3. Gigi

3

GIGI

Monte Carlo is packed, and although I love it here, I prefer it less congested with tourists. It's the beginning of summer peak season, and the taxi is battling to get ahead to the restaurant where I'm meeting Carla. I don't know what the hold-up is but as a last resort, I make the driver stop. I tap my card to pay and hop out, bracing myself to walk the last two hundred meters in heels not made for walking.

By the time I get there, I'm wilted. Thank God for air conditioning. Carla waves to me from where she's already seated, and I spot her bodyguard sitting unobtrusively at the bar, nursing an espresso. We make eye contact, but he doesn't acknowledge me.

"Hey." I lean in to kiss my sister on the cheeks. She's in a white strapless top, tight around her breasts. Her skin is sun-bronzed, and with her long mahogany tresses framing her face and brown eyes, my little sister looks seriously grown up.

"Traffic's a bitch, isn't it," Carla says as she stands to hug me, but I wave her to sit down.

I'm too hot for hugs.

"Yes. Don't use that word."

She rolls her eyes but reaches for the carafe and pours me some water. "How long are you here for?"

"Three days. I have an auction in Cannes tomorrow, and I'm meeting a client in Nice later this week."

"Don't you ever get tired of it?"

"What? The art? I'll never get tired of the art, or the auctions." There's the thrill of the chase, the buzz when I find a real treasure. The happiness when I make a deal for my clients. My work is a bit of a trip without the nasty addiction that comes with drugs.

"No, I mean the travel. You're forever flying from one corner of Europe to the other, never standing still. Even that bolt hole in London isn't much, and it isn't as if you spend a lot of time there."

A waiter hands me a menu, and I glance through it, trying to delay a response. "I'm so used to it, I hardly notice."

But I do. I've been running all over Europe since my business found its feet, and the last three years have been grueling. Most important, though, is the fact I'm fit and ready for the day I really need to run. After the talk with Don Trapani at Carla's birthday bash two months ago, I've made a point of making sure my exit plans are oiled and ready to be put into action at a moment's notice.

"In any case, I'm always welcome at home or Lake Como. And there's the yacht," I throw out, trying to appear careless.

Carla glares at me from under her thick lashes. "You only go to any of those places when Vincenzo isn't around. I've noticed, you know."

Yep. When it comes to my stepbrother, I prefer out of sight, out of mind . But I don't want to dwell on it. Not here, and not with her. Especially not after the talk I had with Papa on her birthday. That conversation has been eating at me like a worm, tarnishing a perfect-looking fruit from the inside out.

"What are your plans for the next few weeks?"

She's hanging out with friends in Monaco for now, but at some point, they'll all move to the yacht and chill. It's not as if these kids need to work to make money or be ready to disappear to avoid an arranged marriage. None of them is in this situation, except Carla, and this fact hasn't sunk in with her yet.

"Trying to give my bodyguard the slip?" she mutters. "Fuck, he's irritating."

With a sigh, I lift my gaze to where the man is sitting. He's studying the diners as if he's bored, but I know better. "You know the rules, cara , so don't even think about it. Please. It isn't safe."

I bet Don Trapani didn't have the same little talk with her like he had with me. Carla is going through life with blinders on, ignorant as to what could happen to her if someone decides she's a handy pawn or good for ransom money.

"I don't understand why I need to have someone attached to the hip when you can go gallivanting around Europe on your own without a bodyguard. You're just as much a Trapani as me!"

"Keep your voice down," I say as I put my hand on hers in warning. "This exact attitude is why you need a bodyguard. You're young, pretty, and rather naive if you think you can go through life as a Mafia princess and not be snatched," I whisper the last words, close to her ear. "You're not the only one in your friend group with a bodyguard, so cut it out. I'm not coming to identify your body if you get kidnapped and something goes wrong."

I retract my hand, not knowing how else to get the real danger of our situation into my little sister's thick head. "In any case, I'm not sure why you're complaining. At least he's something to look at."

Carla rolls her eyes at me. "Have him, then. I don't care."

I hitch my eyebrows as my jaw goes slack. My nonexistent sex life is none of anybody's business. "I really hope you don't go about selling your bodyguard like a sexual favor to your friends."

I don't know him, but I know Carla and the type she's hanging out with. I know me , and I'm a product of the same system. Swiss finishing school alumni. English boarding school girls, where the yearly school fees could make a normal person want to vomit a little. Sated, spoilt, privileged to the point where they have no concept of reality.

"Can you stop mothering me for a minute, and be like…I dunno? A sister? A friend?"

This puts my back up. Ever since Carla went to Switzerland for the last two years of school, it's as if she's left, and I don't know how to find my way back to her. I've seen her whenever I can, but this crevice between us is cracking open wider each time we see each other.

"Sorry," I mumble, but I can't help myself. Where I've fought for every inch between me and the Mafia, Carla hasn't realized yet she's the bull's eye. "Let's just order."

I shove my face into the menu, and for two minutes, there's a strained silence between us. When my phone vibrates in my purse where I have it hooked over an extra chair, I reach for it.

With an exasperated sigh, Carla reaches for her own phone where she's placed it face down on the table. There goes my rule, but I need to take this. It could be my client.

"Hey, Papa," I say, looking at Carla.

"How're my girls?" Don Trapani answers.

"I didn't know you knew I was meeting Carla today." I bet my movements are being tracked.

"She told me. I'm glad you're in Monte Carlo. I have a favor to ask."

"Sure, what can I do for you?" I indicate to the waiter to come take our order. My afternoon is open, but I suspect I'm going to have to run an errand now.

"I have guests on the yacht. They're sailing from Sicily and will be in the Cannes marina at around four this afternoon. I need you to go meet them."

I blink. This is a bit last minute. "I—I?—"

"I know you're supposed to be in Cannes tomorrow. Surely, you can make this work, Gigi. In fact, you must make it work."

"Papa, I'm in Monte Carlo."

"So? It's an hour's drive?—"

"You haven't seen the traffic?—"

He sighs into the phone. "I don't care. Make it happen, cara . Go meet them. Charm them. Make new friends."

"Why? Who are these people, anyway?"

"Friends from America. And you know why. We might need them."

This . Everything is about scratching each other's backs.

"Who are they, then? I assume their business is not the same as yours?" My subtle way of prodding to see if I'm stepping into another crime-riddled Mafia ring.

"No. The Scaleras are from Boston. You'll see for yourself. They're good people to know."

"What business are they in, Papa?" I insist. I'm not going to smooth the way for the 'Ndrangheta or Cosa Nostra from America into Europe. Plus, I've never heard the name Scalera before.

"Honestly, Gigi. They own security companies in the US. Top of the range and latest technology like we don't know here yet."

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to calm down. If Don Trapani is making connections with security companies in the States, to the extent where he allows them to use our yacht, things are worse than I anticipated. If you're getting a company from the States to come and upgrade your security, it only means you don't trust anybody locally anymore.

We're in deep, deep trouble. And I bet Vincenzo doesn't know anything about this Scalera visit.

"I'll go meet them," I say, my eyes focusing on Carla's flawless face, her makeup done to perfection and doing nothing to hide her youth.

"Thank you, cara . We'll talk tomorrow."

We ring off, and I revert to the menu, but my appetite is gone.