Page 23 of The Bonventi War
"Never really thought about it like that," I admit, my voice low.
Livia laughs, oblivious to the heavy thoughts her words have dropped on my shoulders. "Well, you should start thinking about it! We need more little Bonventis running around, don't we, Enzo?"
Enzo looks up from his son. "Can't argue with that, cara mia."
Shit, now I'm in my head. Our family name, our legacy—it's everything. And what am I doing to ensure its future?
The question leaves me deep in thought for a moment before I shake it off and hand the baby back to Enzo. "Alright, now that we've established I'm the favorite, can we get back to business?"
Enzo nods. "Livia, why don't you head to bed? I'll keep him with me while I finish up here."
Livia exhales in relief. "Thank you." She kisses Enzo on the cheek, then the baby's forehead, and straightens. "Goodnight, boys. Try not to plot world domination too late into the night."
Enzo leans back against his desk, still rocking the baby. His expression shifts. "So, how are things going with the Carvello woman?"
I tense. "Fine. Good." Shit. Why am I getting flustered? "Things are moving along."
Enzo's gaze sharpens. "You still think she's got answers?"
I nod. "I'm convinced there's something wrapped up in her story. We haven't found anything on her dad yet, but we're looking. Even the Greeks are helping out. Niko's been checking into the shipments that were coming through the dock regularly for months and then just died off suddenly right before the hit on Marco."
"And the woman herself?" Marco asks.
I shrug. "She's fiery, that's for sure. Fights me at every turn. But I've got her contained."
Marco raises an eyebrow. "Is that what we're calling your obsessive surveillance now?"
I glare at him. "You want answers about who tried to kill you or not?"
"I want answers," Marco says. "I'm just not sure if you're still looking for them or if you've found something else to focus on."
I clench my jaw.
"Easy," Enzo says. "Stay the course, Gio."
The meeting wraps up, and as I head to my car, my mind is elsewhere.
Not on the job. Not on revenge.
It doesn't surprise me, then, that I drive a little faster than usual to return to my apartment across the hall from her—just so I can check the cameras to make sure she's alright.
For her benefit. Not for mine, of course.
12
RAVEN
Dragging myself to the gym after a long day at the gallery wasn't originally part of my plan for surviving Chicago, but agreeing to be Morgan's evening workout buddy might be the smartest decision I've made since coming back. There's something sadistically therapeutic about running on a treadmill, and most importantly, the complete absence of a brooding Italian man watching my every move.
Truth is, coming back has been a whirlwind for me. It's been hard to reconnect with people, men in particular. I tried once, and Gio shut it down so embarrassingly that I've put meeting the opposite sex on hold. However, I need some girl time, someone to chat with, and Morgan came to fill that. We get along at work, she's nice, and she fills me in on all the latest Hollywood and reality TV gossip.
Plus, Morgan's actually fun to work out with. She doesn't push too hard, knows when to talk and when to let comfortable silence fill the space. Three times a week has become our ritual—meeting at 7 PM after I close up the gallery to get some much needed psychical activity.
Today, I'm already five minutes into my warm-up when Morgan bursts through the door, wearing her signature bright orange yoga pants and shirt, her honey-blonde hair escaping from a messy bun.
"Sorry! Sorry!" she calls out, hurrying to the treadmill next to mine. "I got caught up talking to Danny, and then I couldn't find my gym shoes, and, yeah," she says with a smile and presses the start button.
I can't help but laugh. Morgan's perpetual lateness and creative excuses have become as much a part of our routine as the workouts themselves. To be fair, Danny is her very new fling, and while I've never met him, he seems like a nice guy, and from the pictures, not too bad-looking either.
