Accidental Witness (Morelli Family 1)

“Tonight, yeah. Which is weird, isn’t it? I mean, we’re teenagers, and they’re just okay with us sleeping in the same bed?”

“Mateo doesn’t care,” she says, simply. “He’s not Vince’s dad, and… he wouldn’t care anyway.”

“Seems weird.”

“It won’t, eventually.”

It’s so weird how everyone seems to accept without question there was some mandate, locking me into this family, and apparently I missed it?

By the time we make it to the wing housing Francesca, I decide that I could have a sufficient workout routine if I just walked through this whole house twice a day. At the end of the long hall, there’s another hallway to the left, and a hallway to the right. Directly ahead, an enormous painting hangs on the wall. Apparently Francesca is on the left hall, because that’s where Cherie turns.

“The room across the hall is empty,” Cherie tells me. “If they don’t keep you with Vince permanently, you may get that one. Then you and Francesca will be neighbors,” she says brightly.

Neighbors is a good way to put it. This house really is more like an apartment complex, judging by the size of it. “I don’t think I need my own bedroom,” I say, glancing over my shoulder as I follow Cherie. “Do all the family members live here?” I ask.

“Not all of them. Francesca, Adrian, Mateo, Vince, Alec—Mateo’s dad, too, but he’s sickly…” She’s walking ahead of me, but she slows down until we’re side by side so she can say lowly, “and an old bastard. You probably won’t even meet him. Mateo pretty much has him tucked away, just waiting for him to die.”

My eyes widen, but she goes on, still quiet. “There are cameras throughout the house, by the way. You won’t always be able to tell where they are. Some are obvious, some aren’t. They do record audio.”

“Cameras? Like, surveillance?”

She nods, then speaks at a normal tone. “And here’s Francesca’s room.”

When she opens the door, I see an opulent room of whites and pinks. Like every other room I’ve seen so far, it’s huge. It doesn’t even look like a bedroom when we first walk in—there’s a sofa in front of a fireplace with bookcases flanking it and a side table, like a living room. A television is mounted on the wall. Beyond that, though, is a wall with an open arch, and that leads into Francesca’s sleeping area. There’s another door at the back of the room. It’s only cracked open, but it looks like a bathroom.

“And over here,” Francesca says, walking around the bed, opening a door I didn’t notice between the bed and the bathroom, “is the closet.”

I should expect it at this point, but it’s a walk-in. A huge walk-in, larger than my bedroom at home, with a floor-to-ceiling mirror as soon as you walk in, and a fancy upholstered bench—pale pink, of course—right in the center. Racks and racks of clothing, handbags and shoes fill the room, and I can’t even deal.

“What is this place? How rich is this family?”

“Super rich,” she tells me. “Mateo’s actually a really good business man, and he’s been systematically buying up his side of the city. Most of his money now is actually legit, from what I hear.”

“Why not get out of the crime stuff then?”

She shrugs. “No idea. Anyway, sit, I’ll pick you a dress.”

I sit there awestruck, looking around at all of Francesca’s possessions, remembering her telling me she would sell her soul not to be a part of this family. Maybe she has an inaccurate idea of what the rest of the world is like, because from the cushy fucking seat I’m sitting in, being born to this family seems more like a blessing than a curse.

I mean, crime boss head of the family or not. Look at all these shoes!

Cherie plucks a dress off the rack and brings it over to me. “High neck. Try this one.”

I feel a little weird undressing right in front of her, but she doesn’t leave, and she doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest as she waits to zip me up.

Once it’s fastened, I admire my reflection for a moment while Cherie pops over to the shoes. She picked out a black lace sheath dress, and while the neckline is high, it’s super pretty.

“What’s your shoe size?” she asks, picking up a pair of suede turquoise heels.

“Usually 8.”

“Perfect,” she says, bringing them over. “Do you need pantyhose?”

“I think I’m okay,” I tell her, stepping into the heels.

“Do you have makeup with you? You could use some lipstick.”

I don’t, so our next stop is Francesca’s vanity in the bathroom. Cherie navigates the drawers like a pro, and before long she picks a shade and applies it before I can argue.

Flashing me a smile as she puts it away, she says, “Perfect. You look very pretty.”