22. Stephano

22

STEPHANO

It's late Sunday night. The usual Il Consiglio meeting is happening in Matteo's office, but we're short two brothers. Luca is overseeing a shipment that arrived late, and Dominic is in New York where he's been involved in some high-end security jobs. For the past thirty minutes, we've discussed Gigi and Carla's surprise arrival.

"The obvious solution is to marry her off to someone else, so she's no longer available to marry this Franco fucker." Benedict takes another swig of his whiskey. "Best plan, to be honest."

Matteo smirks. "And you'd sign up for that? I'm already married."

"I've never met this woman." Benedict points his glass in my direction. "Stephano is the obvious choice."

Matteo's gaze lands on me where I've frozen in my seat. Oh, boy. He's going to mess with me. I can just sense it.

"I've vowed to never get married," I say, hackles up, making sure I'm getting the first word in. "And you all know why. Plus, that only sorts out the one sister. What about Carla, the younger one?"

"We can get her into a university program here with a student visa, so she won't have to leave," Matteo says, brushing Carla off. "Surely, this turf war won't last longer than the length of a bachelor's degree."

"Too many variables there," Benedict says with a smirk. "Not every student nails it the first time around."

I roll my eyes. Both Trapanis are still asleep, unaware we are deciding on their futures as if we own them, not owe them.

"Listen." I drag in a breath. They don't know the extent of this Franco fucker's sadistic cruelty, but there's one point I have to drive home. "Matteo killed Randazzo, and that triggered this whole fucking mess. He escaped Sicily on the Trapanis' yacht. I bet after Randazzo's estate got blown up, the airport wasn't exactly an option, so the only reason Matteo is here today, unscathed, are the Trapanis. We owe it to these girls to keep them safe, but marriage…that's taking it a bit too far."

"Why?" Benedict shrugs. "It's not as if you need to stay married. Divorce like any other couple once the danger has passed."

"Now-now," Matteo chirps. "Don't dish what you don't know. How else is she going to stay in this country legally? The last thing I want is Homeland Security sniffing around my ass."

"And marrying someone so they can stay in the US is a felony." I shift in my seat. So many reasons why this is a bad idea. As the Mafia, we're always walking a tightrope between the shadow world of crime and the real one where normal people exist. The police have their place, and although we can negotiate and straddle two worlds at the same time, we don't poke law enforcement for the fun of it.

"Did they travel on their normal passports or fake documents?" Benedict asks, ignoring my statement.

"They're fake passports."

We all turn towards the soft voice coming from the door. Fuck. Who knows how long she has been standing there. Did she hear about Randazzo?

"Gigi," I say as I stand. "Why're you up?"

She looks lost and forlorn in that oversized T-shirt and those sweatpants that are not letting her cuts breathe.

"I woke up and couldn't fall asleep again. It must be jet lag. I'm worried about Carla and got lost trying to find her room."

Sounds more like anxiety, what with those dark circles under her eyes. Maybe she needs to take pain meds. At the thought, I take a step towards her, wanting to wipe it all away. "Carla is down the corridor from your room. You must have taken a wrong turn."

"Welcome to Boston," Matteo says as he walks up to her. "Steph told us what happened."

She visibly flinches away as Matteo raises his hand—probably only to touch her shoulder in greeting—but my blood boils.

"Don't touch her. She's hurting." I take swift strides in their direction, ready to jerk him away from her.

"Sorry," she says softly as she inches towards me. "Being in a new place I don't know…I'm just rattled."

"It's okay, angel."

I wedge myself between her and Matteo. Benedict, as usual, hasn't even moved from his seat, but studies the whole scene like a spectator. Matteo steps away, and our eyes lock.

Yes, Matty, this woman is petrified and with reason.

"Hi," Benedict says, breaking the tense moment as he waves from his seat. "Benedict Scalera, the youngest."

"Hi." Gigi waves back, then folds her arms over her chest, protective, as her gaze jumps between us.

I get it, we're intimidating, especially when we're together—all of us built, tall, and tattooed. And there's only three of us here. We're also fiercely loyal and protective of each other, and we've taken the Trapani women under our wing. Nothing and nobody will dare touch them here.

"Come." I put my hand on the small of her back and guide her to the sofa where I make sure she's comfortable. "We're trying to find a long-term solution," I say as I sit down next to her but giving her space. "I won't—I mean, we won't —send you back to Italy until things have settled in Europe."

Benedict cocks his brow at me, and I curse the Freudian slip as he leans forward in his seat. "You all met in Cannes, right?"

"Yes," Matteo says as he holds out an empty glass to Gigi, questioning if she'd like a drink. She nods, and he pours her a double whiskey and drops in a few ice cubes. "We met the night of the auction."

"And you left with Tasha." Benedict swings his whiskey glass in Matteo's direction, then swings it back to me. Ice rattles as he indicates to me and Gigi. "And you two?—"

"Went our separate ways," I cut in, irritation grating.

Who knows what Matteo told the others, but I got razzed for weeks about how grumpy I was after that night in Cannes when Matteo left me with a mystery woman in red who promised to make my life hell. And then Tatiana died.

She overdosed as predicted, and everybody steered clear of me for days, letting me mourn the woman she once was, a very long time ago. After the assault, she was so fucking broken that the news of her death came as a relief to me. I can't watch a woman suffer like that, which makes this whole situation with Gigi even more intense. I've failed Tatiana. I've failed my mom. But fuck knows, I won't fail Gigi Trapani.

With Tatiana, I got in too deep, and for me, it will never be about love again. I've learned the hard way that Scalera boys don't get to love. We do, however, get to keep our vows.

I shift in my seat and inwardly groan as I watch Benedict put two and two together. That all-knowing brow cocks again.

"Sounds like unfinished business to me, Steph," he teases, a twitch to his lips. "I'm not needed here. I'll dig for you and see what I can find on Franco Fiore, but for the rest, I think you three can negotiate the next steps." He stands, puts his glass down on the coffee table, and shoots Gigi a smile. "We'll see each other around, angel ."

My youngest brother is playing with fucking fire. "Watch your fucking tongue, Benny."

"Uh huh." Benedict chuckles as he walks to the office's door. "We all now know where yours has been, Fanny."

His sly laugh still echoes with his footsteps as he walks through the double-volume space of the adjacent living room. I glance at Gigi. Luckily, the whole interchange seems to have gone over her head.

Matteo's gaze volleys between the two of us. "Right," he says with an unnecessary twinkle in his eye. "Where were we?"

"Something about how we're going to stay here long term, and legally?" Gigi says. "I never intended for this to happen or to impose on you for longer than a few weeks."

"It's no imposition," he says. "We honor our debts. From what Stephano told us, there's no way you're going back to Italy until the dust has settled in Europe."

"He did? Tell you everything?" she asks then, her eyes on me.

There's trust in her gaze, but it seems to hover on a precipice.

"I drew a rough sketch of Friday night's events," I say, wanting to lean in and squeeze her hand to make her understand her secret is safe with me.

She swallows, clutching the glass of whiskey so hard, her fingertips are turning white. "Okay. What solutions did you come up with?"

"Carla is easy," Matteo says. "We have connections and can get her into any course she wants. Harvard, MIT, Emerson, whatever she wants to do, we'll make it happen."

"You can? Just like that?" Gigi's tone says it all. She doubts we have this level of influence in this city. "I honestly don't want a deal that's going to draw attention."

"We don't draw attention," I say. "It will all be above board."

She stares at me, incredulous. "Well. That's my sister sorted."

"As for you," Matteo says as he leans with his elbows on his knees, studying her closely. "Marriage is the easiest and quickest option to staying here long term."

"Marriage?" She chokes on the word. "To whom?"

I hate to admit the idea has grown on me since Benedict put it on the table. It's grown so much on me, there isn't an ounce of rebellion in me now.

"To me," I say with a smirk. Because fucking karma.

"Marriage? To you ?" Gigi's eyes widen, and then she laughs, but it's filled with disdain.

Yep, there it is. The snobbish superiority that grated on me in Cannes. "Yep, to me, since Matteo's already taken."

"I've vowed to never marry into the Mafia," she spits out. "And I certainly didn't just jump ship from one crazy bunch of Italian crime lords to land in a bucket of American ones."

"Angel," I say, reaching for her hand. "We both know the Scaleras don't operate like the Franco Fiores of the world."

Her eyes flash with fury as she pulls her hand away, showing a glimpse of the woman I met in Cannes. There she is. My pulse skips a beat in relief. Thank God.

"It's the perfect solution," Matteo says as he stands. "Stephano has vowed to never get married. You've vowed to never get married to the Mafia, so getting a divorce down the line will be a breeze." He downs the last of his whiskey. "I'll leave you to discuss the details."

We both watch as he walks out of the office.

"I'm a good Catholic girl. We don't divorce," she mutters under her breath.

"Hmm. Good Catholic girls don't get fucked with champagne bottles either," I say as I take a sip of my whiskey.

"Fuck you," she hisses.

Oh, boy. That night still triggers her, too.

"To do so will be a pleasure, I'm sure."

She's got no reason to complain; she did, after all, get two orgasms out of it. Things would most probably not have come to this if I actually had fucked her.

"God." She turns to me, eyes wide. "How arrogant can one man be?"

"How conceited can one woman be?" I counter.

"I'm not getting married," she snapped at me. "Not to you, of all people."

I don't blame her for this reaction. Gigi Trapani stumbled into my life on that marina in Cannes and kicked my usual equilibrium out of sync. What she'd said to me that day pressed my buttons because I never hurt her, and this only prompted me to put her in her place.

But after today and seeing her this brutalized, never mind the burning need to protect her, I have this urge to show her I'm not like Franco Fiore. I want to marry her, not only to prove to myself I'm a better man than her fiancé, but as a test to myself, to show me who I am. To see whether it's really in my blood .

Images of the Don with Mom flash through my mind. Of the night I walked in on them when he was beating her up. How she called me later that week, her face untouched but her body broken, and extracted a promise from me. I made a vow to her on those wedding rings Tasha wore in Cannes. I will never do that to a woman again, even though the Don forced me to join in the fun because it's in my blood .

And then, I went and beat someone my own age, almost to death, proving him right. I've never tested the theory with a woman. The horror of being like him drives me to the gym every day, beating the shit out of myself before I can take it out on someone else.

Control. That's all I want.

The beauty of this potential fake marriage is in how it has an end date. It'll be a test run. A taste of something I've promised to never have. I've proven I'm in total control of my mind and body when it comes to Gigi Trapani. And the best part of it is, as much as this woman tests my limits, she's also the type who won't take shit from any man.

She's my perfect solution.

"When you've calmed the fuck down," I say, so tempted to brush a strand of hair from her face in truce, "let us know what alternative solutions you've come up with." I keep my hands to myself as I stand and stare her down. "One thing I can tell you is that we keep our records clean. Irrespective of the debt between our families, no Scalera is going to harbor an illegal in his house for the fun of it. Eyes are on us all the time, and just like you, we don't like to draw attention."

She glares up at me and shakes her head. "This was never the plan."

"Plans change." I point towards the door in invitation. "I'll show you to Carla's room before I head out."