Page 137 of Broken Mafia Prince
“There’s to be an event this Saturday and you’re going to attend, dressed to the nines and on your best behavior,” Father says, picking up his glass and holding it out to be filled.
“What event? I didn’t know we were celebrating anything.” In fact, I hadn’t expected my father to be in any sort of cheerful mood after he found out that his deal with the Ferraras had crumbled to dust.
He takes his time swirling his drink around and sipping before he responds. “There’s always a reason to celebrate, Giulia. Anyway, this time around, we’re simply hosting Barlowe’s wedding reception party.”
I blink at him. “I didn’t think we were so hard-pressed for money that we’re turning our home into an event space.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s not that. It’s a favor to a friend. The land used to belong to the bride’s family—some sentimental bullshit about an ancestor getting married under the willow trees. Plus, it’s a chance to secure alliances and have him on our side for political affairs.”
I thought it was sweet, but judging from the scowl on my father’s face, it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. I clear my throat. “Who’s the favor for?”
“Senator Barlowe.”
I search my brain for any memory of a man with that name, but the only Barlowe I can recall is a stout man in his early seventies who married a Spanish actress less than five years ago. I remember the entire ceremony making me feel sick as the creepy old man kept pawing at the pretty woman.
“I didn’t know Mr. Barlowe had a son,” I say with some surprise.
“He doesn’t,” he replies.
I recoil. “He’s getting married again?”
“Fourth time is the charm, I guess.” He raises a forkful of pasta to his mouth. “The actress’s car ran off a bridge. It was a sad day for Barlowe after the death of his beloved wife.”
I don’t comment. Neither of us actually believes that Barlowe wasted a second thinking about his Spanish actress. I hum.
“As you already know, Barlowe has a lot of important political connections, and his choosing to throw his party here is a good first step in getting through the door.”
I’m not surprised that my father is thinking of how to use this event to further his ambition; what I don’t understand is why he’s put on this entire show of having lunch together to try and rope me into his plans.
“If you need money for a dress for the party or?—”
“I’ll be fine,” I cut him off. “I can get myself a dress.”
“Good.” He nods. “Maybe something red. You’re your mother’s daughter at the end of the day; you just need to show a little bit of interest, and by the end of the night, I’m sure we’ll have found a replacement for the Ferrara boy.”
Everything suddenly makes sense, and my stomach sours. I stare at my father with disbelief. “Of course. Why did I think I was here for any other reason than being used as a chip on your bargaining board?”
“Come now, Giulia,” he says sternly. “We all have our duties, and this is yours.”
“You can quit while you’re ahead and save yourself the trouble,” I spit. “I’m not interested in your matchmaking, especially to Barlowe’s associates.” Even though Craig Barlowe is an American senator, has been one for years, and comes froma long political line, he’s still one of the sleaziest, most corrupt men I know, and his associates will be no better.
“Your duty to this family?—”
“I don’t owe this family anything,” I tell him in a hard voice.
Brackets form at the sides of his mouth. “This isn’t the time to be stubborn. We must present a united front to the other families. Especially those fucking Gagliardis.”
I’m getting ready to stand up and walk right out of the house when my brain registers what he’s just said. “Th-the Gagliardis are going to be there?”
“It’s all business. The Senator can’t afford to show that he’s taking sides in the family feud or risk losing the deals he has with those rat bastards. Additionally, we need the Senator’s help to clear a very important shipment.”
His mouth twists with anger.
“Damn it! Of all the ideas Senator Barlowe has had in his lifetime, inviting the Gagliardis to the Montanari estate rates the lowest,” he snarls. “How can I let those animals inside my home? Let them eat my food and drink my wine? The mere thought makes me want to murder something. I’ve doubled our security and have the senator’s word that Gagliardi’s people won’t try anything foolish during his wedding reception.”
I tune out the rest of his furious rant; the only thing on my mind is that Raffaele will be here, in my home. Does he know about this? It’s not like him being under my roof makes any difference. I won’t even be able to interact with him without causing a blowout, and there will be too much scrutiny on us to do anything but show the expected enmity.
“Father,” I say carefully. “You know, this might just be the perfect opportunity to make peace with them.”
