Matteo let out a sharp laugh. “Hey future-fish-food, trying to bypass my brother is a fucking bad idea. Even a pea-brained biker should grasp that.”
In the background, I could hear female voices, distant at first then closer. “Is that Marcella’s lover boy?” someone asked, and I couldn’t help but grin.
“Not now,” Matteo said, and his voice had a softer note I’d never heard.
“That’s kind of cool,” said a higher girl’s voice. “Can I ride his bike one day?”
“Sure as duck not,” Matteo said.
I snorted. “Sure as duck?”
“But Dad!”
“Your daughter can ride my bike if she wants.”
“Careful,” Matteo whispered in a deadly voice. “I don’t want you anywhere near my family anytime soon.”
“Of course not,” I gritted out.
“Matteo, we can decide who we want to meet or not, and if he’s the man Marcella chose then I sure as hell want to meet him, with or without your approval. You’re free to guard us of course.”
Ouch. Matteo’s wife had big balls.
“Sure, babe. But if biker boy looks the wrong way at you or Isa, I’ll ram my blade into his throat with or without your approval.”
“Eww, Dad! That’s disgusting.”
I heard rustling and then a door closing.
“I’d never thought that you Vitiellos allow women to talk up to you. Old Ladies know when to keep their mouths shut and show respect.”
“See, we Vitiellos might be brutal fuckers who carve our enemies open like a goddamn Halloween pumpkin but we treat our women right. If that’s not something you can do, you better ride your bike into the sunset ASAP.”
“Calm down. If I wanted a woman who worshipped the ground I walked on, I wouldn’t have picked Marcella. I like that we’re equals.”
Matteo made a noise that suggested we weren’t really. I chose not to comment. After all, I needed his cooperation. “What about Marcella’s number?”
“Call Luca.” He hung up on me.
“Fuck!” I stared out of the window. I wanted nothing more than to talk to Marcella, to be reminded why I was here in this place, why I chose to be surrounded by enemies.
I went to the marble bathroom and took a piss, still seething, when my phone beeped with a message with a number and the words:
Marci can decide if she wants to talk to you. But if you hurt her, you’re dead. Gianna
The name distantly rang a bell. I could only assume she was Matteo’s wife.
Thanks
I considered calling Marcella, desperate to hear her voice again, but I wasn’t sure if that would alert Vitiello. I wouldn’t put it past him to confiscate her phone just to stop us from talking.
Instead, I messaged her. She replied almost instantly and just like that, my doubts evaporated. The moments without her were the hard ones, where everything I’d lost loomed over me. The moments with her? Worth every ounce of pain.
All through the night, I kept thinking about my reunion with Maddox. It had been overshadowed with so many conflicting emotions: anger toward Maddox and Dad and Amo, relief, joy, but also worry over what lay ahead. Almost everyone was against this bond.
I needed to talk to someone about Maddox, about my feelings and what had happened. I loved Mom and I talked about almost everything with her, but this was something I couldn’t share with her, especially my worries over a possible pregnancy. I was still desperately waiting for my period, which I should have gotten yesterday.
I’d on occasion talked to my girlfriends from college about Giovanni, about meaningless couple things, but this was too personal, which was strange considering I wasn’t even in a relationship with Maddox yet. I wasn’t sure what we were at this point. I wanted us to be together, that was all I knew.
But our relationship was far more controversial and explosive than anything with Giovanni had ever been.
I messaged Aunt Gianna, asking if she had time for a one-on-one yoga session.
She replied within a minute. I’m already in the studio. Come over. After getting the okay from Dad, which he insisted I had to ask for every time I left the house now, I let one of my bodyguards take me to Gianna’s gym.
Gianna waited for me at the staff door, dressed in yoga pants and a cutoff tank. None of the other mafia wives, especially if they were moms, dressed like that, which was one of the reasons why Gianna was perfect for the conversation I needed to have. She defied conventions and lived however she wanted to live, within certain restrictions of mob life.
Gianna gave me a smile and brief hug before she led me into her cozy yoga room. It smelled of vervain and was heated to a tank top temperature all year around. Gianna sank down on one of the blood-red poofs and I did the same right across from her. She searched my face but didn’t say anything.