Page 61 of Forsaking All Others

“Get up,” I said, turning away so I wouldn’t have to watch her self-loathing descend for once, again capitulating to the chemistry between us even though she despised me. “I have a body to dispose of.”

“Because of me,” she muttered darkly under the sounds of her righting herself, adjusting her clothes behind me.

I held my silence as I reclaimed my desk chair, putting my feet on the wood before me as if I didn’t have a care in the world when my head had already turned to the pile of shit I’d been deliberating over for weeks. The Russians amassing more power, the Irish causing a fuss, the Albanians stealing product en route from Italy, and now this, one of my capos turning against me.

It was easier to think about the attacks on my Outfit than it was to remember the taste of my wife in my mouth and the feel of her all around me.

It was time to act. To remind everyone why I was the god of Chicago.

I mentally adjusted my schedule so I could fly out to Sicily this week and confront the one person I suspected might be the master puppeteer behind this shit show.

“Maybe next time you’ll listen when I have something to say,” Fiammetta suggested from the door, the knob in her hand, her chin tipped pugnaciously. “Maybe you’ll finally realize I’m more than just a pretty doll sitting silent on your shelf.”

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” I tossed the idiom at her and watched her mind puzzle over the translation for a moment before her jaw tensed.

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and swept out of the room, only the scent of her perfume and her parting shot lingering in the air. “Fine, Dario. But one day, not listening to me may mean your funeral.”

Chapter Sixteen

Fiammetta

It was our sixth wedding anniversary, but my husband wasn’t in the crowd of handsomely dressed men currently thirsting after my attention. This wasn’t Dario’s scene—bored trust-fund kids and nepo babies throwing parties in the middle of the week because they had nothing better to do—and I wasn’t there for pleasure.

I was there to work.

Doing a job the Outfit had no idea I held.

It was my favorite kind of job too. One that earned me the money and respect of my client, while also providing an opportunity to further my own endless pursuit of Lo Spettro.

“Fia, you have got to get me that recipe for those cannoli you brought for Giorgio’s birthday,” Mia, one of the sweeter Mafia wives, said from beside my left elbow, where she was sipping a cosmo, dressed to the nines in a new Saint Laurent dress that did wonderful things to her figure.

“Family secret,” I replied, pretending to zip my lips closed and throw away the key.

The truth was, I had never learned to cook in Sicily. My mother had died before she had the chance to teach me, and it wasn’t done for the daughter of the boss to work side by side with the help. I’d found the recipe on an obscure Italian food blog and claimed it for my own. People were always unduly charmed by reference to my homeland and made-up stories about my idyllic life there. It made them want to open up to me, share their own childhoods and secret passions.

An invaluable trait in my industry.

“I’ve been begging her to give me half a dozen recipes for years,” Francesca, Mia’s younger sister, griped good-naturedly. “To absolutely no avail.”

“I bet she’d give me any recipe I want,” Mickey, a civilian who had no idea he spent so much time with organized criminals, flirted shamelessly, winking at me from his chair across our tightly knit circle of people.

Mia snorted. “In your dreams, Mickey.”

“Yeah, and in your nightmares Dario would be stringing you up by the toes,” Betty, a hard-nosed two-time Mafia wife, quipped, nudging Francesca in the side.

It was Mickey’s turn to snort. “Everyone knows Dario doesn’t give a shit about Fia.” He seemed to realize the inappropriateness of his words the moment they left his mouth, olive skin blanching like a skinned almond.

I waved away his rudeness with a little shrug. “The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

Mickey rolled the uncomfortable moment off his shoulders and smiled his big lopsided grin at the girls in triumph.

“She’s still out of your league,” Alessia said, swanning into the conversation from another group behind me. Her smile was shark like as she leveled it at Mickey. She was too old for these functions filled with Mafia dons’ entitled kids and the sons and daughters of other affluent, vaguely criminal businesspeople in Chicago, but she was always invited because she was gorgeous and all the young men dreamed of sleeping with her even though she was solidly taken by Cesare. And she almost always attended, because she was my girl and she didn’t like me working alone.

The ladies tittered at Mickey’s expense, but I placed a gentle hand on his arm as Alessia pulled me away from the group and started to lead me down from the large penthouse living room. Mickey was utterly harmless, and on occasion when he’d had too much to drink, he was an excellent source of information about his mother, Nella, the female capo of the Camorra out of Boston. Mickey was in Chicago to, ostensibly, attend university, but he had been working on his degree for eight years without an end in sight.

I liked him.

He was simple and fun and exactly what he presented himself to be.