvered my foot under me and rolled us until I was on top. It wasn’t easy—he outweighed me by sixty pounds of muscle—but that was the beauty of Krav Maga. Know the right moves, and anyone of any size can overtake their opponent.

  “Then you should have been paying attention. Always be ready, you know that.”

  Yes, I know, but today, I found out that I’m getting married.

  I released my grip on his arms and stood, stretching my neck and shoulders.

  “Guess it’s a good thing I’m here, so you can remind me.” Considering who I was going to be living with, I’d need all the training I could get. Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I faced Tamir and readied for the next attack.

  I didn’t have to wait long. He lunged forward and swiped at my forearm. I easily evaded. Over and over we grappled, and with each strike, my demons faded farther into the recesses of my mind. By the time we finished, I was as mellow as a housewife after a bottle of wine.

  “You were distracted today.” He ran his hands through his wavy, sweat-soaked hair and eyed me.

  “Is that a question? I thought we didn’t do questions.”

  There was a fifteen-year age difference between us, which wasn’t necessarily outside the realm of possibilities for a romantic relationship. However, I’d started working with him when I was only fifteen, so our interactions had developed a brother/sister feel from the beginning. We communicated via dry humor and sarcastic barbs. Anything on a deeper level went unsaid. If, for whatever reason, I did have a problem and needed his help, I had no doubt he would be there in an instant. The same went for me. Neither of us had a need to verbalize our understanding. It was a dynamic most would think was odd, but it worked for us.

  “You’re the one who doesn’t do questions. I simply play along.”

  The fuck? “What are you saying?”

  “I learned early on that you don’t like to share. Normally, that’s not an issue, but normally, you aren’t this distracted.” He squirted water from a sports bottle into his mouth, then tossed me the bottle.

  “You’re just as private as me, so don’t give me that bullshit.” I tossed his water bottle back to the floor without taking a drink. “Care to tell me about that scar on your chest or the reason you don’t go to Sabbath anymore?”

  “We were talking about you, little wolf, not me.”

  “Well, maybe we shouldn’t talk at all,” I muttered as I grabbed my keys.

  He smiled, using his shirt to wipe the sweat from his eyes. “Talk or don’t. I’m not going to force you.”

  Our session was done. My keys were in my hands, but my feet wouldn’t budge. I cleared my throat, intending to say goodbye, but the truth clawed its way out instead.

  “I found out I’m getting married.”

  Tamir’s stoic expression never faltered. His ability to remain perpetually unruffled had been my gold standard for the last ten years. He took the phrase “rolling with the punches” to a whole new level—to an entirely separate dimension. He was a living, breathing James Bond. When we first met, I knew immediately I wanted to be Tamir when I grew up.

  At twenty-five, I was technically all grown up, but I still had a long way to go to achieve Tamir status.

  “I take it the match is not of your choosing?”

  “I’ve agreed to it, but no, not what I would have chosen for myself.”

  His eyes bore into mine, those chocolate brown irises darkening to a lethal black. “Who is this man?”

  My father had met Tamir through seedy channels I hadn’t been privy to at the time. Tamir knew that we were part of the mafia, and while it wasn’t something that was normally
discussed, he had enough background with my dad that it wasn’t off-limits.

  “He’s nothing I can’t handle. It’s what he represents that bothers me. His family was behind my brother’s murder. I don’t know how I could ever look at him without wanting to kill him.”

  “That would be difficult, for sure.” He nodded, angling his lean body against the wall. “I don’t know your father well, but he does not strike me as the kind of man who would have you tie yourself to someone who had murdered his son.”

  “Well, there’s a little bit of a proof issue. He says it’s been too many years and wants me to give the man a chance,” I grumbled.

  “If you respect your father and his judgment, then it would be wise to heed his suggestion. If you’ve agreed to the match, then you would only be hurting yourself to harbor such hatred against your partner in life.”

  “That sounds great in theory, but what is the practical application? How am I supposed to shut off my feelings?” I waved my arms in a frustrated gesture before allowing them to flop at my sides in defeat.

  “It’s not about shutting the emotions off. It is about learning to direct your anger at only those responsible. If this man played no role in the loss you experienced, then it does you no good to focus your anger upon him. You must separate this man in your mind’s eye from those who made you suffer.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  His lips quirked up in a smile. “That is something only you can figure out.”

  I let out a lungful of air and hopelessness. “Thanks, Obi Wan, that’s super helpful.”

  Tamir huffed a humorless laugh. “So, when is this wedding to take place?”

  That was a good question. One I’d been too distracted to ask myself. “Not sure. I haven’t even met the man yet.”

  “Well then, it sounds like you have time, and that is always a good thing.” He pulled away from the wall and closed the distance between us. “Should anything change—should you ever feel threatened by this man—you will tell me. Yes?”