Page 16 of I Would Beg For You

“Urgh.”

She laughs, which makes me smile. I over-emphasized my dislike in replying to her.

“Don’t worry. I won’t say yes.”

“You better not.” I grumble.

David is a struggling artist crashing on her couch—I refuse to think of him in her bed—because his art means he’s basicallypenniless and homeless. Nice enough kid, same age as her. Just not going anywhere in life. I want more for my only sister.

She’s our youngest sibling, and we all look out for her. Are we over-protective? Sure. We’re her brothers. That’s in our job description. Like making sure no one ever takes advantage of her.

Francesca is twenty-four, one year older than Naomi. This gave me a benchmark in my dealings with her. I didn’t want some grown-ass man setting his sights on my sister when she was eighteen and vulnerable. Which then made me carry this forward onto Naomi, too. Once she grew older, sure. And this became a non-starter altogether for me when my father sent me to Turin to learn the business from our Uncle Gennaro.

I always knew I would inherit the throne one day. As his eldest son, it is my birthright. His most loyal capo deferred to this state of affairs from the get-go, his loyalty to my father and then to me as I grew older was unwavering. The plan was for me to learn the ropes until I turned thirty-five. At forty, our father would start easing off, so I’d gradually take center stage.

Alas, this wasn’t meant to happen. I have to step up now. But my father, I am not. Mamma maintained it was the Taurus in me—an Earth sign, solid and stable and that didn’t like to make brisk moves let alone ripples. A far cry from his Aquarius Water energy— the water-bearer who needed to connect people as a gateway. He did it well. In less than twenty years, he rose from a nobody to one of the strongest bosses of the region. His family wasn’t just feared but also respected, which is saying something in this world.

“Please don’t tell me you need a plus one for this ball,” Francesca says, interrupting my musings. “That’s also a big no.”

I smile and tip my champagne flute to her. “Wouldn’t dream of it. You’d make that resting bitch about to vomit face. No.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “It’s a masked ball, stronzo.”

“Only the top half of your face would be covered. Your mouth is a dead giveaway.”

She throws a piece of bread at me, which makes me laugh.

Francesca can always make me laugh. As can Luka, our little nephew.

And now there’s Naomi. I enjoy thinking about how riled up she got when I brought up Wickham on the plane. The soft insult did its job, though—it distracted her from jumping back into her anxious haze after I made her come, and kept her mind otherwise engaged for the rest of the flight.

I’m tempted to tell Francesca that Naomi is back. But I don’t. That will open a can of worms I’m not ready to deal with. Plus, she’d have the news broadcasted on the family WhatsApp within the hour.

No. For now, I wanted Naomi to be my little secret.

Chapter 7 Valentino

It’s a quiet weekuntil Thursday, the night of the ball.

My father loved these things. Any opportunity to mingle and make new friends, he would take it, and bask in it, too. Here I am, in the world he carved for us all. A world I fit in, yet also…don’t.

Because I’m not him. I don’t flit from person to person, making connections and introducing them around as this ‘friend of mine’ like my padre did. Give me a day in my study with my Steinway across from my desk and the window behind me opening onto my little garden on the family grounds, and that’s where I’m my best self.

It’s not exactly behind the scenes, but I’m not a center of attention kind of guy.

And it helps that at this ball tonight, no one will even know who I am as I exit a limousine like every other guest to then stroll in and out of this grand venue that is Richmond Place, an historical manor on the border of New Jersey and New York. The fact it’s a masked event gave me a push. I can slip in and out incognito all while achieving my goal for the night.

I spoke too soon, because right as I gather a flute of champagne, I want to turn back and flee with a groan. But she’s seen me already—I can’t escape.

A soft whack of her cane thumps across my shin.

I wince while forcing a smile. “Good evening, Zia Vivi.”

A throaty laugh is my only reply as she offers her cheek and I dutifully drop a light kiss on her paper-thin skin.

“Now I know why Francesca raised me a hundred on seeing you here tonight.”

I sigh. Genevieve Staub is not an aunt by blood or marriage, but as my Nonna Lorena’s best friend and also my dad’s godmother, she’s been more family to us than anything else.

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