Page 2 of Runaway in the Mafia
She must be a newcomer.She was different, that she could tell already. There was something so broken in her eyes, yet so strong. She carried herself straight. Which in itself was intriguing when you were broken. Another step and she saw she was brown. Indian? The girl reminded her of Divya, her nephew’s British/Indian wife, and she loved having her around. She was darker than Divya, but the closer she got, the more she was sure she was Indian.
When she was but three feet away, the girl smiled. Fragile but determined. She reminded her of a person she knew a long time ago. She lost her thirty-eight years ago. That girl could have had a brighter future if someone had lent her a hand.
“We have a newcomer,” Martina said next to her. “Ahana, this isSignoraDi Matteo. Without her, we wouldn’t have any of this.”
The girl smiled. Her motherly heart picked up. She wanted her to have a warm home. A loving family. Home-cooked meals. It was late to rectify her mistakes with her children, but with this girl, she had a clean slate. And she was going to take it.
CHAPTER ONE
VITALE
One week later.
Hot itchiness crawled up the back of my tensed collar as I stalked through the heavy oak doors. It was warm and stuffy even for Sicily, but the manila envelope fisted in my hand with the weight of a doomed future burned hotter than the sun on the Sahara.
My footsteps echoed in the empty house, just as they always did. ColdCalacattamarble stones caught each heavy tread and resounded it across the ivory cement-textured walls. But it did nothing to make this hollow of a home I’d created away from my real home sound any kind of welcoming.
Click. Clunk.
You couldn’t say the effort hadn’t gone into it. It was designed by the renowned art director for the top five designer furniture brands in Italy. Subtle luxury oozed out of every corner, easy on the eyes and heavy on the bank balance. From the front door to the very end of the house where my living room lay, the entire open-plan house stretched before my eyes.Cushioned on the sides by glass-clad walls and soft, Belgian linen curtains. In between the entryway and the back of the house was Sicily’s best kept secret. A state-of-the-art open kitchen where I never cooked, and an expensive dining table where I never entertained. It was all smoked oak and brushed marble. Warm to the touch and cold inside. Just like my heart. Still, it was my sanctuary, even if it wasn’t the comfort I sought.
My steps halted in the middle of the massive living room. Annoyance brushed my nerves. The only regular visitor in here was Carmela, who came in to clean an unlived-in house once a week. I didn’t know if the woman was senile or a moron, because she left the damn curtains open every single time. I didn’t need the fucking sunshine. Especially not today.
A touch of a button and all the curtains closed as I continued into my office. The entire house was light and airy, a reflection of the younger Vitale, who had wanted to keep up appearances. The one who’d fled the darkness of his ancestral home looking for the light. But my office was all dark. This was where my inner soul was visible. Where I’d discovered there was nowhere I could flee from my heredity. Vitale, son of the former don. Current boss of theCosa Nostraand harbouring secrets that could bring this empire to its knees. The worst plausible scenario. That’s what I had thought. But a year after the don’s death, I questioned whether that was the worst-case scenario.
The dark stained wooden floors softened my heavy footsteps, and the soft walls echoed the thump on the desk as the envelope in my hand hit the desk. I strode towards the liquor trolley in the corner.
A lot of things had changed since Carlo’s death. I wasn’t the man I was a year ago. That man had trembled at the thought of crossing age-old traditions. This man had a midday drink, was tired of it all and not so eager to seal his fate to keep them. Change had seeped into me. I was reckless now. Even more sothan a year ago, which was quite a feat in itself. Maybe it was because I had given a damn before. Now I didn’t anymore. I was the don. And I ruled with pride. But I was beginning to wonder if it was something worth fighting for. Was anything worth it anymore?
The slow agitation that frizzled under my skin every day blazed on this day. Only the taste of whiskey burning a trail from my throat to the pit of my stomach soothed it.
The room was in complete darkness, but for a few rays of light filtering annoyingly through the black timber blinds. It caught me as I rounded the desk to sink into my chair. It was all fucking expensive, tastefully chosen and oozed a sense of warmth. But it wasn’t home. It never was.
Fuck, I missed home. The one where I was born. The one that was rightfully mine and where the few people I called family lived. But come hell or high water, I couldn’t bring myself to live there. It was already hard enough to visit occasionally, but the more time I spent away from it, the further the distance became.
I’d wanted out so I wouldn’t do what my fingers itched to do. So I’d got out and still gone ahead and done what I shouldn’t have. Secrets and sins I would carry to the end of my days. Which might come sooner rather than later if I signed the dotted lines weighing heavy on my mind. No matter how innocently it rested on my desk.
Before I knew it, I had a cigar squeezed between my lips and foggy smoke clouding my vision. Soft jazz filled the room with melancholy. It did nothing to ease my frustration and did everything to notch up my agitation.
I glared at the envelope. There was a reason a man like me married. It was unlike the reason normal men did. It wasn’t for social pressure or a good fuck. Lord knew all the made men seemed to find better fucks outside their marriage than in it. It sure as hell wasn’t for love because that was harderto find than diamonds in the cracked soil of Sicily. We kept it simple in theCosa Nostra. Connections. That’s all it was about. To make an already extensive empire well... extended. Because there was one thing that could be said about made men. We were fucking greedy. Gaining the right woman was like finding prime property. Location, location, location. In this case, we’d replace it with connections. It was all about the connections. Nothing more and nothing less.
Marrying some poor, unsuspecting woman had always been in my destiny. It was no doubt written in some ancient stone decades before my birth. That my hands would pool in crimson was a sure thing. The only other surety in my life had been this. And that she’d be Sicilian and Catholic because that was what a fucking don did. Marry the most innocent virgin to be found in Sicily and tie her to him.
It didn’t matter that I had every man’s life in the palm of my hand. With just one glance, I could bring a business to ruin and a man to his knees. But who I married wasn’t a choice. It was an obligation. Because what else did a don do other than expand and conquer?
Still, knowing and doing it were two different things entirely. I was beginning to realise that. The noose had hung around my neck long enough, but I couldn’t bring myself to tighten it. Tradition, they called it. Felt more like suffocation to me. I should have signed the damn document weeks ago. But I carried it around like a death sentence because, frankly, it felt like it.
I notched up the surround sound system. But even the thump of the music couldn’t drown out my inner thoughts. The ones that screamed the apple couldn’t fall far from the tree. Every waking thought of mine was infiltrated by the idea that there was a third sure thing in my life. I was no better than my father.
There was a reason I abstained from regular sex. It’s the same reason I only gave in when I paid a woman whose vocationit was to please me. It wasn’t because I couldn’t find a willing partner or that I hated the act. Truth be told, I was terrified that I loved the act and once I let go, I would be cut from the same mould as my fucking father or his brothers. None of them could keep their dick in their pants. Unfaithfulness was as firm an entity in theCosa Nostraas killing another man. But the man whose genes I shared, well, he took it to another level. Fucking anything with a pussy and doing it in front of his wife and children was a whole new level of can of worms I wasn’t going to be a part of.
So no. I’d rather not marry. I’d rather not tempt myself with the possibility of an easy fuck. Because how long would it take before it became an addiction and it flowed freely outside of my marriage? How long before I lost my head and thought with my dick? The only reason that I’d not been tempted to break that fragile line between morality and fucking insanity was the lack of temptation. I’d rather keep it that way.
The crunch of gravel under heavy tires broke my thoughts.
Who the fuck is visiting me here?
There was a reason I started keeping an office outside of my house. I couldn’t bear to step into my old home, and I didn’t want anyone stepping into my new one. A frown formed on my brow as I checked the CCTV camera images.
