5
“Oh?” One of his thick, iron-grey eyebrows rises again. “And what is that, Angelo?”
“I will resign my position as Luciano Falcone’s consigliere. I will remain in Chicago and take Vincezio’s place as don, as you have asked. But I will not marry Rosalia. Instead, I will take her on as my ward. I will be her protector and caretaker, until an appropriate husband can be found for her, one who does not have designs on her father’s legacy, one who appreciates what Vincezio built here and wishes to raise it higher through marriage, not absorb it into his own family line. Those suitors who wish to seek a marriage contract with her may approach me and court her under my supervision. When a husband is to be chosen for her, it will be with my approval alone. There will be stipulations, including that the man who marries Rosalia must be willing to take on her name.”
Rizzo frowns. “You do understand that means that only those outside of the three highest families will look to marry her? Romano will not sacrifice their family name for hers. Neither will the Marino family. They would insist that she hand over her name and wealth to them.”
“Which means neither of their heirs will be considered,” I tell Rizzo coolly. “Only those who respect the storied history of the Santoro family will be allowed to court Rosalia. With my supervision, Vincezio’s wishes will be fulfilled to the best of my ability—she will be married to a man who will respect her and her family’s legacy, and who will bring it forward into the next generation.” I nod to Rizzo. “After all, it is respect, and not ambition, that raises a man in the esteem of the Family, is it not?”
Rizzo chuckles. “Son, no man rises here without ambition. But I take your meaning.” He lets out a long breath, glancing at the other men assembled, all of whom have let him speak. It’s a pointed nod to what I’d said already—that respect is what’s most important here. I can’t give in to Vincezio’s wishes or Rizzo’s, not entirely. But I can do something to prevent Enzo Romano from taking what he wants from Vincezio’s family. I can do something to protect Rosalia.
You could do more. The small, insidious whisper in my head grows a little louder, an ember of desire flickering in my belly. I could do more. I could do what’s written out in the will and marry Rosalia. I could marry her now, without waiting more than a few months, the appropriate time to allow her to grieve, not the three years I would have otherwise been asked to wait. In a few months, she could be in my bed. It could be our wedding night, her slender body wrapped in the silk and lace of bridal lingerie, her sweet mouth upturned to mine, her soft skin—
My teeth grind against each other until I think they might crack, forcing the thoughts out of my head. No, I tell myself, ignoring the twitching throb of my cock, the heat that fills my blood at the idea of her innocence given up to my hands. This is wrong. What I want is wrong—what I feel is wrong. Nothing has changed simply because she’s grown up. Nothing can change.
It's only when Rizzo speaks again that I realize I had been lost in my thoughts, missing his consultation with the other senior Family members. He turns back to me, his expression resolute, signaling that a decision has been reached, one way or another.
“We will accept your compromise, Angelo,” Rizzo informs me. “Tonight, you will inform Don Falcone of your decision. You will move into the Santoro estate and take Rosalia under your guardianship. We will discuss at a later time the candidates who will be considered for her marriage. Until then, she will be under your care.” He gestures towards the door, where a silent guard stands dressed in black. “Bring Rosalia in.”
I feel a mix of surprise and anger at this sudden turn of events, realizing they have summoned her away from mourning her father to deliver their decision. If I hadn't proposed the compromise, she would be learning right now that she was intended to marry Andre Romano, on the worst possible day to receive such news. The callousness of it is staggering, and any doubt I had about my decision to protect Rosalia evaporates in that moment.
The guard nods and exits, and shortly after, Rosalia enters the room. She looks pale and tear-stained, her eyes darting nervously over the assembled men.
“You wanted to speak with me?” she says softly, rooted in place. Without thinking, I stand and cross the room to her. No one else offers her a seat or stands—she is merely a pawn to them, a tool for wielding or trading power as they see fit. But to me—
What exactly is she to you? The voice in my head taunts, but I push it aside. I take her elbow gently, avoiding her sweet gaze as I guide her to where I had been sitting before, facing Rizzo, knowing he is the one who wishes to address her.
“A decision has been made regarding your future, Rosalia,” he says, not unkindly, though I feel my jaw clench with protective instinct once more. “Angelo has agreed to stay in New York and take on the title and responsibilities of don, as your father wished. However, he has declined the proposal that you two marry. Instead, he has requested that we leave you under his guardianship, a suggestion we have accepted. Your future husband will be chosen at a later date, a responsibility Angelo has agreed to undertake. In fact—” Rizzo glances at me, his lips pressed tightly together. “He insisted upon it.”
“Oh,” Rosalia murmurs softly, her gaze briefly meeting mine before I look away. I detect a hint of disappointment on her face, though I can't discern its exact cause—is it that I'm staying? That I will select her husband? Or something else entirely.
“My father never spoke to me about his plans for me or his business after his passing,” Rosalia says quietly. “So if this is your decision, then I will accept it. But I would like to see the will, please.”
There’s a quiet steel to her tone that startles me. She’s sitting straight in her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but for the first time, I see something in her that tells me she’s no wilting flower. She won’t defy them outright, but neither is she going to take whatever they say without some evidence that she’s not being entirely used.
I feel a flicker of pride, watching her—and something else, something that I don’t want to look at too closely. She holds out her hand, and Mr. Sampolo hesitates for a moment until Rizzo nods, and he hands it over. I don’t miss the way Rosalia’s mouth tightens at that, seeing that the lawyer waited for Rizzo’s approval before handing over her own father’s will, but she says nothing. She simply takes the portfolio, opening it, and begins to read the document silently.
Long minutes stretch out without anyone speaking. I watch as Rosalia flips through it, her face somber and pale, her eyes glossy with unshed tears. It’s not until the very end that I see one drip down off of her lashes, and then another. I have to clench my hand against the side of my leg to keep from stepping forward and wiping it away from her cheek.
“Very well,” she says softly, closing the portfolio and handing it back to Mr. Sampolo. “I’ll do as you and Angelo have decided. When will he come to stay at the house?”
“Tonight,” Rizzo says, before I can open my mouth, and I fix him with a dark look.
“Tomorrow,” I amend. “Rosalia can manage one night on her own, certainly, with the staff there at the mansion. I’ll spend one more night at my hotel and make arrangements in the morning for my things to be packed up at my home in New York and flown here, and I can take up residence in the Santoro mansion, as requested. But I think Rosalia deserves at least one night without a near-stranger in her house.”
“You’re not a stranger,” she says quietly, her gaze flicking to mine again, but I think I see a hint of gratitude in her face. “Tomorrow, then.”
It’s not until I’m back at my hotel that I call Luciano. He answers after the first ring, his voice grave and serious. “Don Rizzo contacted me,” he says, and I feel a hot flush of angry resentment that Rizzo couldn’t even allow me to let Luciano know what was decided myself, on my own time.
“I thought he would let me inform you,” I say quietly, my voice terse. “But I see that’s not the case.”
“Of course. I don’t think you were keeping it from me. And I can’t say I’m surprised. I thought that something like this might be the result, considering—” Luciano lets out a slow breath on the other end of the line. “Considering your history with Don Santoro.”
History. The word is a vast understatement. “They wanted me to marry her. I refused, of course.” I clear my throat. “But this way, at least, the future of the Santoro name will be decided by me, as Vincezio wanted. It’s the best I could do.”
“Of course,” Luciano echoes, but I can hear some doubt in his voice—about what, exactly, I’m not sure. “I was told that they requested you remain in Chicago, rather than returning to New York to settle your own affairs.”
“That’s right.” I run a hand through my hair, eyeing the minibar in my room. “I’ll have someone collect what I need from my apartment and have it shipped here. I don’t plan to let the place go, for now, at least. Things may change.”
"I don't think so," Luciano replies with a wry tone. "Rizzo's decisions tend to stick once he's made them. But I understand your perspective." He pauses thoughtfully. "If circumstances do change, Angelo, I'll need to find a new consigliere sooner rather than later. It won't be easy to reverse that decision once you've returned."
"I didn't expect you to. I understand the weight of your responsibilities," I say, though the burden still feels heavy as I utter the words. In New York, alongside Luciano, I've built something that feels earned, not simply given. Surrendering it to take on Vincezio's legacy feels like a loss—a sensation compounded by guilt, knowing how much it meant to him to pass this on to me. But I can't have both—and ensuring Rosalia's safety tipped the scales.
If it had been almost anyone else, I might have returned to New York. But I couldn't hand her over to Andre. There was no chance of that.
After concluding the conversation with Luciano, I open the minibar, grab the first bottle I find without checking, and pour it into a nearby glass. When I lift it to my lips, I discover it's vodka—not my first choice—but I swallow it down, welcoming the burn of the alcohol. In just one day, my entire world has been upended.
"So has hers," the voice in my head chides, and I clench my teeth. It's true. Rosalia's world has been turned upside down far more drastically than mine. Vincezio was the only father I ever knew, and while I loved him, we hadn't been close in recent years.
I wasn't the one who discovered his body.
I remind myself that she needs my protection, steering my thoughts away from what Vincezio and the Family had expected of me, away from the possibility that I could be the one marrying Rosalia.
My body reacts involuntarily at the thought, my arousal a surprise and unwelcome. I adjust myself, fighting the urge. Alone in my room, it would be easy to give in, to sit down and satisfy myself. I touch myself briefly, feeling the desire grow stronger, but ultimately pull away, resisting the temptation.
If I indulged now, I would only think of Rosalia, despite the guilt it brings. So I finish my vodka, ignoring my body’s signals, and pour another drink.
I may not control my desires, but I can control my actions. And if that means going without, then so be it.
Rosalia is now my responsibility, under my care.
Anything else is not an option. I repeat this to myself as I sip my whiskey, focusing on other thoughts.
I can control myself. I must.
It’s the only way forward.