A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

1. Vanessa

1

VANESSA

The grandfather clock ticks away in the front room; the sound is the only thing grounding me through another infuriating meeting in which a man tries to pawn his nephew/widower-brother/cousin from the mainland off on me as a reasonable marriage candidate.

Apparently, marriage shouldn’t be anything more than a business deal.

Because that worked so well for me the last time.

I hear the men out because it’s rude not to when we’ve been in business together for so many years—generations, for some. But sitting through these asinine meetings is not good for my health. I’m not entirely sure what it feels like to have high blood pressure, but if anything were going to bring it on, it would be this. I always leave with a headache, which should be coming on any second now, along with?—

“I’m sure you both can find an arrangement that is suitable to your. . . more physical needs.”

And bingo. Cue the headache.

I take a sip of tea, now lukewarm after Ronaldo prattled on for twenty minutes all about the great ways this relationship would benefit us both, and set the mug back down. A marriage with his family would be practically useless to me. Still, I listen because it would be more annoying to hear him moan about my disregard for tradition and clan loyalty.

Ronaldo’s cup has, once again, made its way to the wooden tabletop instead of the coaster provided.

“Your cup,” I say. Because he has some sense of self-preservation, he moves it onto the coaster.

His face displays a calm surety, but he’s picking at a loose thread on his Gucci pants. He’s off balance while talking to me and doesn’t exactly know where he stands. He knows that I hold more power than him in this city, a lot more, and he probably knows that I have multiple men in his employ keeping tabs on his dealings, though he doesn’t know who. He was afraid of my father, and that fear remains for my father’s heir, but he doesn’t know precisely how to account for the fact that his heir is a woman.

“Are you saying that your nephew is going to cheat on me, Ronaldo?”

After a beat of shock, his eyes nearly bulge out of his crusty skull, and a vein in his forehead twitches. If I were a man, he would extend this same curtesy.

“Well, no, Vanessa, that’s not what I?—”

It was.

“Enlighten me, then. What sort of arrangement do you mean?” I ask, my tone almost generous.

His lips are thin, floundering open and closed while he puts coherent words together in his pebble of a brain. “Of course, James will have needs, and I presume anyone in your position would as well.”

“Ah.” Needs . “And if you wanted him to marry my younger sister, would she be extended such liberties as well?”

I think this question might be what breaks him: a concept so incomprehensible I can’t really mean it. As a rule in our world, women cannot take lovers. They ought to be pure, loyal creatures who belong to their father, then husband, or their son if their husband dies. But of course, men are welcome to their pick of lovers, so long as they’re not a part of the clan, lest they embarrass their wives. Foreign women are fine, but God forbid they be from the homeland.

Ronaldo clasps his hands and leans forward with a patronizing smile.

“Your sister would be a different situation. You understand,” he says. She’s not in charge , is what he means. My power doesn’t extend to her.

“Sure. A wife could never undermine her husband’s status in that way,” I agree with a shrug.

Ronaldo looks relieved, relaxing back into his chair, like finally I’m showing some reason.

“Right.” He takes a sip from his coffee, the ends of his gray mustache coming back wet.

“And James would never do anything to embarrass me,” I say.

Ronaldo’s head keeps bobble-heading on. James would never take an Italian lover, only Polish or Russian, he thinks I mean. As another man said last week, his nephew wouldn’t ever piss in his own pool. Great . Cool .

“Wonderful. So, infidelity of any kind from James will not be tolerated. You understand,” I echo.

He chokes, and then places the mug directly on the table next to his coaster, a bit of coffee splashing over and landing on the wood. Before I can correct him for a third time, though, he hurries to pull a handkerchief from his pocket and sops up the spill, replacing the cup again to its coaster.

Before this house was mine, it was my father’s, and he was very particular about his things. He liked them kept nice; credenzas dusted, wood floors polished, settees and ornate rugs free of bloodstains. Capos knew if they were invited in his home they were not to disrespect it. Perhaps it was his attention to detail that made him such a good don. Even with him gone, I’m glad that fear still lives in Ronaldo.

“If you think fidelity is beyond his capabilities?—"

“No,” Ronaldo is quick to jump in. Cute that he thinks this can be salvaged. He bobs his head, though his eyes show that he doesn’t quite understand. He can barely fathom how a man can or should be faithful to his wife, but I carry on anyway.

“And James is prepared to move to my estate, of course.”

Another brief hesitation, and then, “Of course.”

I know his nephew James has a sizable home of his own, one with a garage large enough to hold all of his trophy cars. He would throw a fit about moving. But really, just what do they expect? That I’d move my entire base of operations? And for what, to preserve his ego? It’s laughable.

I’m not actually considering this, and I haven’t since Ronaldo entered my home with cologne assaulting my nostrils, but I put on a show that I’m thinking it over. I let my gaze coast over the rug, the custom wallpaper, the tall windows, and the many pieces of art and pottery collected over the years. This room alone is probably worth more than the man sitting in front of me.

“Just a few more questions,” I begin.

Leo, my head of security and favorite cousin, is standing by in the room, large and intimidating as ever, and I can tell he’s trying to hold back a smirk. He’s seen this song and dance as often as I have and knows what’s next. He calls it The Finisher because if the bit about monogamy doesn’t send the old men into a rage, this usually will.

“Has he given much consideration to the name?” I ask.

Ronaldo stills his fidgeting.

“The name?”

“His surname,” I clarify. “I won’t be taking his, but I wondered if he’d given any thought to taking mine.”

I say it with as straight of a face as I can muster while Leo tries not to laugh. Ronaldo stutters his response, trying to temper himself before doing what he likely wants to do: throw his cup across the room for the blatant disrespect of me even humoring such an idea. Doing this would end badly for him, so he must choose his words wisely while also telling me to kindly fuck the fuck off if I think his nephew would ever consider changing his last name to Morelli .

“Certainly you don’t mean this.”

“And why not? If James was marrying Mary, you would expect nothing less of her, no? Because he holds more power than her, right? He doesn’t hold more power than me.”

“I didn’t realize Mary was on the table for discussion.”

“She isn’t.”

“But they might make an excellent pair, no, cara ?”

“No.” I stand and smooth out my pants, conversation over. “And don’t call me dear.”

It was a crafty attempt, pivoting to my sister when he realized I was too obstinate to be a viable option for his nephew. Mary, though, would be infinitely worse.

“We’re done here. Go before you start offending me.”

“Vanessa, this would benefit more than just us,” Ronaldo says, standing to match me. His face is reddening by the second and that vein protrudes further on his forehead. I nod at Leo, who comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“My answer is no, Ronaldo. It’s time for you to leave. Ciao .”

He does leave, lacking the smug smile he arrived with. Once the door is closed behind him, I pinch the bridge of my nose and roll my shoulders.

This was the third meeting of its kind this month, and I’m not positive how many more I can sit through before I start murdering innocent men. Well, as innocent as a criminal can be.

I waste no time trading my slacks for spandex and my heels for sneakers before making my way to the basement for evening training. I suspect Leo is off in the guest house—well, his house—doing the same.

Mary is already in our gym stretching when I get downstairs, still fuming from the meeting.

“So, are you engaged, then?” Mary asks.

“Please murder me if I’m ever desperate enough to agree to marry James Sinclair. And make it a slow death. Painful.”

Mary laughs and lunges further into her stretch, then moves through the rest of her flow, practically folding herself in half before standing up.

“I thought he would at least offer the younger one,” Mary says. “What’s his name again?”

“Ryan,” I groan. James is annoying, but his brother is insufferable, a lecherous prick that I had to suffer through all of high school with. “Ronaldo thought you might be a better match. Fewer demands.”

“I would eat him alive.”

“You should’ve seen his face,” my cousin calls from the base of the stairs, his suit traded for workout clothes. “Completely nuclear.”

Mary holds her water bottle up in a mock cheers. “Do you think he’ll retaliate?” she asks.

“No. Ronaldo’s a moron, but he’s certainly not that brainless,” I say.

“At this rate, you’re going to run out of men to say no to.” Leo says this like it’s funny, but the truth of it strikes a little too close.

There are a few powerful families in this city; The Morellis and the Donovanns secure the top of the list, so it’s reasonable that all other families in our employ want to marry up.

I start on my warmup: a quick mile, some stretching, and drills on the bag, while the other two start sparring on the mat.

I am not opposed to marriage, and in fact, I would like to have somebody by my side who would also share my bed, my stresses, and my pains. This is all very appealing to me. I have my mother and my sisters, Leo, too, and I know I can lean on them, but these relationships are not the same as having a person .

Ultimately, it is lonely at the top. But Mafia men are often cruel; it comes with the territory for us all. Our emotions must be hardened to some extent if we are to follow tradition so stalwartly. Alphaholes , some call them.

There are no shortage of men looking for a bride, but very few that are looking for a partner. I know it’s expected that I marry, and soon, but I can’t risk marrying someone who will undermine my position at every turn when I need him to help me.

I know no men whose egos are strong enough to demure to me in this way.

But there’s no avoiding the topic, because of the slight problem of an heir. Or lack thereof.

One of my sisters would take over if I was to die prematurely, nobody is more prepared than they are, but that is not something I want for them. Mary would do it; she’s got an extreme sense of duty that I adore, but she wouldn’t be happy in charge.

Willa’s kids are an option, but my niece and nephew are two of the most perfect children in the world. The thought of them having to kill or be killed makes me ill.

Adoption is an option, but this then begs the question of how will this baby be raised? Who will be doing the raising? I believe I am the least equipped person to raise a baby, maybe on the planet. Perhaps second only to Mary. Willa has her own children, and my mom is still young, not even sixty yet, but I can’t just expect her to constantly babysit the child I bring into this world.

And a man hiring a full-time nanny is fine, but me trying such a thing might cause mass upheaval.

I increase the pace of my drills, my heart rate climbing as I think about the double standard of it all. Men in this world have very few worries, as far as I’m concerned. There’s the running of things, but that’s just business. A job. They have wives to worry about the running of everything else—their homes, children, social calendars, house staff, gifts, and relationships. I don’t have that luxury.

I pound my fists harder into the hanging punching bag, trying to beat the frustration out of me, like if I hit this bag of sand enough, I will suddenly be calm about the whole life, marriage, and baby situation. I go at this pace until my lungs burn, and a towel hits my face to get my attention. I use it to wipe the sweat from my neck and look at where Mary and Leo have been sparring.

“Your turn,” Mary says.

I spar with Leo for a while, then with Mary, and then we run some drills, two versus one kind of stuff, jiu-jitsu, etc. It’s the routine. Leo’s been training with us since we were kids. His dad was my dad’s only brother, and chief of security, so he was always around.

Our training was intense and vigorous. My father knew we would never be stronger or larger than the men in our circles, and thus, we needed to be better prepared. We needed to be smarter, more agile, and better with weapons—his three little fighting machines—because we wouldn’t always have a security detail with guns to watch out for us.

We keep up with our exercises like our lives depend on them because they in fact do.

Just as I get Leo into a leg lock, my phone starts to ring. I wait for him to tap out before crawling over to my bag to answer it.

“Hi,” I answer, out of breath.

“Oh, thank God,” my sister says, as if she’s been calling me for hours.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, immediately on edge. Leo and Mary both still as I click the call to speaker.

“I need you to go to Artie’s parent-teacher conference tomorrow,” Willa says. I can’t help the eye roll that mirrors Mary’s before she goes back to work on the speed bag.

“No,” I say.

“Yes,” Willa says. “Please, Ness, it’ll be like twenty minutes tops. It’s at 2 PM at the school.”

“If it’s so short, why can’t you go? Or better yet, your husband?”

“We’re both busy,” she says, like this explains it perfectly. “Getting together the paperwork for the Monson bid is taking longer than I expected, and Sean’s got fires to put out at three sites tomorrow. But we missed the last conference and really can’t miss this one.”

I sigh for so long that she asks if I’m still there. Working in a family business means we all have a job; if it doesn’t get done, the rest of us are affected.

“Can he do it on the phone?”

“No, this guy is a real tight ass. He also has a tight ass, if that at all sways you towards saying yes.”

I take the phone off speaker as Leo laughs from where he’s still sprawled out on the mat.

“Artie won’t be able to play if we don’t get this sorted,” Willa explains. “Please, can you just go talk to him? His godmother and beloved aunt is just as good as his own mother if you think about it.”

I can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it. This sort of request is not infrequent from my older sister. If she wasn’t so damn good at carrying the weight of our company’s legal department on her shoulders, I would begrudge her more. I roll my head until my chin is resting on my chest.

“Fine.” I mutter, and can practically see Willa grinning through the phone.

“Thank you forever.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, then add “forever,” before hanging up.