“Whatever they want. That’s the point.”
“Sometimes too much choice is overwhelming. Not everyone is a clothing designer. There are plenty of people who want high-quality clothes, but only a small subset of them know enough about fashion to tell you exactly what they want made.”
Loretta looks at me, her eyes narrow. “That’s not in line with my vision.”
“Well, your vision isn’t working. Why not try this?”
“Because I’m not going to redo my entire business plan based on an idea you just pulled out of your ass. What do you know about this? I’ve been working on this business for two years. You showed up two hours ago, and you’re already telling me what to do. Do you think you’re smarter than me?” She scoffs and shakes her head.
My walls surge right up. “Why are you being like this? I’m trying to help you.”
“You spit on everything my family stands for. Tradition. Honor. Virtue.” She shakes her head. “You get married to my cousin, and the first thing you do is spend his money. What? You don’t think we heard about that? You’re spoiled and vapid. I don’t need your help. I knew this was a waste of my time.”
Frustrated, I grab my purse and march out of the store. Rafaele might be manipulating me, but he’s right about not letting people talk to me like that. The wind nips at me as soon as I step outside. It’s barely past lunchtime, but Nero’s already back here.
He sees me from the car and frowns. “Done already?” he asks as soon as I get in.
“Yes.” I can feel his gaze probing the side of my face.
“How did it go?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
A beat passes. “Look, Loretta can be a bit prickly. Don’t take it personally.”
Yeah, right. Everything she said to me felt pretty fucking personal.
I sniff. “I’m not.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
Frustration rings deep inside my bones, so I take it out on Nero. “Are you my driver or my therapist? Can you just take me home?”
I force myself to look at him and immediately feel guilty for snapping like that.
But Nero just shrugs. “All right. Your mother called. Wants to see you.”
“Why?”
“Maybe she’s worried about you after the attack.”
That’s doubtful.
“You can say no if you don’t want to,” he offers.
I don’t want to, but I could use a distraction after my disastrous first day. I’m not in any rush to tell Rafaele how poorly it went.
“Fine. Take me there.”
The city is gridlocked, and it takes us nearly an hour to get to my old house.
When we arrive, a servant I don’t recognize opens the door.
“Mrs. Garzolo is waiting for you in the living room,” he says. “Mr. De Luca, may I offer you some coffee?” He leads Nero away to the kitchen while I go search for Mamma.
Passing through the grand foyer, I briefly note the picture frames on the round foyer table. There are three. One of me and my sisters, one of the whole family, and one of just my parents. They seem perfectly normal, but I know the smiles in them are all forced. Mamma and Papà have always been big on appearances and little else.
I find my mother reading a magazine on the sofa. When she hears me enter, she puts the magazine away and stands. Her gaze scans over me, her nose wrinkling.
I know exactly what she’s thinking. My casual outfit is too sloppy. My hair’s not sufficiently styled. My makeup is too sparse.
Thank God, I don’t have to deal with this every day anymore.
She walks up to me. “I heard you were hurt during the shooting.” There isn’t a hint of warmth in her tone.
“Why did you want to see me?” I ask, knowing she’s not really concerned for me.
She sniffs, probably displeased at how quickly I saw through her facade. “Your father is waiting for you in his office.”
Irritation inches along my skin. So it’s Papà who really wants to talk to me, but he knew I’d never show up if the invitation came from him.
I clench my jaw. I want to speak to my father as much as I want to go back to Loretta’s shop. But I’m already here, aren’t I? Might as well see what this is all about.
Papà’s office is a place of bad memories. It was here where I saw him hurting Gemma. But I know he’d never dare to raise his hand to me. Not now that I’m married to Rafaele.
I push the door open. Stefano Garzolo is sitting at his desk, a stack of papers before him.
He looks up. “Come in and close the door.”
I step inside and take a seat in a chair across from his desk. “What do you want?”
“How’s married life?” he asks, a hint of mockery in his tone.
My eyes narrow. “Did you summon me here so that you could rub it in?”
An insincere smile cuts across his face. “Not at all. I want to know if Rafaele is treating you well.”
Better than you ever did. Married life is growing on me, but my father is the last person in the world I’d confess that to, so I say only what he expects to hear.
“I gave up my independence and freedom. I can never go to college like I wanted to. I will never have the career of my dreams. How do you think it’s going?”
He nods, his eyes flashing with satisfaction. My stomach curdles. It’s like he gets off on thinking I’m miserable.
“Well, maybe you don’t have to spend the rest of your life with Messero,” he says slowly.
I frown. What is he talking about now?
He brushes his palms over the desk. “I want to make you an offer.”
“What kind of an offer?” Outside, a raven croaks like a bad omen. My eyes dart to the window in time to see the bird fly by.
“My retirement plans have changed,” my father says. “I’ve decided five years isn’t enough for me to do what I’d like to do as don of our family.”
“And what is that exactly?” As far as I can tell, he’s spent decades lining his pockets, hosting parties at La Trattoria, and acting all-important.
There’s a reason he went to jail—one of his capos turned on him and spilled the beans to the feds. Why? Because my father got greedy. He kept asking for bigger and bigger cuts and squeezed his own men too tightly.
“I want to finish getting rid of the rats, rebuild my ranks, and bring the Garzolo family into a new era. New businesses, new partnerships, new points of leverage.” He steeples his hands in front of him. “It’ll take some time, but the future is looking bright for Garzolos.”
Quickly, I start to put it together. What he’s saying is that he has no intention of letting Rafaele become his successor.
“You want to stay on as don.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I’m fifty-four. My father retired at seventy. I’ve still got plenty of time to bring our family back to the top of the food chain in this town.”
“Rafaele will never allow this to happen. You made a deal with him. He gave you five years.”
Papà nods. “Which is why Rafaele needs to go.”