Page 60 of Broken Mafia Prince
The elevator stops with a ping at the top floor, and the doors slide open, revealing an illuminated hallway with only two doors on each side. Steeling my spine, I make my way to one of the doors and press the buzzer.
The concierge has already called to inform Isa that I’m on my way up, so I’m not surprised when the door is torn open a second later. My cousin stares me down, looking more dressed than anyone in their own home has a right to be. But then again, there is nothing homely about the gigantic piece of real estate she calls home.
“What have you done?” She narrows her eyes at my face. “Tell me you didn’t knee Luca in the balls.”
“I didn’t knee Luca in the balls.”
My easy response only makes her eyes narrow further. “Come on in. Do you want some coffee?”
I trail after her, walking past the TV in her living room, which is approximately the size of a New York billboard on Times Square. Every corner of her apartment screams money and luxury, but it’s just about as lived-in as my bedroom back at home. There are no pictures on the wall, a throw blanket left on the couch, or books open on the table; it looks like something from a magazine catalogue.
“Do you have hard liquor?” I ask.
She glances at me over her shoulder. “Oh, honey, it’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Not that bad.” I wince. “Well, let’s see—I tricked Luca into going to a restaurant whose specialty is made with shellfish, even though I know he’s allergic?—”
“Oh god.”
“And then I let him nearly asphyxiate until he signed a letter to my father ending our betrothal. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, after all. I guess I hoped he’d be afraid of marrying a woman who might secretly slip shellfish into his food and eventually call off the wedding.”
Isa stares at me, mouth agape for a long moment, and then she shakes her head as if to clear away the memory of what I’ve just told her, and then she whirls around and continues to the kitchen.
“Vodka or whiskey?” she calls back at me.
“How about a time machine?” I groan, following her into the kitchen. I drop down onto one of the stools pushed against the kitchen island and bury my face in my hands.
“Start from the top. Tell me everything, and then explain how you came up with this idea.” There’s no censure in her voice, but I have a feeling she’ll be a lot more judgmental when I add the best, or maybe worst, part of the story.
Just as I predicted, when I get to the part where Raffaele showed up mysteriously, her eyes almost bug out of their sockets.
“You mean Raffaele Gagliardi!” my cousin screeches.
I toss back the rest of my drink and reach for the bottle again. “That Raffaele, yes.”
She blinks rapidly, her expression going from shock, to horror, to confusion, to mischief, to resignation. “Is there a way you can pass this off as being his fault somehow?”
I giggle into my glass of alcohol, then pull out my phone. I navigate to the letter I composed for my father and managed to get Luca’s signature on. I hold out the phone to Isa. Her wide-eyed gaze drops down to it, and she accepts it reluctantly.
Clearing her throat, she begins to read the letter out loud.
“Montanari, I think it’s time the truth was said. A marriage to your daughter is not and will not be plausible now or in the future. I thought I could manage her strong opinions, hard-headedness, and lack of a natural, feminine submissiveness, but it has become clear to me that I can’t, and I doubt there’s a single man on the planet who can.”
She pauses to arch an eyebrow at me. “‘Lack of a natural, feminine submissiveness?’ Who helped you write this? Snapchat AI?”
I glare at her. “It’s the kind of horseshit thattesta di cazzowould say, trust me.”
“Back to it.”
“In light of this, I’m calling an end to this betrothal and any further plans and association with your daughter. What Giulia needs is a correctional facility, not a husband. I pity any man you can trick into tying themselves to her. In fact, I’ll advise them to put their efforts into a stray bitch than your daughter. In case you still have doubts about the purpose of this letter, this is my way of saying I’m done with this pathetic arrangement.”
Silence fills the room after Isa is done reading, and I hang my head. The letter didn’t sound quite so horrible when I had been writing it, but hearing it from someone else’s mouth now makes me want to go out back, dig my own grave, and never be seen again, because I have no doubts that’s the same fate waiting for me from my father’s hands.
“It’s salvageable,” Isa says.
“Really?” My voice is full of hope.
She hums, dragging her gaze through the letter again. “I mean, you weren’t outright rude to your father. It sounds more like Luca’s angry at you than insulting your father. It can be dismissed as a couple’s spat, and you two will be back in lovers’ bliss in no time.”
