The Woman in the Back Room (Costa Family)

Ultimately, it looks like that plan went to hell, though.

A divorce would have been much better than a death.

But we couldn't change that now.

I would make it right.

I would take it upon myself to slowly bleed out the bastard who stole his mom from him.

But we had to move forward.

With a new woman in that back room, apparently.

"Have you already worked this out with Gio Sr.?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"We've talked about it, yeah."

"Has he talked about it with her?"

"Of course."

"Does she even have a choice in the matter?" I wanted to know if she was going to be giving up her life for us, then resenting us for it. I didn't need any more negativity around my son.

"She could have said no. It's not like she was the only person we could have called on. It's a feather in her cap, I'm sure," Lorenzo added, grabbing the first pancake—as pale and imperfect as it was—folding it up, dipping it in some syrup, then making his way to the door.

"When does she start?" I called.

"Tomorrow," he said, moving out into the hall.

"Enz," I called as he started to close the door.

"What?" he asked, brows furrowing.

"Does the woman have a name?" I asked, making a smirk tug at his lips.

"Alessa. Alessa Morelli."

Chapter Two

Alessa

"It's an honor to be asked," my father insisted, pounding a meaty fist on the table.

I'd taken after my mother in the looks department.

Tall and the athletic sort of lean—a nice ass and barely-there rack—with long dark brown hair and golden brown eyes. I got her freckles, too. Over the nose. Across the cheeks. Faint, but there. I'd always resented them for making me look younger than I was. My mother claimed that was what the guys liked most about her, that she looked like a high school girl.

As if I needed any more proof that guys were disgusting.

I mean, to be fair, my father must have had decent genes because my half-brothers practically tripped over the women who threw themselves at them. He'd just gone a little crazy on my step-mom's indulgent cooking and still believed he could squeeze into his clothes from a decade ago.

"In what way was this him asking?" I shot back. "It's a thinly veiled order."

"So what if it is? He's the boss."

"He's your boss," I corrected. "You've made it infinitely clear that I am not part of the Family in any official capacity, so, technically, he's not my boss in any way shape or form."

"Alessa, if you want in, do you really think being obstinate is helping?" Ciro, one of my half-brothers—and actual members of the Family because of his blood and his gender—asked as he walked out onto the patio of the restaurant.

Ciro, much like all our brothers, was tall, dark-haired, and brown-eyed. He had a swimmer's build and a penchant for fancy suits. That day, black. He had a single dimple on the rare occasion that he smiled.

"It isn't obstinacy if I am simply stating facts," I shot back, reaching for a garlic knot, peeling it apart to eat it.

I always stuck out at family dinners.

My father looked every bit the capo in his slacks, loafers, and bowling shirts. My brothers looked like stereotypical mafia soldiers in their suits.

Then there was me.

In my black utility pants and black sweatshirt.

Combat boots.

I kept my hair back in a simple ponytail.

No fuss.

I couldn't exactly put on a pencil skirt and kick ass if I needed to. And despite the rampant sexism in the mob, I have proven time and time again that I was more than capable of handling myself and business.

"It's a job," Ciro reminded me. "A paying job. And, I might add, a well-paying one. Lorenzo pays more than anyone else would for the same thing."

"Lorenzo isn't paying me at all," I reminded him. "That brother is."

"That brother's name is Santiago," Ciro said, lifting a brow at me. It was his typical disappointed look. I got it a lot from him when I was being deliberately difficult or not following his strict code of ethics. Like calling the Capo dei Capi's brother by his name.

"Yes, and up until, what, two weeks ago, he wasn't even part of the Family," I said, brow lifted. "No one finds that strange?"

"His wife was murdered right in front of him," our father said, voice low. "That's enough to bring any man out of retirement."

"That's the thing, though. You don't get to retire in this life. Why does this brother get to flit in and out of the Family like this? And then make demands of us?"

"Everything is changing now, with Arturo gone," our father reminded us.

"And for the better," Ciro said. "About time," he added, looking over my shoulder.

"What? You don't wait for me?" Gio, another of our brothers, our father's namesake, asked, giving my shoulder a shove as he sat down, nodding toward my food.