Page 72 of Urgent Vows
After giving me a long, unfathomable look, my husband says, "She is mine."
The words resonate in my heart, though they have nothing to do with emotion. Why do I find his possessiveness so utterly entrancing? Is it because no one has claimed responsibility for me since my mother died?
Belonging is as heady as any drug to someone who has gone so long without it.
"Thank you for taking such good care of me," I say to him with a smile, feeling unaccountably shy.
He gets an arrested look on his face, but then he shakes his head and very deliberately turns to talk to his brother. They discuss business as the food is served and I have an acute understanding of how my sister could have shared so many dinners with this man and told me she had not gotten to know him at all.
Her complaints about his boring business talk at the dinners she attended in his home were what prompted me to call him and tell him he needed to court her.
Unlike Carlotta, however, I'm interested in what they are talking about. It sounds like there have been several attacks on the New York Cosa Nostra in the past eight months. Only a couple of them successful.
Severu must trust his brother-in-law, talking New York mafia business in front of the Las Vegas Cosa Nostra underboss.
"You think it is the Irish?" I ask when there is a pause in the conversation.
Miceli frowns. "Someone wants us to think it is."
"But you don't?" I ask him, including my husband in the question.
"We cannot be sure, but Shaughnessy isn't sloppy." Severu frowns, like he doesn't like admitting this. "If he attacked one of our warehouses it would be ashes on the ground."
"He claims he's had similar incidents and there has been an effort to make it seem like Italians are responsible," Miceli adds.
They answer my questions so easily, I don't hesitate to dig further.
"But he doesn't believe it either?" I want to confirm, because if the Irish mob boss in New York believes the Cosa Nostra is infringing on his territory, that means war.
The thought of Severu going to war against another powerful syndicate sends icy dread through me.
"He says he doesn't," Severu replies.
"Because he knows that if our men were responsible, they wouldn't leave a calling card, nor would they fail," I guess.
Severu nods, approval glittering in his espresso gaze. For a moment, I am lost in his eyes and do not hear what Miceli says.
I force myself to look away from my husband. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"The attacks were sporadic for a while, but they have picked up in the last month. Ever since the attempt to kidnap you and your sister."
"So, it was an attempted kidnapping?" I remember how it felt to shoot that man and mentally shake off the horror that comes with the memory.
I might not be a made man, but I will protect my family in any way I can.
"Francesco didn't tell you?" my husband asks, his eyes narrowed.
"He never discussed business with the family." Not even Zio Giovi, who used to be a capo in Detroit.
"But he should have at least told you that the men wanted to kidnap, not kill you," Giulia says spiritedly. "You were his daughter."
It strikes me that none of the De Lucas have expressed sympathy for my loss. It's as if they realize that I'm not grieving my father's death and they don't want to be fake with me. There will be enough of that at the funeral.
I smile wryly at her. "Mafia business was notourbusiness according to him."
It sounds like she says, "What a tool," under her breath, but I pretend not to hear. Not because I don't agree, but because I don't want to draw attention to her comment in case the men around the table would be offended by it.
In my family, women do not criticize made men. Full stop. Period.
