Page 3 of The Don's Prisoner

If everyone could even be found.

Two tall men in black clothes stood at either side of large, carved, wooden double doors, guns on their hips and plastic earpieces in their ears. Hired security. I walked past them and, without knocking, turned the brass doorknob and pushed one half of the double doors open, splitting the “De” that was carved in filigree on the left door from the “Carlo” that was carved in the same font on the other door.

I stepped into the large entryway that had one of those huge staircases that split at the landing and went in opposite directions, to the right and the left, up to the second floor. The staircase was covered in a plush red carpet that looked like crushed velvet. The color of the dark golden banister matched the golden trim around the room and went well with the nearly solid white marble floor—broken only by the occasional dark gray vein running through it here and there. The walls were dark red, and there were many paintings on display, most of which had been there since I was a kid.

I had always thought that this room was only used by Nonna to shove her wealth down the throats of her visitors. As if the sheer size of the mansion hadn’t already done that.

“Signora De Carlo is awaiting you in the dining room, Master Giovanni,” a deep male voice sounded from my left, and I turned to see Abbet, my grandmother’s butler. He had been working for her for at least as long as I had been alive, and he had seen me grow up. The tall thin man with the large, hooked nose had probably even changed my diapers, and yet he had always been so formal with me. Nonna was always Signora De Carlo, and I was Master Giovanni. He refused to call me Gio like everyone else did, and he refused to be anything but professional. When I was a kid, I had made it a personal challenge to get him to smile or swear at me. It only depended on my mood any given day.

I might have been a pest as a teenager.

“Thanks, Abe,” I said and waltzed past him, heading for the dining room. I saw his eye twitch, which I took as a personal victory. He hated my nickname for him, but he refused to say anything. He just kept quiet and glared daggers at my back.

A few minutes later, I walked into the dining room and saw my whole family gathered at a nearly mile-long table. Okay, so it wasn’t a full mile, but it was certainly huge. It could fit about thirty people around it and was used for important events and family dinners. Each chair was made of carved wood and ornate with rich red cushions. At one point, I think the cushions might have been purple—if I was remembering that correctly—but it was a long time ago.

My grandmother sat at the head of the table at the far side of the room. Her white hair was twisted into a perfect, elegant braid that fell over one shoulder, ending just below the edge of the table. She wore a light pink beaded wrap that went over her shoulders, and a very large gold brooch pinned it in place to her black dress. The brooch was shaped like a butterfly, and at the center there was a large emerald. It was the only thing that stood out about her outfit, the only thing that didn’t seem to go. But she always wore that particular piece of jewelry.

It had been the first thing my grandfather had ever bought for her, and she cherished it above all—even more so than her wedding ring, which sat on a chain in her bedroom together with her late husband’s wedding band and the ring he proposed to her with, which held a very similar emerald.

She always told me that when she died, we were to cremate her and dump her in Grandpa’s urn along with the set of rings. Just because my family was morbid like that.

Actually, I was pretty sure our nature stemmed from being in danger at all times just for possessing the De Carlo last name.

My father sat on my grandmother’s right side and my mother sat on her left, each of them quietly listening to Nonna speak. My father was wearing a black suit that looked a lot like mine, and my mother was wearing a very rich purple dress that enhanced her features. She had long hair like my grandmother, but her skin was much lighter than my father’s or grandmother’s. They were both tan and looked like they could have come straight off the boat from Italy. But my mother was much paler, with ivory-colored skin.

My sister, who sat next to my mother, was the spitting image of my mother. The only difference was the hair color. Instead of dark brown hair, she had lighter, almost blonde hair that she kept short despite my mother’s wishes. Isabella refused to grow it out, claiming that long hair made her look “dumpy,” or at least that's what she had claimed when she was fourteen. No one agreed with her, though. She was gorgeous and still would have been even if she had no hair.

I smiled at my family as I approached the table and sat down next to my father. My grandmother’s disapproving gaze settled on me and didn’t leave as I folded my hands in my lap.

“You’re late,” she complained, and I shrugged.

“I’m sorry, Nonna,” I apologized, “I got caught up in business.”

“I am not aware of any business that would keep you away,” she raised an eyebrow. “What could possibly be more important than meeting with your family?”

There was no way I was going to tell Nonna that I had been balls deep inside a very petite, very loud blonde when I got the call, so I cleared my throat and tried to push the look on Nonna’s face if I had told her out of my mind.

“I had a lady friend over, and we were… discussing some things. It took longer than I expected. I’m very sorry, Nonna.”

“Oh, don’t Nonna me,” she spat, swatting the air like she was waving my words away. “You were being foolish, that’s what you were doing. And impossibly juvenile for a man of your age. Really, Gio. I would hope you would grow up eventually.”

“I’m thirty-six,” I countered, but my grandmother shook her head. Suddenly, the wait staff emerged from the door behind Nonna carrying plates full of food and surrounded us. A gold plate with a slice of lasagna on it was set in front of me and a heaping plate of garlic bread was set at the center of the table. Long-stemmed glasses were flipped over and filled with a wine that would pair excellently with the meal.

“Thirty-six going on sixteen,” Isabella shot, and I glared at her.

“Children,” my father scolded us, and I rolled my eyes. It was possibly not the most mature thing to do, but I didn’t care. Isabella stuck her tongue out at me when my father turned his head to talk to Nonna.

I ate, happy to be out from under Nonna’s gaze.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I ignored it, knowing it would be one of the guys. I had forgotten to text them that I was going to be late and to start the poker game without me. It buzzed again, and my mother raised an eyebrow at me, but I shrugged. After the third time, I was going to excuse myself from the table to answer it, but Nonna cleared her throat and held me in her gaze again.

“Gio, you and I need to discuss something,” she said in a very serious tone. I waited, eyes focused on her.

“Allegra, why don’t you take Isabella to the garden and show her the new marble statues?” my father suggested, and my mother nodded, getting up from her seat. Isabella made a face like she was going to argue, but my mother took her by the arm and pulled her out of the seat, speaking to her in hushed tones.

Isabella was stubborn and young, much younger than I was. She was twenty-six and going to grad school to become a nuclear physicist or something just as scientifically spectacular. She wasn’t interested in following in my father’s footsteps like I was, which was the best thing for her. I couldn’t imagine her being married to anyone within the syndicate, and I couldn’t picture Nonna actually letting her have a significant role within the organization.

Isabella was too smart for her own good anyway. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like if we added danger to her smarts. Hell, she would probably figure out how to take over the world.

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