13. Gigi

13

GIGI

It's not often I get summoned, but this was a summons. Don Trapani's message was stark and clear: I'm needed on Lake Como this weekend.

When I tried to wriggle out of it, I got a message from Carla. It's been a month since I've seen her in Monte Carlo, and she's halfway through her summer vacation. Her rather desperate message swayed me. I glance down to my phone and read it again: I know you're busy, but I need to see you. Please come stay a couple of days. I miss you.

I miss her more, but this type of request has become so few and far between, I can't help wondering what's going on. We might be close, but like any young adult, Carla has a life beyond what she chooses to share with me. If she's in trouble, could she just brush some broad strokes to give me a basic idea? I glance down at the rest of our message chain, trying to read between the lines, but there's nothing giving me pause.

With Carla and Don Trapani coming at me from both sides, I can't say no. Besides, going to Papa's vacation home on Lake Como is always fun, and it holds some of the most treasured childhood memories of me and Carla before Mom died.

I look at the ETA to our destination. Half an hour to the villa. I have no clue whether Vincenzo is going to be there. At the thought of my stepbrother, my stomach turns, and I shoot up a prayer he won't be there to ruin my short visit.

For the past month, a rare rumor has been spreading that a major Mafia kingpin had been killed in Sicily. When the name Randazzo popped up, I had to take the afternoon off to digest. You don't grow up in Sicily, never mind the Mafia, without knowing the name Randazzo. And if it doesn't fill you with cold stark fear and dread, it's because you're already dead.

Nobody has confirmed the rumor, and beyond asking Don Trapani directly if he knew something, which he denied, I've let it slide. And yet, for the past two weeks, Papa's words to me on Carla's eighteenth birthday, the premonition that monsters are rising, have haunted me, and now it feels as if I could be walking into a trap. But it's family, and it's home, and surely, Don Trapani— Papa —will look out for me. And if he doesn't, I'll do so myself.

The driver takes the road winding down the valley, and far off, lights flicker on the scalloped edge of the dark water mass. Lake Como rests quietly in the summer's evening. The sky is a slate blue, the sun long gone, but its presence lingering at this time of year. It's late to arrive on a Friday night, but it's intentional. A quick in and out. I'll be gone by Sunday morning because of work.

As the driver pulls up to the house, I notice only the outside entry lights are on. There seems to be nobody at home. It's not that late. I thank the driver, remind him of my Sunday morning flight back to London, and grab my bag. I've mastered the art of traveling light and can get away with this tote for the weekend.

I walk up the stairs, and as I reach the door, it swings open.

"Gigi. My dear sister." Vincenzo stands there, as if he was waiting for me.

I curse under my breath. There's a reason I've been avoiding Vincenzo. As he hugs me close, his hands slide three inches lower than the accepted familial distance to my ass.

I push him away.

"I wasn't sure you'd be here." Even if the signs were there, I couldn't ignore the call of duty. "Where's Papa? And Carla?"

"We're in the library."

Strange. It's so pleasant on the terrace, the peak of the summer, and perfectly balmy outside. Vincenzo has his hand on my elbow, guiding me as if I don't know where to go. I spot a bodyguard in my peripheral—Carla's bodyguard. There will be others, of course, but Don Trapani has always liked the discreet look.

When our gazes connect, he blinks at me. I try to recall his name. We were only introduced once. Every other time I saw Carla, he was always on the periphery, not cramping her style. I'd glanced through his resume, but that was it. Vito… Vittorio Rossi. Not your usual bodyguard profile. He speaks five languages and is ex-navy. He's big for an Italian; the size that doesn't like to be squashed into a submarine.

I nod at him and try to shrug Vincenzo's hold loose.

"I know my way to the library. Where's Carla?" I ask again, showing my nerves.

"She's in the library. As I said." Vincenzo pinches my elbow, holding tight. "We have guests, cara , and I need you to play along."

His tone is soft, but fear sparks down my spine.

Why did I come? Honestly, my sixth sense has been on high alert for weeks now, but I know why I came. I came for Carla. I came to fetch my sister. To take her to London for the rest of the summer. For longer if needed. There's a storm brewing, and I don't want either of us to be caught in it.

The corridor's lights are dimmed, and this is a restored period villa, but I can't recall it being so dark in here. As we pass one room after the other, I notice the shutters are closed, not even allowing in the moonlight.

"Vincenzo…Cenzo—" I sound uncertain and hate how I revert to his childhood nickname in this begging tone, with a little crack in my voice giving me away.

"It's all good, Gigi. It's just a negotiation. One you could have avoided ten years ago if you'd just married me."

Not this. I escaped then. What's awaiting me now? I bite my lip and let him literally drag me to the closed double doors of the library. My legs are jelly, begging for the surge of adrenaline that will allow me to sprint away, but I must go in there. I must see Carla.

Vincenzo opens the door, and the little glow from the few standing lamps inside makes it hard to take in the room with one glance. Don Trapani's desk. The endless library shelves with their priceless Italian collection. The fireplace. The aged leather sofas. The dark corners where I used to play hide-and-seek with Carla when she was a toddler.

Figures etch out in the dark, and a constrained sob startles me.

"Carla?" I cry out as I home in on her.

I want to rush over to her, but Vincenzo slides his grip down and tightens his hold on my wrist.

My sister's sitting on the sofa, hugging her legs to her chest, in skimpy shorts and a T-shirt as if she came right off a boat cruise on the lake. I look to the man who sits at the desk and do a double take. It isn't Don Trapani residing over his domain. I've never seen him before, and the way he's looking at me makes me ice over in dread.

"Gigi Trapani," he says. "We're so glad you joined us."

I want to scream, but I know it's futile. We're far enough from the next estate and surrounded by forest. Exclusivity comes at a price, and this is one of them.

"Gigi."

I glance to my left. Papa's voice is strained, and he doesn't stand from where he's sitting in a wingback.

"Papa? What's going on? Who…?"

Can he even stand? They could have tortured him. I have no clue how deep I've stumbled into the quicksand here.

" Cara …" Don Trapani starts again. "I'd like you to meet Franco Fiore. Our new Don. He's replacing Emilio Randazzo."

So Randazzo is really dead. God help us all. Randazzo didn't have children as far as I know, not even out of wedlock. A shrewd decision, until shit hits the fan. Which it obviously did.

Franco Fiore stands and comes around the desk, and Vincenzo keeps me in place, a warning in his death grip on my wrist. As if on cue, someone switches more lights on, and it pours over Franco's face. He isn't old as I expected, not even close to fifty, but more Vincenzo's age. He's in a tailored suit but has shed the tie. His black shirt is unbuttoned, showing off a body tattoo that reaches his chin. He's clean-shaven, his mouth pulled in a deceptive smile, and when his gaze hooks mine, I quiver.

He raises a hand, and the first thing I notice, hypnotized, is the bruising, the scars and scabs on his knuckles. The ring that still has blood crusted in the fine edge between the diamond and its gold setting. A tattoo of a snake coils around his forefinger, its head where there should be a nail, but he has none. God.

I swallow, my pulse hammering in my temples. He leans in and brushes his knuckles down my cheek, and each scab scratches like sandpaper. I force myself not to flinch.

"The younger one's prettier. At eighteen maybe still a virgin." He forks my chin with his fingers and turns my face this way and that, inspecting me. "Although, some experience is useful in the marriage bed. I'd hate to be bored."

I want to spit in his face but know better.

"And why would anybody be marrying you?" I ask point blank, shaking my head to make him let go of me. I can't afford to appear weak. Not here, not now.

Franco smirks as he lowers his hand. "I'll let Vincenzo answer that."

Vincenzo clears his throat and shoves me gently in the direction of the sofa. I keep my composure as I sink down next to Carla, but she leans into me and claws at my hand. I squeeze back. It's warm in here, but she's shivering, petrified.

"Emilio Randazzo was killed a month ago on his estate near Catania," Vincenzo says. "We're still trying to figure out who killed him, but as you can imagine, without an heir apparent, there's been…unrest."

And more deaths than I can probably imagine. Maybe forcing myself out of the Mafia grapevine has been a stupid move. Not being informed…why didn't Don Trapani say anything? Surely, he knew exactly what was going on. He didn't warn me we were being ambushed. Carla shouldn't be here. She's still a child. Except she isn't.

"The fact that Randazzo was murdered is moot," Vincenzo says. "Franco has been planning to take over his operations for some time. Randazzo was old, too laid back, and things were getting out of hand."

I don't even want to know what he means by that.

"You know how this works, Gigi," he carries on when I say nothing, but only stare blindly at him.

Yes, I know . I glance at Don Trapani for help, but he's closed his eyes, sagging into himself. "Enlighten me?"

Vincenzo has the decency to rest his gaze for a second on Carla's distraught face. "Franco wants a wife. And we, as the Trapanis, need to strengthen our alliance with the new Don. I've already pledged my alliance. In fact, I took my omertà in April."

"Good for you," I say. "Your alliance doesn't need me. It also doesn't need an eighteen-year-old student who's about to go to university. We have nothing to give to your organization."

"Gigi," Don Trapani starts, and I eagerly meet his gaze.

He pauses for a moment. The weight attached to his silence presses on my chest like a boulder. Here it comes. What would happen if I don't comply.

"We're trying to do this with as little bloodshed as possible. With a marriage, we're signaling peace. Things can go on as normal, as they were."

‘Normal' for all those under extortion. Everyday people caught in a turf war between Franco and whoever else wants to claim a stake in the sex and drug trafficking on this side of the planet now that Emilio Randazzo is dead.

I swallow down my fear and cling to Carla's hand for support. "I'm not for sale. Neither is Carla."

Franco steps closer to me and frowns. If he touches me again, I swear I'll bite him.

"I'm surprised you think you have a say, angel. The deal's been made. I just didn't know I had such a difficult choice to make."