4
Angelo
I’ve never experienced guilt like the sharp pang that hit me when Rosalia stood in front of me, spoke to me, touched my hand. Even that slight brush of her fingers—
What’s wrong with you? I scold myself as I walk to my seat, feeling both the sick pulse of guilt in my veins and an unexpected, unwelcome desire. In a church, no less? I’m partially aroused in my suit trousers just from being near her, from the scent of her floral perfume and her touch on my hand. Never in my life have I been turned on by something so simple. I’m a man in my late thirties with a long history of women in my bed—it usually takes more than a pretty face, a hint of perfume, and a touch to arouse me.
Except when it comes to Rosalia Santoro, apparently.
The worst part is that marrying her is exactly what Vincezio wanted me to do. He wanted me to consider her as a wife—not when she was young, of course, but when she grew older. He wanted me to promise that when she turned twenty-one, I would marry her. It doesn’t matter that I’ll be nearly forty then, or that legally I’m her stepbrother, not blood-related. It doesn’t matter that I’m twice her age, that I was an adult when she was born. He said I was the only man he trusted with both his name and his daughter, and he wanted me to be her husband. Not a marriage out of convenience, as I suggested. He wanted her happiness. He believed I could make her happy.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him all the reasons why he was wrong about that. So instead, I’d stuck to my excuses, to Rosalia’s age and our legal bond, and left. I’d stayed away for three years, and I would have stayed away for many more, if not for Vincezio’s untimely death.
And now—
I swallow hard, taking my seat in the pew and resisting the urge to adjust myself, ignoring the ache in my groin in the hopes that it will go away if I don’t think about her at all—not about her wide, soft blue eyes or the rosy shape of her mouth, how beautiful she is now, or the way her fingers felt soft against my hand. Not about what else I longed for her to touch in that moment, the way I imagined in one split second her without that black dress, her fingers and lips moving over my skin as I taught her—
Christ above, man. What the hell is wrong with you?I grit my teeth, forcing the thoughts out of my head. I feel slightly as if I’ve come unhinged, like something about all of this has caused me to start losing my mind. I must be losing my mind if I’m fantasizing about Rosalia in a church at her father’s funeral.
At our father’s funeral, if the technicalities are upheld.
I manage to keep my thoughts on the straight and narrow for most of it. It’s not hard once the church is full and the priest starts Mass—the air is too somber for anything else, too full of grief. Vincezio Santoro was a good man by all accounts—as good a man as one can be in this world we live in, and he helped those he could by whatever means he could. The church is full of both his peers and those he knew by association, people in the community that he helped, and it’s clear that he was a man who will be missed. It’s no surprise to me—even after so many years away, I don’t doubt that he stayed the same man who adopted and raised me as his own when he thought he’d have no other child.
I want to go to Rosalia, when we’re in the cemetery. I see her one row forward at the edge of the grave, her hair blowing around her face and her cheeks streaked with tears. I have the aching desire to gather her in my arms and comfort her, to tell her that things will be alright. That I’ll keep her safe. Nothing makes me want that more than seeing Vincezio’s consigliere—Enzo—standing next to her, a man I neither like nor trust, as much as Vincezio would have insisted I should feel otherwise. Throughout the burial, I catch him looking at her with a possessiveness that makes me uncomfortable, and I grit my teeth, holding myself back.
I feel certain that I know what the Family will ask of me, and if I go to Rosalia, if I let myself comfort her and be seen with her in my arms, it will make it that much harder for them to take me seriously when I tell them that not only will I not do as I know Vincezio wished, I will not be staying here in Chicago, either.
I’m not surprised when I’m approached right after the grave is covered with the last bit of dirt. The others around us start to disperse, heading back to their cars. I notice Enzo guiding Rosalia to hers, his hand on the small of her back making me feel angry for reasons I shouldn’t feel. Reasons that remind me why I need to return to Chicago sooner rather than later.
“Angelo Bianchi?” A gravelly voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see Enzo Rizzo, one of the elder members from Sicily and the second-in-command of the Family.
I nod respectfully without thinking, a gesture of respect ingrained in me. I don’t intend to blindly follow their wishes, but being rude won’t help anything. How I conduct myself here reflects on Luciano, too—I’m still his consigliere, regardless of today’s events.
“Don Rizzo,” I reply evenly, showing equal respect, though the elder’s face remains impassive. He’s dressed in an expensive suit, a long black coat despite the warmth, and a hat covering his iron-grey hair. He gestures towards a car waiting at the cemetery edge, with two guards standing beside it.
“If you’ll come with me, Mr. Bianchi,” he says calmly. “The Family would like to speak with you in private.”
“I expected as much.” I follow him to the waiting car, into the cool leather interior, and the silence that follows, a silence that persists until we arrive at the downtown hotel where he and the other senior members of the Family are no doubt staying. I follow him into the gilded elevator, still silent as we go up to the penthouse floor, past copious security, and into the richly appointed suite where I see five other men, equally aged and equally powerful, sitting in the living area, all with cut-crystal glasses of liquor in hand. One nervous-looking man is seated at the far end, dressed in a suit that would look expensive anywhere except in this room, where every man here except for him has access to the finest of Italian tailoring.Vincezio’s lawyer, I expect,I think as I take the seat that Don Rizzo motions me to.
“You know why you’re here, of course, Angelo,” Don Rizzo says, addressing me familiarly, though I know I should not do the same. “Mr. Sampolo will read Vincezio’s will, and we will discuss what it contains and how you will be a part of that. Although, of course, I’m sure you have some idea of what is written there.”
“I do.” I meet Rizzo’s gaze evenly. “Unfortunately, I don’t think that I will be able to fulfill Don Santoro’s wishes. We—disagreed on his choices. I’ve given him my answer, and death doesn’t change that.Nothing will change that,” I emphasize, and Rizzo shrugs.
“We will see. And we’ll discuss.” He nods to the lawyer. “Mr. Sampolo, please read the will.”
“Ah—of course.” The lawyer takes out a leather portfolio, opening it. The first part is more minor legal details and some of Vincezio’s assets, all of which have been put in trust for Rosalia, and the matter of the mansion, which is also hers until the matter of her marriage is decided. “Turning to the topic of Don Santoro’s daughter and her marriage—” Mr. Sampolo clears his throat. “It is his stated desire that Angelo Bianchi wed his daughter, Rosalia Santoro, when she turns twenty-one, or in the case of his untimely death, as soon as possible. It is also his desire that Mr. Bianchi take on the surname of Santoro, as was always desired, and that he take over the position that Don Santoro previously held, effective immediately. It will be at Mr. Bianchi’s pleasure who remains in their current positions of rank within the organization, and who Mr. Bianchi desires to replace.”
“Well, there you have it.” Rizzo turns to face me. “It’s all settled neatly. You will assume Vincezio’s position as his chosen heir, as he desired. And given the untimely nature of his passing, you will also marry his daughter once a suitable period of mourning has passed.”
He states it calmly, matter-of-factly, as if the decision has already been made. As if my previous assertions about what I believed Vincezio’s will contained and what my response would be had not been expressed.
“No,” I reply firmly, trying to maintain my composure and respectfulness, though my decision is unwavering. I had made up my mind about this long before I left New York.
“No?” Rizzo arches his grey eyebrows. “Angelo, the will is clear. Vincezio explicitly stated—”
“And I know what I’ve stated,” I interject, aware that I shouldn’t interrupt, but unable to sit silently while he restates what I already know and have discussed at length—with Vincezio himself. It was a discussion that had strained our relationship long before his passing, and now it seems destined to strain it further. “My adoptive father and I already had this conversation. He understood my feelings and my wishes. If he chose not to amend his will after hearing my stance, that was his choice. But I will not marry Rosalia, and I have no desire to become don.”
Rizzo regards me calmly, as if my words are inconsequential—as if I am merely a child throwing a tantrum. He may see me that way, I think bitterly, but it won’t change my decision.
“There are plenty of men who would eagerly accept Rosalia Santoro’s hand in marriage,” he continues slowly. “Men who would beg for the opportunity. Vincezio Santoro was influential and respected. The man who marries his daughter will inherit not only his mafia and wealth, but also his influence. There’s no reason for you to refuse, especially considering it was his explicit wish.”
I’d known this was coming, but it still horrifies me. Not only the idea of what has been asked of me, but how it makes me feel. Before I’d come back to Chicago, I hadn’t been able to even think of the idea of marrying Rosalia. But after seeing her in the church today—
That hot flicker of desire stirs deep in my belly again, and I try to ignore it. A look and a touch of the hand, that’s all it was. There’s no reason for it to make me think of her any differently than I ever have, no reason for it to make my mouth go dry and my heart beat harder at the idea of what marrying her would mean, the idea of taking her to bed, of taking that innocence that I’ve been entrusted with against my own desires.
Or rather, against my will, now. My desires, it seems, aren’t my own to command any longer.
“It’s impossible,” I tell Rizzo curtly. “She’s my stepsister. That’s reason enough for me not to marry her.”
Rizzo just chuckles, shaking his head, a sentiment that’s shared among the others in the room. “You weren’t raised together,” he says dismissively, waving a hand. “There’s no blood relation. It’s a foolish excuse, Angelo, and you know it. But what I can’t understand is why you insist so strongly on pushing back against this. There’s wealth and power in it for you, along with an exceptional marriage. You will be raised from consigliere to don with one signature. Men have killed for less.”
“I’m not interested in power, and I’m not interested in a wife. But if I were interested in either, I wouldn’t gain it by taking advantage of Rosalia Santoro. And that’s all this is. She’s too young, all other arguments aside. And my feelings about the rest of it still remain.” I clench my jaw, refusing to be moved. “I won’t change my mind about this. I’ll stay to ensure that Vincezio’s affairs are settled, and then I will be returning to New York and my position with Don Falcone.”
Rizzo’s lips thin. “You insist on continuing this obstinance, despite both Vincezio’s wishes and ours? Despite being told what you’ve been asked to do, something that any other man in your position—”
“I’m not any other man,” I tell him coolly. “And I’ve given you my answer.”
I can tell that I’ve made him angry. It’s clear in his posture, in the set of his jaw as he answers. “Very well, then. If this is your position, and if you can’t be moved from it, then we’ll fall back on our second choice for who will take the mantle of don, and Rosalia’s hand in marriage—since you decline to accept.” He turns and looks at the others, who nod.
“And who is that?” I speak before I can stop myself, before I can think better of the question I’m asking. They’d be within their rights not to tell me—I’ve voluntarily given up my right to inherit all of this, and they’re under no obligation to tell me what their plan is in the event of that. But Rizzo, for whatever reason, replies. And within moments, I think I understand why.
“She’ll be married to Andre Romano,” he says calmly. “I don’t know that his family will be willing to have him take on the Santoro name, which is regrettable. They will not want to sacrifice their family name, which means the Santoro empire will be absorbed to raise up the Romano name.” Rizzo shrugs. “But such is the way life goes, sometimes.”
There’s something deceptively quiet in his voice, and I think I know why. I’m even more certain of why he told me this in the first place, when I see the expectant look on his face, waiting for my reaction.
I know very well who Andre Romano is—the eldest son of Vincezio’s rival in Chicago, Enzo Romano, the head of one of the mafia families within the organization. It’s no secret that he’s resented Vincezio’s refusal to make him underboss despite his pristine family line, and that he has always wanted Vincezio to agree to promise an eventual marriage between his son Andre and Rosalia. Now, it seems, the Family plans to give him exactly that since Vincezio is no longer here to protest his daughter’s marriage.
And I could put a stop to it, with a word.
Fuck. My jaw tightens, anger pulsing through me—anger at myself, at Vincezio, but especially at the Family and Rizzo. He knows what he’s doing; I can see it in the smug twitch of his lips, and I know what he’s expecting me to say. He knows that there’s no way I can go back to New York with a clear conscience, knowing that I’m leaving Vincezio’s legacy to be absorbed into the Romano family, knowing the triumph they’ll have, knowing I’m abandoning Rosalia to Andre Romano’s bed.
But I can’t have her in mine. I won’t. So what is the compromise?
I let out a slow breath. “There is another solution here, Don Rizzo,” I say carefully. “One that perhaps serves both of our interests.”