Stitch: Crime Family Values Book 1

by Nia Farrell

  At least she was making an effort to keep their conversation private. The way that Juliette’s voice carried, she could give a commencement address without a sound system.

  “You know? The lead singer who likes to rip off his shirt, show his ink, flex his pecs, and tease fans with his body jewelry? At least, the hardware he can show. I heard that he’s pierced south of the border, too.”

  Beth felt her cheeks warm and busied herself with the bread and oil that the waiter had brought. “Since you have no filter, I’m hitting the pause button on this conversation. Change tracks, please. Something less prurient and suitable for the setting. Here.”

  Juliette accepted the chunk of torn bread that Beth gave her and took a bite. Her whiskey brown eyes widened. She was still chewing when she reached for the loaf and ripped off another piece. “Damn you, carbs,” she whined, dipping the bread in herb-seasoned olive oil. “Why do you have to taste so good?”

  They did taste good. Knowing what was coming, Beth had focused on protein and vegetables the past couple of days. Tonight, she intended to enjoy herself—or as much as she could, knowing that Matteo Visconti was only a table away.

  His father had given them carte blanche. Juliette ordered lobster fra diavolo—seafood cooked with Roma tomatoes, seasoned and served over al dente pasta. Beth got the osso buco alla Milanese, figuring that she’d at least be getting vegetables with her veal.

  By the time they finished, neither of them had room for dessert. Unwilling to give up her unobstructed view of Tony Visconti, Juliette decided to get an after-dinner coffee. Placing her order, she excused herself and went to the ladies room.

  It wasn’t a coincidence that Tony decided to visit the men’s room at the same time.

  Jesus, could they be more obvious?

  Beth hoped for Juliette’s sake that he’d at least cover up. Juliette didn’t need STDs any more than she needed a baby of her own. If Matteo had worn a condom, her life would be so much simpler. That is, if she’d managed to survive her ordeal. But would her life be better? Sure, she’d be content, but she’d be living in a void that Matteo had unwittingly filled. All she had to do was think of what was waiting for her at home and realize that she had more reason than ever to live.

  The mere thought was enough to trigger a let-down. Planting her elbows on the table, Beth pressed her breasts against her forearms and prayed that she could get her reflex under control before the front of her dress got soaked. Pushing harder, she prayed that Juliette would deny her base urges, that Tony would be quick, that the damn coffee would come and she could go home.

  And she hoped beyond hope that Matteo wouldn’t follow her there.

  Juliette was back in five. Her lipstick was worn, but she didn’t smell like sex.

  “What an ass,” she grated, throwing herself back into her seat. “If I didn’t love his music so much, I’d tell you to give the meet-and-greet ticket to someone else. Damn it all! Why do men have to be that way?”

  “Assholes? I don’t know. It’s probably how he was raised. I mean, look at his family. I see two generations of Alpha males who want grateful, dutiful women to serve them.”

  Juliette tossed her head, making her long hair flip. “Well, good luck finding them here. Those boys will end up just like their father. They’ll go to Italy, marry nice Catholic girls, and bring them to America to breed the next generation of Viscontis.”

  The thought hurt Beth more than it should. “Listen, I hate to cut this short, but I really need to get home. Do you mind getting your coffee to go?”

  “Hell, no.” She finally shifted her focus from the Viscontis to notice how Beth was holding her arms. “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t even think about…you know.”

  “That’s okay. It’s been a long day. Time to call it a night. If you can flag down the waiter and have him fix you up, I’ll order the car brought around.”

  Pulling her clutch from behind her, Beth took out her cell phone, draped the sheer wrap around her shoulder to ward off the evening’s chill, and made her way to the restaurant entrance. “Hi, this is Beth Shelton,” she told the driver. “I need you to bring the car to the front of the restaurant as soon as you can, please.”

  She ended the call and waited, hugging herself. Her arms were crossed more for protection than warmth. She was still rattled from seeing Matteo. It was only a matter of time before he tracked her down. It would be easy enough to do. She lived on a Visconti-owned property, in a Visconti-approved house with Visconti-supplied staff. At first, she’d resented having Bernardo Corleone there. The thought that she needed protection was unsettling. Knowing that she had a mob watchdog didn’t help her rest any better at night.

  Close to her due date, Bernardo’s wife Constanza brought an afghan that she’d crocheted for the baby. Beth realized that her protection had come at a cost to Bernardo, too. Constanza had been crocheting like a fool to offset her empty nest syndrome. Asking if she would consider helping with the house and baby proved to be a blessing for everyone. Bernardo got to see his wife, and Beth had good, dependable help when she needed it. The couple had been babysitting most of the day, with quick trips home between appointments to feed the baby and ease her aching breasts.

  She was full to the point of bursting by the time she made it home. Draping her wrap on the sideboard by the entrance, she went to the family room first. If the baby was still up, this was where they would be.

  The 84-inch television was on but nearly muted. The closed captioning was turned on. Bernardo sat on the sofa with the remote in his hand. Constanza was in the swivel rocker-recliner, humming to the bundle in her arms.

  “Is he asleep?” she asked.

  “Not yet. Close, though.”

  “When did he eat?”

  Constanza sighed heavily. “I tried at seven and again at eight. He does not like the bottle. He wants his mama.”

  She’d expressed enough breast milk for two feedings, but her son hated drinking from rubber nipples. “And his mama needs him,” Beth said. If she could keep him awake long enough to eat, they would both feel better.

  Beth had no problem discreetly nursing in front of other people, but she preferred her privacy. Easing her son into her arms, Beth had Constanza undo her dress in the back. She bid the couple goodnight and headed for the rocking chair in the nursery. Since giving birth on Easter Sunday, she’d spent a lot of time in that chair, nursing, rocking, singing songs, and telling stories.

  Tonight, she told Dante their favorite one.

  12

  “Once upon a time, your mommy went into a store.”

  Dante was already wriggling like a minnow, little fists flailing and his opened mouth rooting. Pulling down the front of her dress, she bared herself to the waist and guided her nipple between his parted lips.

  He latched on like a pro.

  Beth sighed, experiencing the sweet relief that came with nursing when her breasts were full. “A man was there,” she said softly. “He was hurt, and Mommy helped him. We spent one night together. Before I left, he gave me a present. He gave me you.”

  Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away. She’d been so afraid of his gun, of his wound. She’d been scared that he would die. When his mobster family descended on them, she had worried that she would die, too.

  She still worried. Less than she did, but her concern was very real. She was alive only because it suited Dom Visconti to have her here. Now that Dante’s biological father was back, she was more expendable than ever.

  Matteo’s name was on the birth certificate. For her sister’s sake, she had named Giovanni Visconti and his son Val as Dante’s legal guardians when she’d made out her will. Workaholic Nan wouldn’t stand a chance at getting custody. And if she did, the Viscontis would simply remove her from the equation with a cut brake line or a drive-by shooting or a hit made to look like a mugging.

  No, it was better this way.

  Beth stroked the cap of wispy black hair and traced the curve of his small ear. With the light oli
ve tone to his skin and the hereditary birthmark at the base of his spine, there was no mistaking him for anything else than what he was—Matteo’s child.

  For better or worse, Dante was a Visconti. The only child of the eldest son was the apple of his grandfather’s eye.

  That had come as the biggest shock of all.

  Giovanni Visconti might tolerate her, but he doted on Dante. More than making certain that he lacked for nothing, he actually spent time with him. Every two weeks since Dante was born, Giovanni would come to hold the baby and watch TV or talk Visconti business with Bernardo while she and Constanza scrubbed bathrooms or baked or cleaned closets—anything to keep them out of the family room and away from the men’s conversation.

  Beth burped the baby and switched sides. It was late enough, she nearly fell asleep with Dante in her arms. He was all but lost to the world. Pressing to break the suction, she put him over her shoulder and rubbed his back, hoping to ease out any gas. Tucking him into his crib on his back, she covered her breasts with her bodice and tiptoed out the door, closing it softly behind her.

  She wanted a drink. Since she couldn’t have one, she settled for a bath. The day had taken a toll on her nerves. She desperately needed to relax and unwind.

  Her soiled dress would need to be cleaned before it was returned. She’d have to call tomorrow and see where they wanted it taken, or if they preferred to handle it themselves. Just one more thing on a “to-do” list that never seemed to get any shorter. She honestly didn’t see how working mothers handled it all.

  Slipping out of the dress, she draped it over the back of a chair to finish drying and went into her en-suite. Her bladder felt nearly as full as her breasts had been. She took care of that first. She’d worn dark pantyhose that flattered her legs and left no lines in her dress. Peeling them off, she consigned them to the laundry hamper, grabbed a clean towel and matching washcloth, turned on the taps, and flipped the stopper. She lit her current favorite candle and set it on the corner of the soaker tub, breathing in the heady scent of jasmine while the water rose to its maximum level.

  The hair needed to come down at some point. She left it up to keep it dry, sank down to her neck, and soaked, letting the hot water ease the tension from her body and her mind.

  At some point, she fell asleep. The cool temperature brought her back to awareness. Warming the water up again, she lingered a bit longer before she let it out, listening to the rush as it escaped down the drain, carrying away whatever she’d managed to release.

  Beth did a quick pass with the bath sheet before stepping out of the tub. Too tired to care, she dried her drips as she walked, headed for a soft pillow and silky sheets until Dante woke, hungry or wet or both.

  She stepped into a darkened room and cursed her luck tonight. First Matteo. Now this. She hoped that she had the same-sized bulb to replace the burned out one. The task required a stepladder. It would wait until daytime tomorrow.

  Feeling her way to her nightstand, she tapped her reading lamp on. The soft, telling intake of breath coming from across the room made her freeze. Her muscles stiffened while the skin above them crawled.

  Whoever was there would have had to get by Bernardo, which meant that Bernardo and likely Constanza were dead—unless it was Matteo.

  Please, God, let it be Matteo.

  “Turn around.”

  She hadn’t heard it in eleven months, but she knew that voice. Exhaling the breath that had lodged in her chest, she hugged the bath sheet to her breasts, slowly pivoted on the ball of her foot, and turned to face him.

  Matteo stalked toward her with the sleek grace of a jungle cat. She’d forgotten how tall he was. He was bigger. Stronger. Physically fit where she’d just been released to exercise in moderation. He kept his dark gaze locked on hers, holding her in dread. Hunter and prey, his empty hands were full of lethal promise.

  He’d either kill her or keep her. At the moment, she had no idea which it would be.

  He reached for the towel. She refused to let it go. Just because she’d given herself to him once didn’t give him the right to more.

  He wasn’t expecting resistance. She spun away and skittered out of reach.

  The corner of his lips curled in amusement before flattening.

  When he started to take a step towards her, she thrust her hand, palm out, to stop him.

  Miraculously, he did.

  “What do you want?” she choked out.

  He canted his dark head and began unbuttoning his shirt. “I want what’s mine.”

  Wildly, she looked at the door, as if she could see across the hall to the nursery beyond. Tears blurred her vision when she thought that she might never see Dante again.

  He tossed his shirt aside and reached for his belt.

  “Please,” she begged him. “Can’t you wait a little longer?”

  “It’s been eleven months, Beth. I think that’s long enough.”

  He was here for her. Giovanni still hadn’t told him about Dante.

  He’d know soon enough. The minute she dropped the towel, the truth would be out.

  “You’re mine,” he rasped, his voice grown husky with desire. “My father gave you to me, to do whatever I want, whenever I want. Right now, I want that towel gone and your body in bed, capisci?”

  Denying him would only delay the inevitable. “I understand,” she assured him. “I have no choice. I’ve been living at Giovanni’s whim. Nothing’s changed except my owner. But there are things he didn’t tell you. Things you need to know. I’m not the same woman that you kidnapped.”

  For a moment, he looked at her, inscrutable. Thrusting his hands in his hair, he cursed beneath his breath. “Has he been fucking you?” he demanded to know. “God damn son of a bitch!”

  “Ew! No! God, no! It’s nothing like that! Giovanni spared me after you were shot. And the reason…the reason was this.”

  She dropped the towel and let him see. Breasts that had grown half a cup size during her pregnancy. The faint lines on her bosom and the stretch marks on her abdomen. But the most telling thing was the muted red line where a classical incision had split her open from an inch below her navel to the top of her pubic bone. It was still healing. Eventually, it would fade into a scar that she would wear for the rest of her life.

  He stood there, wordless, wrestling to grasp his new reality.

  “You have a son,” she told him. “Dante Santino Visconti. He was born April the eighth on Easter Sunday at 11:11 AM. Nine pounds, ten ounces and twenty-three inches long. I’d been in labor since the day before. I would have kept pushing, but he went into distress. The doctor told me that this—” she put her hand over the incision site “—was the quickest way to get him out and save him. I said yes.”

  The only reactions from Matteo were his thin-pressed lips and a telltale tic in his jaw. “I didn’t know,” he said tightly. “Pop didn’t tell me. No one did.”

  Beth shrugged. “Your brothers were probably like me. I was ordered to say nothing if you called. Not that I expected you to when you thought that I was dead.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  “Did you find him? The man who shot you?”

  “No. No, I didn’t. I haven’t yet, but I will.”

  The way he said it, she believed it.

  “You’re only here for Italian Fest, then.” He’d be leaving again to hunt monsters. She should feel relieved. Instead, she felt an inexplicable sense of disappointment wash over her. “I have orders to attend with Dante. Your father wants him with the family.”

  Matteo blinked, looking lost for a moment. “He does?”

  “Bastard or not, Dante is his first grandchild. Or the first acknowledged one, anyway. If there’s a trail of them behind the Ribelle tour bus, no one’s slapped Marco or Tony with a paternity suit. Not yet, anyway.”

  “There won’t be. They always cover up. Like me.”

  Beth looked down at the evidence to the contrary.

  Following her gaze, Matteo rubbed his beard-
stubbled jaw and shook himself. When he looked at her again, the scar was still there.

  “It’s not pretty, but he did a neat job, and it’s healing. I have to tell you, wrestling and breastfeeding a ten-pound newborn after major abdominal surgery are no fun. Do you want to see him now? He has your hair and ears and the family birthmark on his spine, your father tells me. He’s asleep but he’ll be waking up soon to eat again. I’m breastfeeding. He won’t take a bottle.”

  He raised his gaze to her bosom. Beth felt herself blush. Color warmed her cheeks and spilled down her neck. She cursed her body’s response when her nipples tightened under his perusal.

  Aware of the awkwardness of the situation, she grabbed the robe that she kept for night feedings. “The nursery is across the hall,” she stammered, slipping it on and tying the belt with shaking hands. “Just…be quiet, please. You won’t like what happens if you wake him.”

  He followed her to the baby’s room. The nursery was decorated in a classic Winnie the Pooh theme, with framed prints on soft, yellow walls and accents in muted shades of brown, peach, blue, and green. The rocker where she nursed him sat in one corner with a large bed pillow in its seat. The end table beside it held a stack of children’s books, a coaster with a bottle of water, a lamp, and a framed picture of Matteo that Giovanni had given her to show the baby.

  Val had done one better. He’d sent a video clip to her phone of Matteo with his old girlfriend, Chiara, teasing and talking at last year’s Italian Fest.

  In the opposite corner, stuffed toys sat in a child’s rocker, waiting until Dante was old enough to play with them. For now, his favorite object was the mobile that hung above his crib.

  She held back, waiting until Matteo stepped up to the crib before she came to stand beside him. Watching the baby’s mouth work in his sleep, she whispered, “He’s dreaming of eating. When it’s not enough, he’ll wake up.”

  Matteo stared into the crib, his face revealing nothing. Paternity had come as a shock. Processing it was going to take time. If acceptance never came, if he never bonded with his son, if he had no more use for her, at least she could die easier knowing that Giovanni would see that Dante was cared for and loved.