a traitor or a friend

FRANCESCA

I HAVE TO know what he’ll say. I’m not stupid. I just have trust issues and I can’t quite believe what Mya told me, even though she’s usually right.

“She’s been working for us for a year, but I’ve known her since we were kids,” Antonio says, not even looking at me as he pulls on his blazer.

But I know him. He’s wondering why I’m asking.

“Why?” he finally asks when I don’t offer any explanation.

I want to throw the question back at him. Why did you hire her? Why do you trust her? How do you know her? “Just curious,” I answer, shrugging.

But his look makes me want to hide behind my blanket. It makes my toes curl with a mix of fear and excitement—an odd combination, for sure.

So I ignore his look and ask my other question. I decide to play dumb.

Maybe it’s the bump on my head or the way he’s been treating me, but I’m feeling more comfortable than ever. And that’s definitely not a good thing. It’s a very, very bad thing. “Do you trust her?”

I’m making a fool of myself, but I don’t let that stop me. He can leave if he wants. He doesn’t have to answer me. But strangely enough, he does.

Antonio Giordano, a Mafia ~capo~ and rumored sociopath, is a man of few words. He’s always in control. “You don’t get to the top without making a few enemies. It depends,” he says.

I stare at him, captivated by his good looks. The man is a total package, if you can overlook the fact that he’s a ruthless killer.

He’s handsome. And from what I’ve heard, his IQ is off the charts, just like all psychopaths.

“Now why this sudden interest in our maid?” he asks. I knew the question was coming, but it feels like I’m doing something incredibly stupid because I’m using my brain.

“Women are bitches who are nothing compared to men. Those Bianchis put their women on pedestals, they’re out of control.

“Francesca, you are a woman—which means a whore who is only born to pleasure men. It’s the child you’ll birth that makes you worthy of even walking behind us.”

My father’s words echo in my head, making me flinch. My husband notices but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything.

So I lie. “It was nothing. Just curiosity.” It comes out more like a question.

I know I can never lie to this man. He always finds out. Personally, I think I’m a pretty good liar among “normal” people, but within the Giordano Mafia, I suck.

He gives me another harsh look. By now, Antonio is leaning against the dresser, his full attention on me. It’s as if he thinks I’m hiding something.

“Go on, Francesca.” I hate how much I love hearing my name roll off his tongue. I hate the butterflies he gives me in my stomach. I hate the idea of him.

“I…uh.” A blush creeps up my cheeks in embarrassment and his staring doesn’t help. “Mya and I talked last night.”

On impulse, I glance at the door to make sure no one is there before lowering my voice. “I know that no one talks business in front of women so I wanted to know if anyone told her.

“But I don’t think so ’cause she seemed surprised when we came here as if she didn’t expect us—at least me—to make it. And she wasn’t surprised about the attack,” I rush out.

I stop to see his reaction. He’s as unreadable as always but with a tilt of his head, he tells me to continue.

“She seemed upset when she thought of the men getting hurt. I guess I’m just being paranoid because of getting hit. I don’t know.”

There could be a hundred possibilities, but I find it odd that she cares so much about the men and knew that I hit my head.

Maids aren’t supposed to ask or care about people in the Mafia. They keep their mouths shut and their faces devoid of emotion.

“Your bodyguard, Rocky,”—I glance at Antonio in surprise. He’s telling me something. I’m eager to know anything—“wasn’t supposed to be there.

“The shot was meant for you, but he pulled you down and took your place. He was a brave made man. He was a man of honor. As was Silvio—he died while protecting the Donna.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard the Don praise someone. Antonio isn’t an emotional person, but he respects the men who give their lives for the Family.

I guess he’s a good man in that way—if you can overlook the torture, the killings, and the psychopathic behavior.

“Do you know who did this? Or what happened to Silvio? How he died?” I rush out.

He narrows his eyes at me at the mention of Silvio. It’s as if he hated the man. But then, why make him my bodyguard? My husband doesn’t answer any of my questions. Instead, he tells me to get ready.

With a throbbing headache and constant nausea, I don’t want to do anything, but I get up as quickly as I can and go through my morning routine. It takes longer than usual, though.

Antonio waits for me, surprisingly. He grabs my hand and pulls me out when I change into a comfortable dress. It’s white with pink floral designs.

I have a feeling Antonio is walking slower because of me. Maybe he cares that I’m not feeling well.

Before we go into the dining room, he speaks. “Anything that happens in the room, stays in the room. Got it?”

It’s an order and I’m not stupid. I’m not going to blab about it. I trust Antonio enough to tell him my doubts. I’m not going to ruin the little respect he has for me.

“Yes, Antonio.”

His word is law. Even Raffaello has to follow his orders. I’m no exception.

He drops my hand as we walk inside. My hair is still wet from my shower and my cheeks are still rosy.

I'm relieved that the Don is here. If he wasn't, I'd be too scared to be in a room with four guys. This is only the second time we've had a family breakfast. It feels kind of normal.

“How are you, ~cognata~?” Costanzo asks me, and my eyes widen in surprise.

I offer a timid smile in response, but Antonio answers for me. “She’s doing well, Costanzo.”

Costanzo nods at me. Omero hasn’t said a word to me since I arrived, and Dante doesn’t seem to care.

Costanzo is the most talkative, and I'm grateful that he's here to make some conversation. At least, with me.

Omero is more the silent type. He observes everything but only speaks when necessary, I guess. I know he's smarter than he looks.

The Giordano boys all have black hair and olive skin. They're all exceptionally tall too. They don’t need to show anyone that they're dangerous.

Their dark eyes and rigid postures let everyone know not to mess with them, and the fools that do end up six feet under.

Mess with one, mess with all. That's the motto.

Mya comes in with a tray of food. Her eyes are downcast in respect as she stands at the side after placing the food on the long table.

My husband, uncharacteristically, pulls me onto his lap as he sits at the head of the table. I stifle a gasp at the gesture. I know my face must be beet red from the shower and him.

Omero doesn’t react, while Costanzo just smirks.

Dante doesn’t even look up from his newspaper. I find it odd that a twenty-three-year-old would be reading a newspaper, but I guess he could tell the Don if something was important.

“Mya.” Dante finally looks up. He has a smile on his face, immediately making me stiffen. I know it isn’t anything pleasing.

It can’t be because of anything I said. “You’ve been working with us for a year, yet you haven’t ever had breakfast with us. Sit down.”

“S-sir,” stammers Mya before glancing at me. I give her a look that says this isn’t because of me.

Antonio’s large hand covers my stomach and pushes me back so I'm lying against his chest. I can feel his breathing beside my ear, making me flush.

“Sit, Mya. We just want to talk about your older sister,” my husband says in his usual cool and calm voice.

My ears perk up at the mention of someone new. What does Mya’s family have to do with all this?

Mya’s eyes widen as she carefully places herself a few seats away from us. I can see her fidgeting and shaking.

There are tears in her eyes already, as if she’s been hiding something and was finally caught. “Did I do something wrong?”

Costanzo chuckles but it's anything but humorous. “Of course not. You can’t do anything wrong.”

Mya stays quiet and so do I. I'm not going to defend her if they decide to do something. I'm nowhere near that foolish.

“Now tell me, Mya,” the Don’s chilling voice speaks behind me. “When was the last time you talked with Rosemary?”

Mya visibly stiffens. I don’t know who this Rosemary is but I figure she must be very important—important enough for the Don to mention her.

“I-uh, can’t.” Her eyes are leaking tears. I feel a bit bad even though I know that she might have had a hand in the conspiracy. “She passed away recently,” she whispers.

There's a deathly silence in the room. I'm scared to even breathe. My husband freezes behind me. If I wasn’t sitting on his lap, I wouldn’t have noticed.

“I didn’t ask that,” he finally says. “What about her daughter?”

“She is in the custody of Benjamin Peterson, her stepdad.”

Costanzo, Omero, and Dante are all quiet. It's as if they're waiting for Antonio to blow up. Sitting on him really doesn’t help my case at all.

“Why didn’t you say when she died?” Dante finally barks out.

Mya flinches. “I-I… She is in good hands. I didn’t want her anywhere near the Family. Rosemary had finally given her her freedom. I couldn’t just bring her back here.”

I'm surprised by how determined her voice sounds. She knows better than to lie.

“The deal Rosemary had was with the previous Don. Once she died, the deal was over. Alessia belongs to us now,” my husband orders as his grip on my thigh tightens, making me wince.

Mya’s eyes snap up in fear. “No, p-please d-don’t. Her life is peaceful.”

Costanzo chuckles in a low voice. The sinister smile on his face does little to soothe my fear. I have the feeling that I'm not going to like this.

“You give us her address and we’ll be less open-minded with your death. Remember, we’ll find out anyway.”

Mya jumps at the cold words of the brother. I'm still surprised Omero stays silent.

He seems lost in thought and uncaring, but his presence makes things even more creepy. He just has that vibe.

Mya doesn’t speak. She's an idiot. My husband is going to find out anyway. He always does.

After a moment of silence, I hear a raspy, husky voice speak. The sound is foreign to me. “Eat,” orders Omero.

My eyes widen at hearing him. His eyes aren’t on me, but Mya. He's giving her a look of boredom. But Omero isn’t telling us to eat. He's telling Mya.