Page 4 of Mafia King of Lies

He stares into my pupils as if searching for something. His gaze is unnerving—it feels like he has me under a microscope.I clear my throat and break eye contact, unable to take the heaviness of his presence.

This man is intimidating. I’ve met many dangerous and ruthless men in this world, but there’s a silent danger about Matteo that gnaws at my chest.

“Safe travels back to the States.” I give him one last smile, then sidestep him toward my father’s study. I’m almost at the door when he starts to speak again.

“Actually, I believe I will be staying a while. Some matters require my urgent attention here in Florence.” He says to my back, “I will be seeing you, Miss Faravelli. Quite a bit, I imagine.”

I don’t know why, but his words slither down my spine like a premonition. A promise. A threat. Whatever this man wants, it is more than just a courtesy visit.

I look over my shoulder at where he stands, but the man is no longer there. I stand in place for a few seconds and wait. The interaction with Matteo is not something I had been anticipating. I try to shake him from my mind and continue toward my father’s study.

I stand at the door, raise my fist, and knock.

“Entra.” Come in. I hear his muffled voice from inside.

I let out a shaky breath, preparing myself for whatever awaits me inside. Mamá is always the easier one to handle of the two.

I open the door. I find my papa by the small bar cart, pouring himself a whiskey neat on the rocks. From the drink choice alone, I know he’s deep in his sorrow—Papá only ever reaches for the whiskey when something’s broken inside him.

“Papá, stai bene?” Dad, are you okay? I walk in cautiously, as if I’m approaching a wild boar. My heels click against the hardwood floors, and the strong scent of oak and cigar smoke filters into my nose.

He grunts his reply and then takes a sip of his drink. He turns to look at me. His dark brown eyes smolder with despair—andsomething else I just can’t place. He gestures for me to sit by the loveseat in the center of his study. I make my way over to the expensive leather seat and settle into the cold fabric.

The air is thick, and my heart hammers with anticipation of what lingers in it. I have a feeling that whatever he’s going to say is likely to shift the entire trajectory of my life.

I try not to let my mind get ahead of itself, but I can’t help it. There’s something that isn’t settling well within my soul.

“How is your mother?” Papá leans against the bar cart and stares at me. He’s stalling. “Is she asleep? The doctor said he gave her one of those pills to calm her.”

I nod my head once. “I just left her room before I came here. There are still some guests who have lingered behind, waiting to speak with you, I’m presuming.”

Back straight. Chin up. Legs crossed.

This is the posture that has been drilled into me from the moment I could speak. I have been raised to be the perfect woman. In our world, the class and elegance of a woman is a father’s pride. I am a reflection of the success of my father and my mother. I can never afford to walk out of step or speak out of tone when it matters most.

“And you? How are you keeping?”

“My twin brother is dead, Papá. I think it’s safe to say I am between deep depression and suicide.” There is no humor in my voice because I am deathly serious. The only reason I was even able to make it through today is because of chardonnay and Xanax. “I saw Mr. Davacalli walk out of here before I came in.”

My father and I never speak of mafia business. That was something he always did with Antonio. But now, with my brother gone, maybe I could fill the hole that has been?—

“I’ve been made an offer that I can’t refuse.” My father kicks off the bar cart and walks to the large floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the grounds. The sun has just begun to set beyondthe horizon, drawing a close to a day I hope to forget. “An offer that will, hopefully, soften the blow of losing my heir.”

I gulp and wait for him to continue.

“You will marry within the coming days,” my father utters as he sips on his expensive whiskey. “Matteo has proposed a deal that I can’t refuse.”

My heart stops dead in my chest.

“You can’t be serious, Papá.”

“It is done.”

“No. No, you always said—I was free to choose who I marry?—”

“That was before Antonio died.”

“So I’m nothing more than a bargaining chip?”

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