Giovanni

by Natasha Knight

  When I open my eyes again, I find him watching me and as the last of my orgasm fades away, all I can think is that he’s wrong.

  That there is more of me to break.

  8

  Giovanni

  We’re sitting at the dining-room table where dinner is laid out. According to the cook, Emilia didn’t eat today. She’s so fucking stubborn. She’s on her second plate of curry now. I’m going to guess all that whiskey on an empty stomach is part of the reason for the fucked-up emotions out there. That, and the panic when I threw her into the pool. I have to admit, seeing her like that, beneath the surface, going down, panic in her eyes but not the fight I’d expect, not that instinctual fight to survive—I don’t like it.

  I know why she didn’t put on the dress I sent earlier. She’s only wearing it now because she has no choice, since her dress is soaked. It’s a pretty, frilly yellow summer dress, and it leaves part of her back exposed. The silvery lines begin crisscrossing at the tops of her shoulder blades, and I know they go all the way to her lower back. Twenty-one lines, some thick, badly healed, others flat to the skin.

  When she glances sideways at me, I slide a forkful of chicken into my mouth but don’t take my eyes off her.

  “Who did it?”

  “You know what?” She drops her fork on her plate. “It’s none of your business. They’re old. They’re nothing.”

  “Your father?”

  “No! God, no, he would never! He never raised a hand to me. Not once.”

  “Your brother?”

  She shoves her chair back and stands. “I’m done. I want to go home.”

  “Sit down.” I eat another bite, feeling pretty calm. I know the answer. She’s just given it to me. But the who isn’t as important as the why.

  “Just let me go.”

  Same request as when she was in the pool. Let me go. Thing is, I don’t think she wants me to let her go.

  And I don’t want to let her.

  “Why did he do it?”

  “You’re stubborn,” she says, but she sits and picks up her fork to push food around her plate.

  “Only as stubborn as you. You don’t want to tell me?”

  “No.”

  “You will. In time.” I take a sip of my beer. “Had an interesting day today.”

  “Why would I care?”

  “I think you will. Met a man who used to work for your brother.”

  She glances at me but is quick to look away.

  “Well, he worked for your dad first. Liked him better, he said. That was before he was killed, obviously.”

  “Who?”

  “John Diaz.”

  Her back goes rigid.

  “Did you know he’s married now? Has a kid.” I take the last bite of my chicken, wipe my mouth, and sit back to enjoy the rest of my beer.

  “I don’t know him,” she says finally.

  “No? He knows you. Got a strange look on his face when I mentioned you.”

  “Why would you mention me?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a mystery to me.”

  She finishes eating and drinks the rest of her beer. We sit quietly for a few minutes before she finally asks: “Did he tell you where Alessandro is?”’

  “No. He didn’t know.”

  I can see the relief on her face.

  “Would you like dessert?” I ask.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Want to talk about your freak-out at the pool?”

  “Not really. It’s not a big deal.” She shrugs. “I just never learned how to swim. I know it sounds stupid, but I’m afraid of deep water if I’m being honest. Always have been.”

  “Not stupid. What else are you afraid of?”

  She watches me calmly. She’s so good at this, at hiding any emotion. “That’s a strange question.”

  “Your brother?”

  She just holds that smile, and I can’t figure her out.

  “What about you? What are you afraid of? There has to be something even for someone like you,” she asks.

  I think about this. I don’t think I ever actually have. I shrug a shoulder. “Can’t think of anything, honestly. When I was little, I was afraid of my father. He wasn’t as gentle as yours seems to have been.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He wanted to be sure my brother and I were tough. Wanted to be sure we were prepared for this life.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Nothing as terrible as he probably wanted to do. I won’t carry scars for the rest of my life.” She lowers her eyes to her lap for a moment.

  “Are you and your brother close?”

  “We’re not close, but we’re not enemies. We like each other well enough. I have a sister too. Half-sister, actually, from one of my father’s many affairs.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “At a boarding school in England. It’s her last year. She’s a handful.” I smile, though. I like Alysia. She’s a pain in the ass, but tough. I like her.

  “You grew up in Italy?”

  “We split our time between southern Italy and New York. You spent most of yours in the states.”

  She nods but is cautious. I wonder if she’s surprised I know. “My dad thought it was safer. Ironic as it is.”

  “He was probably right.”

  “Didn’t work for him though.” The assassination took place when he was in the U.S.

  “No, I guess it didn’t.” My phone vibrates with a text message. Her eyes move to it, as do mine, and I pick it up. It’s a text from one of my men.

  “It’s him.”

  “Secure the property and her apartment as well,” I type back.

  “What did you mean when you said I look like her?”

  I delete both messages before looking up at her, seeing her in a different light. Feeling even more curious now than before. I’m trying to work out whether or not it was her who did it. How she would have managed it. Because who else would have saved that bastard’s life? Who else would keep him in hiding?

  “Did you hear me?” she asks when I don’t reply.

  I hear her loud and clear. I knew that moment would come back to haunt me. But she gets under my skin. Makes me lose control.

  “Nothing. Just wanted to fuck with you.” I check my watch. “Time for bed, Emilia.”

  “What?”

  I stand. “Time for bed. Go upstairs.”

  She pushes back, and I think what I see on her face is close to disappointment. “Can I just go home?”

  “Not tonight.” My men will be working in her apartment tonight. “I’ll be up later.”

  I walk out of the room without waiting for her to reply. I don’t feel like a discussion right now. I have some work to do.

  It’s early the next morning. I’m standing over Emilia, putting on my cuff links and watching her sleep. She’s pretty when she sleeps. Soft, with her dark hair splayed out around her, her face relaxed, her lips slightly parted. I guess I’m surprised she sleeps so easily here, in my bed.

  But what I learned last night, it shows me a whole other side of her. I know she’s strong. Of that I have no doubt. But what she’s managed to do—who she’s managed to hide—I have to say I’m impressed. And even more curious about her secrets because she keeps them well.

  When I finish with the cuff links, I go to my closet, pick out a tie, then return to the bed.

  “Wake up, Sunshine.”

  She groans and rolls over away from me. I have to smile as I tuck the tie beneath my collar and lean down toward her.

  “Rise and shine.”

  She stiffens. I straighten, watch her blink her eyes open, see her remember where she is. She rolls over onto her back and pulls the sheet higher, as if just remembering she’s naked. She looks up at me, looks at what I’m wearing. I’m knotting my tie, watching her.

  “What do you w
ant?”

  “You’re not a morning person, are you? Although you don’t seem to be much of a night person either.”

  “Maybe it’s you. Maybe you just bring out the worst in me.”

  “Maybe.” I check my watch. “Get up. We leave for Mass in thirty minutes, so we have time to drop by your apartment for something appropriate for you to wear.”

  “Mass?” She sits up a little, obviously confused by this.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Why?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means why do you go to Mass? Considering…who you are.”

  I shrug a shoulder. “I was raised Catholic. It was important to my mother, and I guess it stuck. So, let’s go. Up.”

  She holds the blanket up to cover her chest and swings her legs over the bed. “I haven’t been to church since I was a kid,” she says, climbing out of bed and wrapping the blanket around her. She walks toward the bathroom but stops at the door and turns. “This is weird, you know that, right?”

  I shrug a shoulder. “Thirty minutes.” I leave her and head downstairs, sit down at the dining-room table, and drink some coffee while checking messages. Twenty minutes later, Emilia appears downstairs, freshly showered and wearing the pretty yellow dress from last night. She looks over the breakfast table.

  “Have a seat.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to abstain from food before Communion?” she asks, sitting down.

  “I think God would forgive you if you ate breakfast.” I pour her a mug of coffee.

  She takes it, adds a little sugar and a generous amount of cream. “Thank you,” she says, taking a sip.

  I reach for the toast and butter a slice. “Are you seriously not going to eat for religious reasons?”

  She smiles. “No. I never eat breakfast first thing. Just coffee.”

  The toast crunches when I bite into it. “Suit yourself.” A text comes through. I shift my attention back to my phone but feel her watching me.

  “Both properties are secured.”

  I reply with a thanks, finish my toast, and turn to her. “Ready?”

  She takes another sip of coffee, then nods and stands.

  Vincent is already waiting with the car. A few minutes later, we’re on our way to her apartment.

  “Do you really go to mass every Sunday?”

  “Yes. Why is that so strange to you?”

  “Well, you’re…the mafia.”

  “I thought you’d have had a strong religious upbringing.”

  She shakes her head. “Nan, the woman who raised us, would take Alessandro and me to church now and again, but my dad never went. Said it was pointless. Said if there was a God, what happened wouldn’t have happened.”

  “What do you think?”

  She startles at my question. I guess she’s surprised I’m asking it. But when she answers, it’s very matter-of-factly. “I think he’s right.”

  I don’t really like her answer. No, not so much her answer, but more how she answered. But I drop it when we pull up to her apartment a few minutes later.

  “I don’t have my keys,” she says, as if just remembering we didn’t stop to pick up her bag after the incident at the club.

  I take out mine. “I have mine.”

  “Why do you have keys to my apartment?”

  “Aren’t you glad I do?” I answer and open the front door, gesture for her to enter.

  She mutters something under her breath and heads up. I follow her up the six flights of stairs and unlock her door.

  “You’ll give those back when this is finished?” I know she wants it to sound like a statement of fact, but it comes out more a question.

  I give her a smile and reach for my phone. “Hurry up. I don’t like being late.”

  When she emerges fifteen minutes later, she’s wearing a pretty pink sleeveless dress and matching pumps. She drops a lipstick into the clutch she’s holding, and her hair is in its usual, perfect bun.

  “You look good,” I say. It’s awkward.

  “Thanks.” She clears her throat.

  “Let’s go.”

  The chapel I go to is closer to the Lincoln property, but I make the trip every Sunday. My mom used to bring us here when we were little, and although there are a hundred churches in the city, this is the one I want to be at.

  We arrive at the small stone structure forty-five minutes later. It’s old and beautiful and the scent of incense already permeates the air as we near the arched wooden door. A nun walks in ahead of us, looking over her shoulder to pass the door to us. She gives a nod of acknowledgement but not quite a smile. I guess she wonders, too, why I bother. I’m hell bound. There is no god willing to forgive the likes of me.

  But when we step inside, the familiar notes of the organ soothe me, make me forget the nun. I don’t care what she thinks. What anyone thinks. I am who I am, and if they don’t like it, they can go fuck themselves. Besides, if it weren’t for my generosity, this church wouldn’t still be standing.

  I dip my fingers in holy water and make the sign of the cross, the music already carrying me back in time. The sensation is almost tangible.

  Emilia follows my lead with the holy water, surprising me. Only about half of the pews are occupied. I guide Emilia to one near the back. Father Germain, the ancient priest, is at the pulpit. I remember him from when I was little.

  The mass is said in Italian, which I know surprises Emilia, but she is silent. I watch her watching the priest, listening intently. I wonder if she can follow or if this is meaningful for her at all.

  It’s not until much later, when she walks down the aisle and toward the altar for communion, surprising me again, that the church door opens. It isn’t until then that the feeling of well-being dissipates and is replaced by something cold.

  I hear Vincent say something, hear a woman reply. Then I hear him.

  I turn to the entrance, and I know Emilia is coming back down the aisle without having to see her for myself. I know because my father’s eyes are tracking her. They take in every inch of her. They fucking devour her. His lecherous gaze makes my hands fist. I feel how my face hardens, how my jaw sets. Janet’s looking at me, her expression one of trepidation, of anxious anticipation. He made her bring him. I know it instantly.

  My father smiles when Emilia reaches the pew. She knows something is up, and I think she guesses who he is. I step into the aisle for her to enter, placing one more barrier between him and her.

  The organ booms, but I still hear my father order Janet to push his wheelchair toward us. Father Germain gives his final blessing, and the altar boys begin to walk down the aisle to the back of the church. They pass us, followed by Father Germain and more altar boys. The whole while, my father’s eyes are locked on Emilia. All I can do is wrap one of my hands around the back of her neck. Pull her closer.

  Because my father is just as dangerous for her as I am.

  Because this time, the girl is mine.

  9

  Emilia

  I know the old man in the wheelchair is Giovanni’s father.

  The church slowly empties. The priest and altar boys leave, and the organ music dies down. The parishioners begin to speak in hushed tones as they make their way out of the church. A baby cries. The mother walks quickly by, the child in her arms. The father and another, older child, follow them out. I do notice the glances we get by most, if not all.

  Giovanni’s hand tightens possessively around the back of my neck as he steps out of the aisle, moving me with him. Vincent approaches but remains standing behind the old man and the woman I assume is his nurse. She looks anxious. More than anxious. But the man is grinning from ear to ear and tells the woman to push him forward. She’s reluctant, but a moment later, we meet in the aisle.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Giovanni asks, his tone curt.

  The man in the chair looks up at Giovanni, his expression shifting, the smile fading into surprise. But I can see it’s an act.

/>   “Watch your language. We’re in a holy place.”

  “Since when have you cared about that? Since when do you come to Mass?”

  The old man turns to me, a smile back on his face. I can see a slight resemblance, but not so much that I’d pick them out to be related if I didn’t already know.

  “I came to meet Emilia.”

  My name on his tongue sends a shiver down my spine. How does he know about me? “What?”

  “I knew he’d never bring you to the house, so I thought I’d better pop in here. My son is quite predictable. He never misses Mass. But between you and me, if it’s redemption he seeks, I think he’ll be disappointed.” The old man extends his hand to me. “My dear, I’m Antonio Santa Maria, Giovanni’s father.”

  I feel Giovanni fuming beside me. I’m not sure what to do. I extend my hand, but before it reaches the old man’s, Giovanni captures my wrist, stopping me. Without taking his eyes from the old man, he steps between us, keeping hold of my wrist, almost using his body as a barrier between me and his father.

  “If you touch her, I will cut off your hand.”

  The words make me gasp, but the old man doesn’t seem to be at all impacted. In fact, his grin widens. I see the hate between them. Father and son.

  It makes me think of my father and brother. Life is so strange. It’s like things keep appearing, keep repeating. Like there’s one theme, and life keeps shoving it in your face.

  Mr. Santa Maria puts his hand back on his lap. “Sadly, I believe you would.”

  “Giovanni,” I start.

  “Vincent,” he calls, cutting me off. Vincent arrives, and he hands me off to him. “Take her to the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I go, only because I don’t know what else to do. But the old man meets my eyes as I go and gives me a smile, an almost apologetic one. The door to the church closes but just before it does, I hear Giovanni’s voice. The threat in it makes me shudder.

  A few minutes later, Giovanni appears. His face is unreadable as he walks toward the car. Vincent meets him a few steps away, says something and I see Giovanni’s gaze shift to another vehicle parked a little farther away in the lot. He changes direction. I watch as he stalks toward it, toward the man who steps out of the driver’s seat. He’s big, this guy. Almost as big as Giovanni. He closes the door and squares his shoulders, the look in his eyes hard as stone.