by Bethany-Kris
Cece’s brown gaze narrowed, and Cross knew what was coming next. “Kittens no wear mittens, Daddy.”
“No, but—”
“They don’t.”
“No, they don’t.”
“No book,” his daughter said firmly.
And that was the end of that children’s novel. It would never see the light of day in their home again. Any book that his daughter could find fault with, she would. Someday, she was going to make one hell of a literary critic if at three, she already had such vehement opinions on the picture books read to her every night.
The last book this happened to?
The night before, when he read The Man in the Moon.
Cece Catherine Donati was a lot of things. Difficult. Stubborn. Wild. Beautiful. Free-spirited. Fearless. Her mother’s clone. Her father’s soul.
Stupid, however, was not one of those things.
Cross slid out of his daughter’s large canopy pink and white decorated bed. With a golden metal frame that curved high at the head and foot into a crown-like shape, it was fit for his pretty little princess.
“No more kittens and mittens,” Cross promised.
He tucked his girl in under her sheets, and heard his phone buzz from down the hall. Cece’s intense stare kept him from running to grab the call, though.
“Daddy?” she whispered.
Cross bent down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “What, bambina?”
“Misses Ma.”
“Me, too.”
Cece let out a dramatic sigh. With her striped pink and white comforter pulled up to her chin, all he could see was the collar of her purple pajamas sticking out.
“We’ll see her soon,” Cross promised. “That sounds good, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then sleep. Principessas need sleep, Cece. Daddy loves you, my girl.”
“Loves my daddy, Daddy.”
He didn’t need to tell her to sleep again. She closed her big brown eyes, and that was it. She didn’t even peek as he closed the bedroom door after flicking on her nightlight. Sometimes he found her tucked into her mother’s side of the bed come morning, if she had woken up in the night, but mostly, Cece was a good sleeper.
She had been that way from the day she was born.
Thank God.
Cross snatched his phone off the decorative stand in the hallway as he passed it by. A quick check of the screen said the caller had been his wife. Instantly, he was calling her back, and pressing the phone to his ear as he headed into the master bedroom of their three-level, Newport home.
It took four rings before Catherine picked up.
“Cross?”
“Hey, babe.”
“Cross.”
He smiled.
All it took was one word.
His name coming from her mouth.
That was it.
Everything was right in his world once more.
“How’s the tyrant?”
Cross laughed as he grabbed two duffle bags from the walk-in closet. Tossing them onto the bed to ready them for packing, he said, “Pretty good. Doesn’t like the book tonight, either. Probably thinks I’m an idiot for reading about cats wearing mittens. Also, she’s decided she doesn’t like peanut butter, now. Not really sure when that happened.”
“Last week, she didn’t like waffles.”
“Waffles are good this week.”
“Oh?”
“I guess.”
Silence stretched over the phone. Sometimes, this was how their conversations were had. Easy topics because neither of them wanted to hurt the other inadvertently by saying shit was rough, or too tough, or whatever else. He never wanted to tell his wife she couldn’t do the thing she loved and was good at—making money alongside her mother as a high-class drug dealer—simply because he wanted her home more with him.
It wasn’t fair to her.
Marriage was about love.
Compromise.
A collection of imperfect moments made perfect.
So what if their life was a little unruly?
They would figure it out eventually.
Or … he hoped so.
“One more week, and I’ll be home, Cross.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Miss you,” Catherine said quietly.
“Like fucking crazy, Catty.”
“Love you.”
“Always, babe.”
Cross tugged his daughter’s tiny leather jacket from her arms. “Be a good girl for Grandpapa Dante, Cece.”
She wouldn’t even speak to him. He pulled the mini Doc Martens off her feet, all the while ignoring her little glare. “Stop that nasty look, Cecelia Catherine. Right this minute.”
“Clicky shoes.”
“It’s the end of November. I am not putting those damn shoes on your feet.”
“Clicky shoes.”
Cross pressed his lips together, and eyed the pink, sparkly shoes his daughter was currently hugging against her equally pink and sparkly dress. She all out refused to leave the house unless she could at least bring the fucking things along. She loved her leather jacket. It didn’t matter what she was wearing or the time of year, she wanted that jacket on. At least, that was one less fight for him to have with his child.
“Give me the shoes, Cece.”
“Noes!”
“Then I won’t put them on you now that we’re inside.”
She eyed him warily before hesitant, tiny hands passed him the shoes. He slipped them on her sock-covered feet, and snapped the buttons on the straps around her ankles.
“No running in—”
“Thanks, Daddy!”
He didn’t even get the chance to finish his sentence before she was pushing up to her feet, her tulle skirt blew wide around her legs, and she bolted down the hallway. He let out a heavy sigh, and shook his head as he stood to his feet.
Chuckles echoed a few feet away.
Cross ignored his father-in-law’s amused grin. “Her bag has everything she’ll need.”
“No worries.” Dante Marcello pushed off the wall, and glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t you?”
“Someone fought me to leave the house.”
“Yes, the shoes,” Dante murmured. “God, I love that kid.”
“Because she gives me hell.”
Dante flashed a smile. “Well, for other reasons, too, but also that.”
Of course.
Thankfully, Cross had found an easy relationship with his father-in-law over the years. It certainly helped a great deal when Dante stepped down from his position as a crime boss for the Marcello Cosa Nostra. Then, there were no hidden rules or expectations between the two men, simply family and a long history to work through.
It took a while, but they repaired their bridges.
Cross respected Dante a great deal.
He’d learned the feeling was mutual.
“Oh, I have something for you,” Dante said, “to open before you go.”
Cross stuffed his hands in his pockets. “A gift?”
“Mmm, something like that.” Dante plucked a small white-wrapped package off the end-table. He passed it over with a shrug. Cross eyed the foot-long and eight-inch wide gift in his hand, wondering what was inside. “Your anniversary is tomorrow.”
“Five years,” Cross said.
His heart rate picked up at the thought.
Married five years.
It was hard to believe sometimes.
“I couldn’t figure out what to get you … both of you. It’s hard when it seems like we have it all.”
“You didn’t have to get us anything,” Cross said.
“I know, but I wanted to give you this.”
“Me.”
“You, not Catty,” his wife’s father said. “I’m sure she’ll appreciate it, too, in a roundabout way, but it’ll be special for you.”
Cross tore the side of the wrapping paper, and pulled the item out. A gold-flaked pi
cture frame rested in his hand. The photograph it held made his heart stop altogether.
Or, that’s how it felt.
For their wedding five years earlier, Catherine had given Cross the best gift by allowing him to have a private dress reveal with her. At the top of a large staircase, he had turned to find the most beautiful dress on the most gorgeous woman. The love of his fucking life. His future had been standing there waiting for him to simply look at her.
It was an overwhelming moment for him. One he had not wanted to share with the watching world.
The only person who witnessed the moment between him and Catherine had been her father. It seemed, somehow, Dante had taken a picture from down below where he had been standing.
The photograph was of him and Catherine standing at the top of the stairs, her hands were on his face, and he was only looking at her. Cross knew exactly why she had been touching his face—to wipe away what little tears had escaped through his calm composure.
“Damn,” Cross murmured. “That’s amazing.”
Dante let out a laugh. “I thought you might like it.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Good thing no other made man saw that little moment of yours. They wouldn’t have let you live the tears down, Cross.”
He smirked. “Yeah, probably not.”
Dante’s expression softened. “I’m glad I saw it, though.”
“Oh?”
“My final confirmation,” Dante said cryptically. “So, you’re all set, then.”
“I am.”
“We’ll be right along, too.”
“I appreciate it. Everything is busy as hell. We never stop. This is the only way I could get this done for Catherine.”
Dante nodded. “I know. It’ll settle, Cross. This busy life—it will settle.”
Jesus.
He hoped so.
A person can learn a lot from one’s mother.
Catherine Marcello Donati had learned almost everything she knew from hers. From how to wield a makeup brush, to how to thrust a knife under a clavicle bone without breaking it.
Catrina had been the woman who sat in a chaise, and taught Catherine how to sit just like royalty did. She had also taught her the best way to hurt a person without killing them was to cut them down with words and a cold smile.
Her mother had dried her tears as a child, and read her bedtime stories. She’d also bought Catherine the first pair of stiletto heels she ever wore, and the knife she currently had strapped to her inner thigh.
Catrina was a dichotomy.
Beautiful and dangerous.
Sweet and vicious.
Mother, and Queen Pin.
It was strange for Catherine in some ways to stare in the mirror, and see the reflection of her mother across the room. It was as though for a moment, she was looking at herself in a few years, even though Catherine was only thirty-one.
Even in her sixties, Catherine’s mother, Catrina, looked no older than forty, at the most. When the two went out together, it was common for people to mistake them as sisters, and not mother and daughter.
Catherine stared at her mother, taking in the heart-shaped face, full lips with a perfect Cupid’s bow, high cheekbones, and red hair. Other than the fact Catherine had taken her father’s dark brown hair and green eyes, the rest of her was every inch of Catrina Marcello.
The only thing that gave away her mother’s age was the few strands of silver starting to snake their way through Catrina’s deep ruby locks. And even then, that gray only made her mother distinguished. That was usually a description reserved for men, as they were the ones who usually became better-looking with age.
Yeah, well …
Catherine’s mother was fine wine.
She only got better with age, too.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Catrina asked.
Catherine’s gaze darted to her mother’s in the mirror as she fixed the gold rope of diamonds around her neck. “Thinking.”
“Indulge me with what, exactly.”
“You.”
Catrina lifted a single, perfectly manicured brow. “Me?”
“I was thinking that when I get to be your age, I can only hope to look half as good as you do.”
“Is that so?”
Catherine shrugged. “Yeah, Ma.”
Catrina winked, and reached down to lift the garment bag from the hotel bed. “You have my genes, Catty. I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”
“Yes, and my father’s.”
“Have you seen your father’s mother lately? Cecelia Marcello is still very much alive, kicking, and looking quite well for her age, thank you. Be sure to let her know you think that the next time you see her.”
Point taken.
“You’re not nervous for this meeting, are you?” Catrina asked after a moment.
Catherine shrugged, and then waved at the back of her body-hugging, knee-length black dress. “Not a lot. Zip me up?”
Catrina stepped behind her daughter and pulled up the zipper, but didn’t move once she was done. Instead, she stared at her in the mirror. “You look lovely.”
Sleeveless, with a low cut front and slit up the back of the skirt, the classic black dress fit Catherine quite well. The designer tag certainly helped the simplistic article along. Sometimes, simple was all a woman needed. That, and a good pair of heels.
Her mother had taught her that, as well.
“You’re wearing the gold Prada heels, aren’t you?” her mother asked.
“Yeah, the ones with the spikes around the back and heel.”
Catrina grabbed the pair of shoes out of the five others off the bed, and set them down in front of her daughter. Catherine easily stepped into the shoes, and gained five inches of height just like that.
“Don’t be nervous, reginella,” Catrina said, taking a seat at the edge of the king-size bed.
Catherine eyed her mother in the mirror. “I told you that I wasn’t.”
“But you are.”
“A little.”
Catrina smiled. “I will be there with you. It’s a business meeting with an associate.”
“A cocaine supplier. Technically, a cartel leader in this country, given the way he controls production and culls competition here. It’s not just a business meeting with an associate, Ma.”
“Except it is. He’s your supplier. You need to renegotiate some details. You have done this before with me for other associates. This is no different.”
Except it was.
“Giuseppe Bianchi is our one and only supplier for cocaine,” Catherine argued.
Cocaine, the drug that was most popular amongst their client base of the rich, famous, and spoiled. Plus, Catrina’s long-standing business relationship with Giuseppe had allowed her to open doors for the other crime families in New York. The Three Families, as they were known, controlled the state. Dante, her father, had been the boss of one before handing the reins over years before. Her oldest cousin ran another. Cross, her husband, ran the third.
“All of the Three Families depend on our connection to Giuseppe as a contact for pure, uncut, high-quality cocaine in especially large shipments. Not to mention, at a low cost,” Catherine quietly added. “So yes, this is kind of a big deal for me, Ma. I can’t really afford to fuck it up, can I?”
Catrina’s painted-red lips curved up at the edges. “I have no doubt that you will do just fine during this meeting, dolcezza. And even if something does happen, what would it matter?”
“What would it—”
“There is always someone else willing to make a sale,” Catrina pointed out. “You simply need the right connections.”
Catherine sighed, and turned back to the mirror. “We already have a connection. Let’s just worry about keeping him.”
Catrina stood from the bed once more, and came to stand beside Catherine. She brushed a wave of Catherine’s hair off her shoulder with a careful touch. “Giuseppe is a difficult man. He likes to be appreciated,
and adored. Smile for him. Try not to refuse him when he offers things, if you’re able. Feed into his ego—he quite likes that.”
“I have a husband to do those things for, Ma.”
“I never said do that,” Catrina said, snorting. “I just mean, he’s like a client. When you deliver to them, you smile and be pretty. Their beautiful ghost, right?”
“I suppose.”
“With Giuseppe, you do not need to disappear. He does not want a ghost. And he likes to enjoy your presence while he’s got you tied down for a bit. Nothing more.”
“You are going to be there with me.”
“I will,” Catrina said. “This is also a lesson for you. You need to know how to handle these situations and business without me holding your hand the entire time. You intend to take over for me, then you need to take on the responsibilities of that, Catherine. This is one of those.”
“I know.”
And she did know.
Catherine was six years into working for her mother. At the end of the second year, her mother basically took Catherine from the ranks of girls delivering drugs to clients, and put her more behind the scenes. She was then controlling girls, and the few men, managing clients, and learning the ropes of what it took to sit at the top of her mother’s empire.
It sometimes felt like Catherine never stopped moving. She would get home from one trip, stay a week, and then she was off again.
“Smile, Catty.”
She did.
“And try a different shade of lipstick,” Catrina added, “that pink was made for teenagers, not women.”
Catherine laughed. “Got it, Ma.”
“That’s mia reginella.” Catrina winked. “Now fix your face.”
Catherine was a lot of things. A woman, survivor, and fighter. A wife, criminal, and lover.
Above all those things, she loved being one the most.
A mother.
“Ma!”
Catherine smiled wide at the childish smile of her three-year-old daughter. When she couldn’t take Cece on trips with her, she liked to make sure they FaceTimed at least once or twice a day. Cece waved at the screen, making her hand and face blurry.
“Hi, Ma!”
“Hey, baby,” Catherine said. “Where’s Daddy?”
Cece scrunched her face up. “Gone.”
“Gone?”
