Family Ties (Morelli Family, #4)

by Sam Mariano

  I crack a smile, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tugging her close. “That’s okay; I’ll broaden your worldview.”

  She smiles approvingly, leaning over to give me a quick kiss before she turns her attention back to her chocolate. “I know we’ve joked about me having more money than you, and I know it’s probably not really a joke, but you’re clearly no pauper yourself. How do you have so many more experiences than I have?”

  “I like to know the people who work for me. You experience the benefits of the work your family does, but I actually do the work. I get my hands dirty, I grow my own men, I delegate, I get to know them. Your brother, for instance, he only keeps the important players close. Most of his piss-ons could probably die and he wouldn’t be able to name them. I have to invest more time getting to know everyone, but I could tell you Robbie had to pass on work last week so he could take his kid sister to the dentist because their mom’s fucking useless and she was coked out of her head god-knows-where. I could tell you Mikey’s got a new baby on the way but they don’t know if it’s a girl or a boy—and he wants it to be a little girl. I could tell you Alex’s mom just passed a week ago and he’s a mess—I also went to her funeral and paid for all the flowers. They’re all just soldiers. I don’t have to know or care about each and every one of my people, but I do anyway.”

  Francesca sighs, a vulnerable fondness in her eyes when she looks over at me.

  Narrowing my eyes playfully, I say, “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

  She shakes her head, pulling her gaze from me to look ahead. I don’t feel like she’s really seeing the sights now, though. She’s distracted and her whole vibe feels heavier.

  I grab her waist, pulling her along with me as I back up against a brick storefront, out of the flow of traffic. “What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?”

  “I just really like you.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I point out.

  Wrapping her chocolate up and dropping it into her purse, she braces her hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes. “It is.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re gonna make me want to keep you.”

  I smile, wrapping my arms back around her waist and tugging her against my body. “So keep me.”

  “Sure, any other impossible tasks for me? Should I grow a massive beanstalk in the middle of the sidewalk here?” she asks, craning her head to look over her shoulder, but not letting go of me. “Maybe you have some water you’d like me to turn into wine.”

  “Nah, just you and me, that’s the only difficult thing I want right now.”

  “Impossible,” she corrects.

  “Nothing’s impossible. Well, maybe that beanstalk thing. You and me, though?” I pull a face, like that’s nothing. “Not impossible at all.”

  “You know rejecting reality doesn’t actually mean reality goes away, right?” she teases.

  “I make my own reality,” I tell her. “And in my reality, we’re not impossible. And look.” I drop one of my hands from around her waist to gesture to the bustling city all around us. “Here we are, on a date, having a great time, liking each other. I found a way, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” she says, nodding. “And I’m very, very impressed by this. But assuming we can’t move here, we’re going to have to go home to reality.”

  “Where we’ll keep seeing each other.”

  Nodding once, she says, “And you’ll make me fall for you.”

  “That’s the plan. Don’t worry, I’ll catch you.”

  “And then you’re gonna have to break my heart,” she concludes.

  “Nope,” I tell her, shaking my head. “Not gonna do that.”

  “Not because you want to,” she replies, meeting my gaze. “I know you don’t want to. I know you’re sincere. I love your sincerity. It makes my knees weak. But this is going to get so hard, and it won’t be new and fun anymore, and you’re not going to want to keep doing it. You’re going to want someone you can take out in your own city, someone you can take home to those holiday dinners your mom’s so fond of. Can you even imagine a reality where that’s me?”

  “Sure I can,” I toss back, with much more confidence than I have a right to. Truth is, I can see it, but it might be more my obstinate nature than accessible reality. Doesn’t matter. If I can change the landscape by blowing up a few mountains, maybe that’s what I’ll have to do. The more all these damn people keep telling me I can’t have Francesca, the more they’re making me want to prove them wrong.

  ---

  The cab drops us off outside Lincoln Center, and Francesca still has no idea what we’re doing. Since I told her to wear something comfortable to explore the city, she wore jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt that she looked incredible in, but it didn’t fit the nighttime dress code. So, after we finished our crazy shakes, I took her to pick out a nice dress.

  Even though I didn’t think she’d be excited about it, given all the times she’s told me about her extensive wardrobe and the formal family dinners, she still was. She picked out this sparkly dark purple dress, and we went to the hotel room I booked. We’re not staying the night, we’re flying out late, but I got a room so she’d be able to change, keep the crap she bought today somewhere, and chill out at if we felt like it. I didn’t know for sure that Francesca would take to the whole tourist routine, and I wouldn’t have minded cutting the sight-seeing a little short and spending time together back at the room. I didn’t mind the sight-seeing either, though. I’ve seen New York a bunch of times, and a carriage ride through Central Park should’ve made my eyes roll so far back in my head that my optic nerves were damaged, but she got so excited when she saw the horses prancing around the park, I couldn’t say no.

  Then I took her to a nice Italian dinner at Café Fiorello—a little common, for someone about to see a show at Lincoln Center, but she doesn’t know that. I don’t live here anyway, so I can act like some tourist schmuck if I really want to. Then I took her to Magnolia Bakery, per her request. I don’t know how she’s not in a legitimate sugar coma from all the dessert she’s had today—Fruity Pebble coated ice cream, a carrot cake doughnut, chocolate from the stores in Times Square—but she’s not passing any of it up.

  Provided she likes this ballet as much as I think she will, we’ll wrap up with one last cocktail at an underground Moroccan bar with a goddamn waterfall inside.

  I don’t mean to boast, but I’m nailing this date.

  We’re lost in a crowd of nicely dressed patrons when it hits Francesca what I brought her to.

  “The ballet?” Her wide brown eyes slide to mine, her shock evident. “You brought me to the ballet?”

  I shrug, keeping a hand at the small of her back. “You said you wanted to be a ballerina when you were a little girl. Figured it must be something you liked.”

  “That’s it.” She holds out her hand in my direction as I guide her through the crowd. “Hand it over.”

  “Hand what over?” I ask, lost.

  “Your badass card,” she shoots back, her eyes alight with mischief. “You don’t get to keep it after this.”

  “Psh, you’ve got it all wrong,” I tell her, my hand drifting around to her hip. God, I love touching her. “You like the ballet, so I brought you. There’s nothing more badass than pleasing your lady. I get the platinum package for this.”

  “You must not belong to the same club I’m familiar with,” she tells me, smiling wryly.

  “Your club sucks. My club’s awesome. Anyone who matters is a member of my club.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” she says, catching the hand I have on her hip and lacing our fingers together. “The Salvatore club is the only club I ever want to go to.”

  “It’s the only one you’re allowed to go to now,” I tease.

  “Don’t give me any of that lip, mister,” she shoots back.

  “I’ll give you all the lip I want.”

  She glances back, grinning
up at me. “I like you.”

  I give her a little wink and take the lead, moving through the crowd so we can get to our seats.

  Turns out the ballet is boring as fuck, but Francesca seems to love it. I chalk it up to one of the many mysteries of womanhood and hope I never have to bring her to another one.

  On the way out, we stop in the gift shop. She looks at DVDs of the show we just watched, like she might actually sit through that again voluntarily. We don’t buy one, though. I pick out a little stretch bracelet with cheap sapphire blue beads and gold-colored treble clef charm. I buy it for her, and she waits with as much excitement for me to slip this $20 trinket on her wrist as she would something from Tiffany’s.

  She looks so happy as we walk outside. I want to get a car, but everyone’s trying to leave and it’s actually pretty nice out, so we decide just to walk to the bar. Probably shouldn’t; that’s not going to leave much time to grab a drink before we have to go get our crap and head for the airport.

  I hate that today’s ending. I hate that we have to go back home. I wish we could stay here. I love Chicago, but I love taking Francesca out without fear of repercussions a whole lot more.

  “What was your favorite part?” she asks me, gazing up at me. She’s so cheerful, so relaxed. I love seeing her like this.

  “My favorite part of the ballet?” I question, trying to recall even one thing from the boring-ass shit that happened on that stage. She nods enthusiastically, and I offer a smooth smile. “My favorite part was watching you.”

  She elbows me, leaning into my side. “That’s such a cheaty answer.”

  “A cheaty answer?” I tease. “Is that an official term?”

  “It’s an official terms for cheaters who cheat a lot when asked questions.”

  “Hey, it was an honest answer.”

  “Cheater.”

  “Nah.” I loop my arm around her neck, tugging her into my chest. “Truest answer I could’ve given.”

  Smiling up at me, she rests her hand on my forearm as we walk. “You hated it, didn’t you?”

  “I loved seeing you enjoy it,” I reply diplomatically.

  She grins. “You hated it. That’s okay. I still appreciate you taking me.”

  I slow to a stop, gesturing toward a set of metal steps, leading to an underground alley. “Here we are.”

  Francesca raises her eyebrows skeptically. “This is our final destination? Is this the part where you lure me into human trafficking?”

  “Nah, that’s your family’s racket, not mine.”

  This seems to please her. “Oh, good. None at all?”

  “I mean, some prostitution, but on a voluntary basis. Nothing like Delmonico’s fucked up operation.”

  Her smile melts right off her face and she looks down at the steps.

  “We don’t have to go here if you’re not comfortable with it,” I assure her. “There’s a hotel bar, we can just grab a drink there instead.”

  “Do you work with him?”

  I frown. “Who?”

  “That name—he works for my brother. Why do you know about his operation?”

  Goddammit, is she seriously back on the idea of me using her to spy on her goddamn brother? “His operation’s not a well-kept secret, Francesca. Of course I don’t work with him. Your brother and I co-exist; we don’t share rackets. I wouldn’t touch that dirty shit if he offered.”

  She nods, but her sparkle’s still gone.

  “You can’t seriously still harbor doubts that I’m playing some game with your brother,” I add, unable to help myself. “You think I’d be doing all this, trying this hard to spy on your brother’s shit? I can tell you this much, I’d rather sit through ten guys getting tortured than ever sit through another ballet again in my life. And if you asked me to take you to another one? I still would. I’m here because I like you, not for any other reason.”

  Shaking her head, she says, “I know. It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Nothing.” She manufactures a smile and takes my hand, heading for the steps. “Let’s do this. At least if you are going to murder me, you gave me a good last day.”

  She’s joking, but it grates on me because it’s forced. It’s not natural. I don’t know why she stopped having fun, I don’t know what I did to dull her shine, but I want to know so I never do it again. Apparently she would rather sweep it under the rug though. I let her take my hand and I follow her down the stairs, but I still kind of want to prod more.

  Chapter Eight

  Francesca empties her second drink in twenty minutes, her gaze on the waitress as she heads over to the private little nook we’re in. “One more, please!”

  I smile faintly, moving the glass she just put down. “You sure? You seem a little tipsy already.”

  “I want to be a lot tipsy.”

  I subtly grab my phone, lighting it up and checking the time. I’m not sure we even have time for one more drink, but I’m no more eager than she is to leave. We’re both fucked if we miss our plane though, so I should do the responsible thing and cut her off.

  Francesca closes her eyes and sighs peacefully, swaying in her seat. “I love this song.”

  I listen for a few seconds, but I don’t recognize it. “What is it?”

  “Ed Sheeran.”

  That’s a person, not a song, but I wouldn’t know any of his songs by name anyway. It doesn’t really matter.

  “We’re gonna have to drink this last one kinda fast,” I say instead.

  Wrinkling her nose up with displeasure, she says, “I don’t want to go home. Let’s stay here. Let’s move here.”

  “To New York?” I ask, smiling as I lean back in my seat.

  “To this bar. To this booth. Let’s just stay here and not leave.”

  “I don’t really have that much mobility in my particular line of work. I could maybe move us to the suburbs, but I think this specific booth in Manhattan is slightly outside of what I can make happen.”

  She sighs heavily, like I’ve dealt her a death blow. “That makes me sad. Moving here would make me happy.”

  It makes me die a little, hearing that. I know she’s just tipsy and having a good time, but it kills me hearing her wish for something I can’t give her.

  I mean, I guess I could, technically. Turning down boss once it’s offered to me wouldn’t go over real well though, and it’s not like I’d be out even if I did—I just wouldn’t be the boss. Every way you look at it, it would be a bad call.

  I can’t do all that.

  She doesn’t mean it anyway.

  Taking a sip of my own drink, I tell her, “Nah. New York’s nice to visit, but Chicago’s home.”

  “Your home, maybe,” she mutters. “Chicago’s my prison.”

  Well, she’s a fun drunk tonight.

  “Let’s do hypotheticals,” I suggest. “I’ll start.”

  “Hypotheticals?” She raises a dark eyebrow, but nods. “Okay, I’m game.”

  “If you could only have a relationship with one member of your family for the rest of your life, who would you choose and why?”

  “I’d never hear from anyone else ever again?”

  I nod. “That’s right.”

  “Hm,” she murmurs, sitting back. “I guess I’d have to go with Vince.”

  That surprises me. “The high school kid?”

  She nods. “We’re pretty close. The way it is in my family, there are two sides. Either you love Mateo and you’re in his circle, or you don’t really like him that much and you try to keep as much of your life to yourself as humanly possible. Adrian is obviously team Mateo.”

  “Adrian’s not really family,” I point out.

  She rolls her eyes dismissively. “Sure he is. Not blood, but he’s as much family as I am. Anyway, then you have the rest of us. Cherie, Vince, me, Alec, Joey—we do what we have to and we’re loyal to Mateo because we have to be, but we don’t especially like him. We try to keep him out of our lives, because Mateo is a dis
aster and he wrecks everything he touches.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “He’s sure built up a pretty good empire for someone who ruins everything he touches.”

  “I don’t mean business. He’s good at that kind of stuff. But love and relationships, no. I have nothing to do with his business. I live in the house it pays for, but that’s as far as it goes for me. Whatever havoc he wreaks on the outside world isn’t my problem. Inside the walls of our house, that’s the havoc I care about.”

  “Things are pretty calm right now though, right? I haven’t heard anything, at least.”

  Nodding pensively, she says, “Yeah, but it makes me nervous. It feels like the calm before another storm.” Bringing her gaze back to me, she asks, “What about you? Which family member would you keep?”

  It’s a hard choice between Maddie and Ma, but at the end of the day, I have to go with Maddie. Francesca doesn’t seem surprised, but she doesn’t even have a mom.

  “How weird is it to have essentially no parents?” I ask, because it’s crossed my mind a few times.

  Francesca shrugs, her gaze locked on the waitress as she finally brings over that last drink. “Thank you,” she says politely. Once the waitress is gone, she turns her attention back to me as she takes a sip. “I guess I don’t really know. I don’t know any other way.”

  It’s no wonder they’re all so fucked up. A house full of rich orphans with no enforceable rules. They’re like a forest fire just waiting for someone to drop a match.

  “Your dad’s sick, right? You guys still don’t have much of a relationship?”

  She shakes her head firmly. “Nope. Just because he’s sick I should want a relationship with him? My father’s a monster. He’s caused unfathomable pain to everyone whose life he’s ever touched. He’s the most toxic person I can ever imagine. I get so afraid sometimes Mateo will turn into him.”

  “Really?” I ask, a little surprised to hear that. “Your brother strikes me as a very logical guy. Matt was ruled by his emotions.”

  “That’s why he’s so logical,” she says, shaking her head, almost sympathetic. “But he lacks the same love my father lacks—nobody loves Mateo. We’ve all tried, but it’s impossible to maintain. He takes and he takes but he doesn’t replenish. He demands loyalty from every last one of us, but he doesn’t give any back. And most of the time he’s much more controlled than our father, but when Mateo does lose his temper, he loses it big. He lost his temper with Beth. He was a little younger then, not as self-possessed as he is now. He worked harder at controlling himself after he lost her, but… well, frankly killing your unfaithful spouse is a page straight out of the Matt Morelli playbook. God knows what’ll happen down the road if he ever ensnares some other unsuspecting woman.”