Gemma: A Mafia Forbidden Romance

“What are you going to do for dinner, Papa?” I ask.

He smiles sweetly at me, amused by my concern for his wellbeing tonight. Probably because it’s the first time I’ve expressed any concern for anyone but myself in months. I make a mental note to be kinder to people, then I store it away in the depths of my mind.

“I have a business meeting.” He tells me.

Giuseppe is a fan of business meetings, even on Friday nights. He’s a skilled lawyer, a winner, but for him the thrill is in catching the case. I’ve heard him called an ambulance chaser, a legal eagle, a shyster. It’s not that he’s unethical, though I guess his connections to La Famiglia don’t help his case, he just likes to win—at all costs. The fun in practicing law is in getting the clients, wooing them with an expensive meal and listening to their woes. Then, when they sign that paper, it’s a sweet victory. It’s a high for him.

Unlike my father, I get my high from pills. Adderall, to be precise. Like I said, no one in this town is selling me the harder stuff.

I pop one in my mouth when I turn away from him and wash it down with a chug of water. The man is so focused on his brief he doesn’t even notice the action.

“Andrew will escort you.” My father says, waving a pen in my direction with eyes still focused on the document in front of him.

That kills my mood instantly. I hate having a babysitter.

“No, thank you.” I try, curving my red painted lips into a smile.

Normally, I have my father wrapped around my finger, but he’s been more overprotective since Ma died and harder to manipulate.

“Non-negotiable, Gemma Antoinette.” This time he looks at me, lifting his head enough to gaze over the top of his glasses, giving me a stern look. Using my middle name is the indicator he’s serious, no discussion will be tolerated.

I pout. The action causes him to glare.

“Compromise with me, Daddy. How about Andrew follows me, and I’ll drive my Lexus?”

He scowls.

“I need some freedom, plus you’re the one who told me I needed to get out of the house.”

He caves, waving a dismissive hand. “Fine, go.”

I blow him a kiss. “Thank you.” I croon. Grabbing my purse, a baby pink Michael Kors crossbody, I head out of the house before he changes his mind.

My Lexus RC F is waiting for me in the semi-circle driveway. I relish the feeling of the soft leather against my thighs as I slide into the car. Andrew, my enforcer, is leaning on the side of one of my family’s blacked out Escalades. He waves a hand at me and then gets into the SUV, ready to follow.

Andrew’s younger than the average mafioso, plus he’s motivated, he’s still trying to get his button so he’ll be harder to lose. Luckily, my car is fast. I speed out of the driveway before he even has the SUV in gear. My Lexus is also much smaller than the Escalade. I take the first turn quickly without signaling, causing him to miss it. I speed through Providence, leaving Andrew in my dust.

It’s sad, really. Andrew will have to tell my brothers that he couldn’t keep up with me, which will be embarrassing for him but will also piss them off. He’ll end up getting scolded for it and it will put him lower on the list. Poor Andrew.

The Adderall kicks in then, and the euphoria blankets me with a lovely sensation which is my favorite part. It washes over me in an intoxicating wave. I feel the corners of my lips tug up into a smile, my fingertips feel electrified, everything looks prettier. I’m happier on Adderall.

I weave my way through the city to the train station. Gian installed a tracker on my car, a fact he thinks I don’t know. My family thinks because I was born with a vagina I must be simple-minded. They see me acting out and chalk it up to me being too stupid to realize my actions have consequences. What they fail to realize is I’m not dumb at all, I see through every move they make. He installed the tracker a year ago when I blocked the tracking service he put on my phone. I let it stay because this one I can work around.

I park the Lexus at the train station and board the next train to Boston.

Normally, I wouldn’t venture up there knowing the Irish aren’t keen on my heritage, but there’s an artist whose work I want to see. I’ve been to the gallery his show is being held at before with friends from school, I know nothing will happen.

Still, if my family knew I was going to Boston, they’d lose it.

They say we’re at war, but I can’t believe that an art gallery would be the battlefield.

The gallery sits in the heart of downtown Boston. It’s large for a downtown location, light oak floors and brick walls with open space that guests are mingling in. Along the walls are canvas’, each painted by Henry Reed himself. I linger at each one, inspecting the strokes of his brush, looking for hidden meaning, analyzing every detail.

“What do you see?” The voice that pulls me away from the piece in front of me belongs to a slim woman with fiery red hair and pale skin. Her hair is twisted and tied messily atop her head. Her face is covered in freckles with smoked out eyes and glossy lips. She’s wearing a black camisole tucked into a floral-printed pencil skirt and a pair of high heels.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh!” she smiled, exposing a set of white teeth. “I’m sorry, I’m just curious. I’m not good at this art stuff and you looked like you know your shit,” she gasps at the sound of her own foul language. “Shit, sorry.”