Page 19 of Snowed in with the Mafia

It’s a message from Gianna. My uncle is ranting about not being paid by the Falchi for selling me to them and wants to know what schemes we’ve concocted behind his back. Apparently, he needs the money to pay a debt or risk having his legs broken. He’ll never stop gambling, no matter what.

I didn’t tell Gianna I was married to them. I omitted that part, wanting to explain it to her in person.

Well, Nico, Luca, and Vince promised me they would help me get my farm back from my uncle. I believe them without a shred of doubt, so I’m just going to let them handle my uncle however they see fit.

My stomach twists into a thousand knots by the time I step into the farmhouse. It feels as if I lived an entirely different life in the last three days, a period that encompasses everything else.

I hear my sister crying and Manny telling my uncle to leave. I rush into the living room, leaving my husbands—because that’s what they are—in the mudroom.

“Oh, you stupid girl,” my uncle shouts at me as soon as he sees me. “You had one job. Get me my money, and you screwed that up. Did you think you could beat me, strike a deal with them, and turn against me? Why haven’t they paid me yet?”

“Gianna,” I say, hugging my sister tight, ignoring my uncle, who is so angry he’s red in the face and looks ready to have a heart attack. “It’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay,” I whisper to her.

“You think they’re going to save you?” My uncle shouts.

“You had one job,” Bianca choruses, pointing her finger at me. “I told you I should have gone instead. This would never have happened.” She turns and points her finger at her mother now.

“Oh, shut up, Bianca,” Aunt Martina says. “Alessia, did they pay you the money directly? If they did, you know you have to do the right thing and give it to your uncle. He took care of you when you had no one; remember that. You would have lost this farm.”

That is so untrue. My parents left the farm to us. It was in their will. My uncle took it from us like the snake he is, and we ended up taking care of him and his family.

“Did they pay the money directly to you?” Aunt Martina asks, trying to keep her tone measured while clearly wanting to scream at me.

“No,” I say.

“Well, did they take your virginity?” she asks through gritted teeth while forcing a smile this time.

“Yes,” I reply.

Bianca lunges at me, her hand poised to slap me, I suppose.

“You stupid, fucking bitch, you cheap whore! You let them fuck you without—”

“Think very carefully about where you want to place that hand of yours,” Vince says from the doorway where the three of them are standing.

“We’re not in the habit of unaliving women, but when it comes to Alessia, there are no exceptions,” Nico adds as they walk into the shabby living room, hands in the pockets of their suits, larger than life. Their brilliance, authority, and dominance create an atmosphere so powerful that everything around them, including us, just disintegrates.

Bianca jumps back as if electrocuted. At the same moment, she tries to neaten her messy hair.

“Maestri,” Bianca says, bowing and giggling nervously now. My aunt and uncle take a little longer to recover.

“Just a misunderstanding,” my uncle says, now all charm. “We didn’t know you would be coming to personally hand us the check for Alessia,Maestri. We would have prepared for your arrival.”

“Yes, of course. Please, sit. A drink to celebrate this new venture between us. Gianna, get some glasses, will you? Don’t just stand there; go now,” Aunt Martina barks. “It’s so hard to get good help these days,” she adds softly, as if they belong to the same class of people as the Falchi.

“No, Gianna isn’t doing anything,” I say.

“Do you want us to pay your uncle the dowry for your virginity,Tesoro?” Luca asks me. My gaze flips to him. They’re on my side; I keep reminding myself.

“No,” I say, looking my uncle dead in the eye.

Chapter Eighteen

Alessia

My uncle gives an irritated laugh. He looks terrible—worse than ever. His bad state is an indication of how much money he needs to clear his gambling debts.

“You can’t ask for her opinion,” my uncle rants, becoming more agitated. “She’s nothing. No one. You speak to me. I own her.”

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