Page 22 of Broken Mafia Prince
Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for me, I’m a natural. I hit every target point-blank, and I’m good at remembering details, keeping a mental track of money, names, and locations. It’s made Father lay off on me a little, but it also means thathe wants to take me everywhere, and I never get to see Mother these days.
We arrived at this retreat a few hours ago, and since then, it’s been business and more business, just like I’d predicted. I find myself eager to escape the business conversation and traipse through the orchard I spied on the drive in.
Laika is locked up in my bedroom, and I know he’ll be whining to be outside.
“What do you think, son?” His voice snaps me back to the present, and I blink.
“Frankie D’Amato’s word is shit. Driving through his territory is a suicide mission, doesn’t matter if he’s shook hands on it.” I lock eyes with Father’s.
He stares at me for a long moment, and I can feel the other men’s gaze on me. They’re all holding their breath, waiting for Edoardo to chew me out for daring to insinuate that he’s wrong. Father is a reasonable enough man, but like most men in the mafia, he’s old-school and likes to think that a man’s word is his honor.
Frankie is a two-faced fucker who’d swear on his own mother’s grave with his fingers crossed behind his back.
“Smart boy,” he grins.
I don’t know if it’s because he agrees with me, or if it’s part of his charade to show the world that the Gagliardis are one big, happy family, but I’m relieved either way.
I tune out the rest of the men’s conversation, staring out over the field with longing.
“Don’t tell me we won’t even get a chance to play cards, Edoardo.” A woman’s husky voice draws my attention to where two brunettes are approaching.
“I was just rounding up my conversation,” Father laughs as the woman sidles up to him.
“And who is this handsome young man?” the other woman asks, eyes running down my frame, causing me to freeze.
This past year, I’ve shot up several inches, and I’m taller than many boys my age. I look older than thirteen, and I’m already the same height as the woman. She’s looking at me like I’ve seen women look at my father, and I resist the urge to brush my fingers against my scar.
I know it’s still there, so the glint in her eyes makes no sense. I come to the conclusion that she’s trying to mock me.
“Handsome?” the first woman asks in surprise, her painted red mouth pursing. “Selene, don’t be mean.”
“Mean?” Selene moves closer and drops a hand to my arm.
The other woman turns to my father. “Isn’t there something you can do about his face? There’s all kinds of cosmetic surgeries you can do to fix him.”
“There’s no need to fix him.” The one beside me winks. “I think the scar is sexy.”
My stomach roils at the way her voice drops. I disentangle myself from her and shift away. Clearing my throat, I avoid Father’s hard gaze on me and try to look anywhere but at the women.
I hate that the first thing anyone notices is the scar. They talk about it like I’m nothing but my scar, and I hate it. I don’t regret saving Laika because he’s the best friend a boy could ever ask for, but some days I wish I could have saved him without getting marred.
“And you can tell he’s going to break a lot of hearts when he gets older,” Selene continues. “Or are you breaking a lot of hearts already?”
“Leave the boy alone,” one of the men says. “If you’re looking for a real man, Selene, you know where to find me.”
“Vinny!” she exclaims in mock shock. “I didn’t see you there beneath your massive ego.”
Laughter explodes around the group, and it makes me feel lonelier than ever. I’d rather be left in the house to read and play chess than to be put on display in front of Father’s friends.
“What’s your name?” Selene asks me when the laughter subsides.
Instead of responding, I snatch my father’s empty wine glass from his hand. “I’ll go get you a refill,” I say, trying to escape the conversation. Then, I decide to leave, hoping he won’t be too angry if I don’t return.
Before anyone can stop me, I spin on my heel and hurry away from the group. The tension in my shoulders loosens the farther I get from them. I dump the glass on a table and slip into the rental, my heart racing with excitement.
I find him scratching at the door, whining like a little drama king. The moment he sees me, he starts barking, all legs and fur, jumping on me and wagging his tail like I’m the best thing to ever happen to him. He’s barely recognizable from the scrappy dog I rescued a year ago. Now, he’s a shiny, healthy ball of energy, looking more like he’s ready to run a marathon than be a lap dog.
Thank god Mama helped me sneak him in. I doubt Papa even cares enough to notice.
