Page 91 of The Proposal

“Do you have a job?”

She diverts her eyes, staring off to the side, and when her cheeks flush pink, I get my answer. Given the monumental age gap, logic tells me she was with Edoardo for the notoriety and lifestyle that comes with being associated with the Mafia, because she could certainly do better than him.

“Does Edoardo pay your rent?”

She winces before moving her gaze back to me. “Yes. It’s due at the end of the month, so I’m not sure what I will do if he doesn’t return.”

“Did he leave anything with you?”

“No. I only have a few suits here. Nothing of real value.”

“I will pay the rent for the next six months, giving you time to find your feet and look for a job.”

Her eyes widen in shock. “Why would you do that?”

I inhale through my nose and momentarily grind my backteeth as I force the next words from my mouth. “Edoardo isFamiglia,and we look after our own.”

“I appreciate that, Mr Mancini. Thank you.”

I’m not obligated to this woman, but I’m not a heartless monster either. She’s the innocent one in all this. “Do you have your phone on you?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers, pulling it from the back pocket of her jeans. “But you’ll find nothing on there. I’m telling the truth.”

“I believe you.” I’m pretty good at reading people, and I don’t think she’s hiding anything. “Give it to Romeo. He can put his number in there in case you need to contact us.”

“My number,” Romeo murmurs as his eyebrows jump. “Why mine?”

“Because I said so,” I grumble.

He’s single, and my little green-eyed wife demanded I delete all the female contacts I had on my phone—which I did to appease her—so I’m not about to add another and risk feeling her wrath.

Despite having Edoardo out of the picture for good, I still feel like I have the weight of the world resting on my shoulders. I acted on impulse when I pulled the trigger before getting to the bottom of this mess, and although I have zero regrets for ending that piece of shit, I wished I’d held off a little longer.

When he confessed to driving my mother off the road, something inside me shattered. I’m not sure I could’ve stopped myself—even if I wanted to—but now I’m left with the task of piecing the rest of this clusterfuck together.

My sense of trust has now vanished, and I find myself being suspicious of everyone around me. I’m grappling with anger, grief, and a painful re-examination of my relationshipwith both my father and the person he thought he knew so well. If only he could’ve seen the truth all those years ago, I know for certain he’d still be alive.

Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I blow out a long breath when my driver pulls up at the front of my house. My one consolation about being here is Arabella. That woman has quickly become my addiction. My escape from the shitshow that is now my life.

As I exit the car and walk up the stairs to the front door, I can hear loud music coming from inside. The sound sends a cold shiver down my spine and makes my heart pang.

It’s one of my father’s old records, Dean Martin, to be precise. I pause briefly before reaching for the door handle. I’d give anything right now to step inside and find him sitting on his recliner, sipping his arse-tasting amaro.

As I enter the foyer, I inhale deeply through my nose and fill my lungs with air. In a few long strides, I reach the entrance to the main room, where I find my wife singing along with the music and swaying her hips as she decorates a large Christmas tree. The sight instantly lifts my spirits, replacing the frown I had when I walked in with a smile.

Have you ever heard the saying, ‘Dance like nobody’s watching’? It’s the first thing that comes to mind as I stand here and observe her. She’s really letting loose, and even though her moves aren’t the most coordinated, I can’t help but think she’s absolutely adorable.

Briefly dragging my eyes away from her, I scan the room. It looks like Father Christmas has thrown up in here, but I’m not opposed to that. We haven’t had a tree in this house since we lost Mamma, so I like that Arabella is bringing back that tradition. Christmas was such a magical time for me as a kid.

I’d much rather think of those special times growing up than the fact that on Christmas Day last year, I lay in the backyard on the brink of death, riddled with bullets.

This space is no longer reminiscent of the room it oncewas. When I asked Arabella to redecorate the house, she knew it was important to keep some of the old while introducing the new. She made sure to incorporate little things that reminded me of my parents, like the leather armchair my father used to sit in, his record player, and the old grandfather clock that has been in Mamma’s family for generations.

At the same time, my wife has brought in fresh, modern touches, which I love. It is a place where my children will grow up and make their own precious memories like Alexander and I once did.

“Volare”, which means ‘to fly’ when translated into English, is currently blasting through the speakers. It’s a song I remember my mother and father dancing to in this very room many, many years ago. It has memories long forgotten flooding through my mind.

Arabella lets out a tiny squeak when I sneak up behind her, slide my arms around her waist, and draw her back into my front. I want to bask in her happiness. I need an outlet to help shut my mind down for a while.

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