by Jc Emery
“Please,” he says. His voice booms with the pain of his request. I want to pat his back, but he’d damn sure feel like a bitch if I did. Instead, I mean mug my brothers, daring any of them to say shit to him. As Ruby’s biological son, he’s got a special place at the table right now because this vote is really fucking personal for him. It takes the brothers a minute before they calm down enough to start asking questions about Mancuso and his boys, and how this is all going to go down if we vote yea.
After a long, drawn-out discussion, and a lot of fucking bitching, the vote comes in. Ten votes, and all we need is a majority. It’s no surprise that Grady votes nay, but what does surprise me is that so does Duke, and Diesel. I breathe a sigh of relief when I mentally tally the votes. With Wyatt, Chief, Fish, Bear, Ian, and Pop and me—we got the club’s vote. Pop slams the gavel down, and I stand. Grady, Duke, and Diesel look pissed, but it’s over now. As I stride out of the room, I let the tension roll off my shoulders.
“Hey, Fucker,” Duke shouts from behind me. I stop in place, knowing better than to assume he’s not talking to me. When I turn around, I see that he’s got his arms crossed over his chest and he’s fixing me with a hard glare. “Good job giving me a head’s up about this shit.”
“Didn’t have time, brother,” I say.
“Fuck you,” he says. “You rode off without a fucking word. We’re supposed to be bros and this is how you do me?” He’s used to being in the loop, and obviously being out of the loop pisses him off. Truth be told, I wasn’t fucking thinking about giving him a head’s up. I had other shit to attend to. I still have other shit to attend to. We leave in six fucking hours, and I gotta take the van with Wyatt up to Willits to get more ammo and then get back here. It’s gonna be a long fucking night, and this dickhead wants to sort his shit out.
When Pop came to me tonight, asking where I was coming at with this thing with Alex, I didn’t even think about it. She’s family even if she doesn’t know it. Ma’s been telling us about her for as long as I can remember. She’s important to Ma, and that makes her important to me. But instead of preparing to go up against Mancuso and his men, I’m standing here having a fucking bitch fest with this asshole.
Duke’s attention drifts across the room, but his body remains still as his eyes shoot daggers at Nic, one of the club’s pickiest—and meanest—whores. He shakes his head at the sight of her, sitting at a bar stool in tight-ass jeans and a flimsy tank top.
“Don’t get pissed at me because you’re hard up and Nic won’t give you the time of day,” I say with a smile. His eyes flash in anger as he strides toward me. We’re nose to nose now, and my temper kicks in. My entire body tenses and prepares to throw down. “It’s all good, brother. She’s Grade-A fine with a side of crazy, but she sucks a mean dick.”
He reaches up and pounds his fist into the side of my head. My vision blurs, and it takes me a moment before I can see straight again. A hand flattens itself on my chest and puts pressure, moving me backward. I shake away the blurriness to see Wyatt standing between us.
“We’re going to need everybody in one piece,” he says to Duke. “Go ahead and get drunk. You just earned yourself a spot in the van.”
“Fuck you,” Duke hisses at Wyatt, who just shakes his head.
“Not helping, brother. You already got bitch duty. Keep it up,” Wyatt says. I turn and walk away, to which Wyatt shouts after me, “And where the fuck are you going?”
“Check on Ma. Meet me at the house with the van,” I call out as I walk through the door and out into the cool night air. It’s gonna be a long fucking week, and I need to let Ma know that it’s a go. As I pull out of the Forsaken lot, I force myself to calm down. We’ve done a lot of shit in the time I’ve been patched, but nothing like this. Don’t think we’ve ever taken on anything this fucked up. Taking on the Italian mafia is no fucking joke. I just hope this girl is worth the risk we’re taking.
Chapter 1
May
Alex
A woman's place in public is to sit beside her husband, be silent, and be sure her hat is on straight.
Bess Truman
THE ROOM IS packed full of Italians to the point where I think the walls might explode. This many Armani suits and Versace dresses in one house can only mean one thing around here: somebody is dead.
Across the room, my best friend, Adriana Thomas stands, looking as bored as I feel. I catch her attention, and with a head nod and eyebrow arch she knows exactly what I’m looking at. She puts her hand over her mouth and giggles, making me giggle, too. It’s so ridiculous. Sidled up to the dessert table is my Aunt Gloria. She has one of Uncle Emilio's giant cannolis in her mouth, the cream filling all over her face, not even noticing the mess she's made of herself. Uncle Emilio will not be pleased if he catches sight of this. He's been trying to calm Aunt Gloria's appetite for years.
My father's hand, wrapped around my forearm, tightens, and I remember that I’m supposed to be paying attention to the conversation before me. I turn back to my father, Carlo Mancuso, and smile apologetically. I'd forgotten my place for a moment there. Across from my father stands one of his soldiers, Leonardo Scavo, who—as always—keeps his dark brown eyes on me. A blush forms on my cheeks and I look away, smiling. Leo’s just barely twenty-three and is quickly rising in the ranks on his way to becoming a Capo. He’s smart, good-looking, and my father trusts him, which meant he has some serious earning power. I try to remind myself that I could do much worse than Leo Scavo.
"Alexandra!" Aunt Gloria shouts from across the room, wiping her face clean of cannoli and striding toward me. Ever since my mother died a few years ago, Aunt Gloria has taken it upon herself to teach me how to be a woman in this world. I smile despite my grouchy mood. If Aunt Gloria thinks something is wrong she’ll never let me hear the end of it until she knows exactly what’s up.
It’s not that I don't like my aunt; it’s more like she makes me uncomfortable in public. She’s so loud and always shouting about something or other, which embarrasses Uncle Emilio to no end. It’s not a secret that if Gloria wasn't Joseph Mancuso's daughter—and Carlo Mancuso's baby sister—Emilio Vescovi never would have married her, nor would he continue to parade her around in public. The woman is a drunk half the time. But she’s also the closest thing to a mother that I have.
My father releases my arm and allows Gloria to slide in between us. I'll give her one thing, she knows me well. She knows how much I hate being dragged around by my father like I’m some sort of prized show dog. And because she grew up in this lifestyle, she also knows I don't have the ability to do anything about it. I lean over, kissing her cheek. She returns the kiss and wipes the smeared lipstick off my cheek.
"Carlo." She greets my father with an enormous smile. She kisses his cheek and he kisses her forehead, as is tradition in the family. My mother explained it to me once—a kiss on the cheek is a sign of respect, which is why Uncle Emilio, my father's underboss, always kisses my father's cheek in greeting before a sit down—not that I'm supposed to know that. A kiss on the forehead is a promise of protection.
"Have you been good to my girl?" she asks. My father locks his jaw in frustration. Gloria, while oblivious, is disrespecting my father—or at least that's the way he sees it. Despite being born into the family and having married a family man, Gloria never really watches her tongue. Somehow, she gets away with it. If I were to try it, my mouth would be swollen for a week.
"Ask her yourself, Gloria. She's standing right next to you," he says, swirling the single malt scotch in his cognac snifter before knocking it back. Gloria looks to me, but says nothing. Loud and abrasive, sure, but even she knows her limits. Asking my father if he's been good to me suggests that he is incapable of caring for me, that she doesn't trust his judgment. If there's one thing you never question in this family, it's the boss's judgment. It doesn't matter if he's your brother or not, and it's really unwise to do so in a room full of his men.
In an effort to ease the tension, I ask my
father if he wants me to get him some more scotch. Without even looking at me, he shoves his glass in my direction and focuses his attention on Leo.
"Let's talk, Son," my father says, clapping Leo on the back and leading him toward his office. My breath catches. A few heads turn suddenly, surprised to hear his declaration to Leo. Calling him "Son" publicly is my father making him a promise, a promise for my hand. I look at the ground, refusing to meet anyone's eyes as I make my way to the wet bar in the game room and remind myself—again—that I actually kind of like Leo.
Adriana beelines from her place next to her mother and catches up to me just as I turn the corner into the empty game room. She whisper-shouts, “What the hell was that?”
I look around to make sure we’re alone and say, “You know what that was. Daddy Dearest pretty much just sold me to the highest bidder.”
“I can’t believe this shit. I’m so sorry,” she says, giving my back a gentle rub. I try to shake it off, but it’s difficult. “I thought you were going to talk to him?”
“I did talk to him. He gave me some bullshit about making sure I’m taken care of, making sure I’m not being used, et cetera.”
“At least Leo’s hot,” she says, giving me a wicked smile.
“Yeah, he is.”
“Well, I’m here all summer. We need to hang out before you get so wrapped up in Scavo dick that you forget all about your best girl.”
“Sure thing,” I say and wave her comment off, watching as she shuffles back to her mother’s side. Best friend or not, I kind of want to slap her right now. She has no idea how lucky she is. For graduation last year, she got a new BMW to take with her to Vassar. I got a trip to see my nonna in Cusio, Italy, where she spent three months trying to train me to be the perfect house wife. I don’t know why she bothered. Her efforts at turning me into the perfect Principessa kind of failed.
Watching the door to my father's office from my place in front of the wet bar, I wonder what my father has to talk to Leo about that is so important they had to have a meeting in the middle of Sal's wake. Business is never to be discussed during a wake, but that kind of respect is rarely reserved for rats like Sal. Nobody talks about it because Sal was a Capo and that would be disrespectful to him and his widow, Caterina, but the bullet-hole in the center of his throat tells everybody the truth: Sal talked.
The only access on the first floor to my father's office is through the game room, which is off the center hall and has limited visibility from the other rooms in the house. When my grandfather ran things, years back, he'd sealed off the entrance from the main hallway at the front of the house after some crazy teppista barged in on him. As my father tells the story, my grandfather had seen the guy coming from the bay window. Had the guy been a moment faster, it might have been grandfather with the bullet hole between the eyes. To this day, we don't know what the guy came here for. Now, my father likes a little more time to be able to react and has since sealed off that door.
Curiosity gets the best of me, so I set the cognac snifter down on the wet bar as quietly as possible and tip-toe toward the office door. Unlike some of the bosses whose homes I've been in over the years, my father doesn't have a camera on his office door. He refuses to be a prisoner in his own home, he's said. And thank God for it, too. I've spent hours of my life in front of that door, listening to conversations I never should have heard. I can't help myself; I just want to know what it was they all keep so secret.
I crouch down in the doorway to steady myself and press my torso as close to the locked door as I can without touching it.
"Such a pity, the thing about Sal," my father says casually. Leo agrees stiffly after a moment. "Relax, Leonardo. My house is your house, or at least, it might be one day." As I hear the words from my father's mouth, my stomach sinks. This is exactly what I’ve been afraid of. It’s not that my father hadn't chosen well, it’s that he’s chosen at all. Despite having known for years that my father would play a big part in my betrothal, I didn't realize that he would actually be the one making the choice until recently.
Headstrong and in denial, I always thought I had a say in the matter. I was so very wrong. I wipe the tears from my eyes and take in a shaky breath. Neither one of them has bothered to consult me in this little arrangement. This is obviously the only way I’ll find anything out about what they’ve planned for me.
"A man in my position, he looks for certain things in a family member. Do you know what I mean, Leo?" my father sounds like he’s smiling, something he doesn't do a lot of these days. I miss the sound of his voice when he’s smiling.
"Yes, Padrone," Leo says.
"Oh no," my father laughs lightly, "don't call me that. That's my father." Leo gives a choked laugh. "Are you nervous, Leo, because there's nothing to be nervous about. It's just Carlo and Leo, that's all." Leo laughs again, this time more relaxed.
"I'm just grateful for your consideration, sir."
"I see the way you look at Alex. That's what we're here to talk about, Leo. Today is not about business, it's about pleasure. I want my daughter taken care of, and I know you can do that. Especially with your own crew—" my father is cut off by Leo's stuttering.
"My own crew?" he asks. Carlo chuckles.
"Not today, son, but do you really think I'm going to let my little girl marry a Soldato?" They keep talking, but I can't hear any of it. The pounding in my heart drowns everything else out. The rhythmic thumping gets louder and louder until it makes my head swim. I blink, my vision blurry from the tears that come, forcibly streaming down my face and neck, wetting the collar of my cardigan. The game room feels like it’s getting smaller with every breath I take as a thick humidity settles in, making the tips of my ears and fingers red and hot to the touch. I realize after a moment that I’m sweating. I have to get out of there.
On shaky legs, I stand and tip-toe away from the door and out of the game room as silently as I came in. I round the corner down the center hallway and race for the stairs. At the top of the staircase on the second floor, I slam into something. For the first time since leaving the game room, I look up, and nearly fall backwards at what I see. It’s Caterina, Sal's wife.
"Alex," she says gently, reaching out a wrinkled hand and touching my cheek, wiping my tears away. "What's wrong, Miele?" I shake my head, not wanting to tell her. After everything, she’s still calling me ‘honey’. She’s mourning her husband—like I should be. Sal had been in the family since before I was born. Before everything went south, my father had me calling him Uncle Sal. The moment my father instructed me to just call him Sal I knew what was coming. We all did, but there was nothing we could do about it.
My father could have given Sal a pass—he did for Emilio's younger brother. He just chose not to. It hadn't made sense at the time, but I understand it now. He was making room for Leo, to give him his own crew. My stomach turns. Getting rid of Sal because he was a rat is one thing; doing so in order to promote another is disgusting.
"I miss him, too," she says, her voice low. I nod. "But let's not worry ourselves over that, okay?" She cups my face with her hands and wipes my tears away. I gave her a small smile.
"I'm okay. Really," I lie. When my father told me not to call Sal "Uncle" anymore, I knew the same went for Caterina. She isn't exactly out, but she'll never be back in either.
"We make our choices in life, Miele. Remember that." She smiles sadly and looks up, her entire body going stiff before retreating down to the first floor. I look behind me to find my twin brother, Michael. I let out a heavy sigh and start for my room, ignoring his footsteps behind me.
"What's got you so upset?" he asks. I wave him off and enter my room, only to have him follow. "You want me to call Tony?" I plop down on my bed and cover my head with my pillow.
"Okay, I'm getting Tony," Michael warns. I scream into the pillow before throwing it at him. Tony is our cousin, Gloria and Emilio's son, and he is a total hothead. He’s a few years older than us and, once he got his button, pretty much taught
Michael everything he knows about the family. It isn't really allowed—talking to someone outside of the family about business—but we are a different kind of family than the one my father runs. We’re a family linked by blood and kept together by love. But Tony joined the family, so I guess he doesn't really belong to us anymore.
"Leave Tony out of it." I narrow my eyes at him. Michael is what Adriana calls "beefy"—tall and muscular. He’s my twin brother, sure, but whatever similarities we had went out the window once he hit puberty. I stayed short and gangly, while Michael started looking like the spitting image of our father. By the age of thirteen, he was more man than boy, and my father started treating him as such. Meanwhile, he wants me to be the girl who never grows up. There is no such thing as fair in the Mancuso household.
"So then tell me what's got you upset," Michael says and sits down beside me. I shrug, not wanting to get into it. Michael used to understand me, but lately he’s all about the family. God forbid I complain about something. He tells me that’s just the way it is and I need to get used to it. But that’s easy for him to say, being a guy. I didn't have the privilege of being born with a penis and will probably pay for that for the rest of my life.
"Come on, Al. Tell me."
I let out an exasperated sigh. If I don't tell him, I'll be hearing about it all summer long.
"I overheard Dad and Leo talking," I mumble. Michael smiles wide. That just pisses me off. Michael and Leo get along well. I guess Michael figures I could do worse, too.
"This is a good thing, Alex," Michael says encouragingly. "Dad could have picked one of those stupido princepes for you, ya know." I roll my eyes.
"Oh yeah, you're one to talk. You're a princepe yourself, dumbass." I smile and elbow him in the gut. His smile makes me feel better. It always has. He’s a good brother, no matter how much I complain about him.
