A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

5. Vanessa

5

VANESSA

In the brief solitude of my office, I rub my temples in soothing little circles. When work is especially bloody, I see that purple-red color of blood each time I close my eyes for hours. At the heart of it, I do not want to kill people. None of us do, we aren’t murderers. You don’t want someone like that on your team, someone who likes killing.

It’s not fun, it’s not sport, it’s horrific usually, but unfortunately, it’s business.

We do what we have to when we have to, because if we don’t, someone else will get us first.

Every crime family comes with its dangers, and ours is just the same. Some deal in drugs, people, gambling, fake money—whatever they’re good at. Before I was born, my father’s uncle was a relatively small fish in a massive pond. He was a runner, then a lackey, then, after getting his hands dirty enough, an advisor. By the time he became the boss, my father was seventeen. They expanded into weapons, buying and moving product into the country so it could be sold to the highest bidder.

I will not pretend that this is ethical.

But, again, it is business.

Now, we’ve only expanded our horizons; our importation of technology and weapons means that we can move very expensive products into the country and sell them to well-paying clients who want to feel safe, protected, bigger than everyone else. It also means that when something goes missing, it’s not an inexpensive problem that can be easily ignored. We’re not pushing pot here.

Willa’s husband Sean and his brother, Cillian Donovann, breeze into my office, ending my moment alone, and sit heavily in the chairs across from the desk.

“Nothing?” I ask, though their faces tell me everything.

“The other families are clean,” Sean says.

Cillian tilts his head left to right as if weighing the statement. “Well, clean is relative.”

“They didn’t steal our shit,” Sean clarifies. “No reason to believe the Garzas did it.”

“What about the Orlovs?” I ask, though I have no reason to suspect them. This boss, Maxim, hasn’t caused us any trouble since taking over, but that doesn’t mean he won’t .

“Wouldn’t risk the relationship,” Sean says. “And apparently he’s got his own problems.”

The Garzas, the Orlovs, the Morellis, and the Donovanns run this city, each of us staying in our own lanes for the most part. Of course there are sub families, ones that report up, and every decade or so they get a hankering to play king of the hill and topple whosoever is on top. Those are some of the messiest problems to deal with because it’s not about taking out faceless strangers. That’s personal .

“We’ll find them,” Sean assures.

A shipment of highly technical weapons was stolen last week and still have yet to be located. There were hundreds of small explosives, tiny little things that are easy to hide, almost unnoticeable, but pack a huge punch. We had buyers across the country ready to shell out ungodly sums of money, but then the shipment went missing. More are already on their way, but that’s money we eat if they aren’t found. It’s not like there’s insurance on illegal materials.

The cameras were tampered with and none of our guys had a damn detail to share. It’s not that nobody knows who stole the shipment—someone knows—it’s that they aren’t talking.

I think about what the last five days have entailed, which is a whole lot of not finding whoever’s been messing with my shit. Cillian and Sean brought in a suspect on Thursday during dinner, which normally wouldn’t be a huge issue, but it was an obligatory dinner with one of the Old Heads who still not-so-secretly wishes my father was still alive and in charge. The kind of dinner where I must listen to slightly veiled misogyny and pretend that I respect him more than I do because clan politics are delicate.

The dude the Donovanns brought in was bleeding all over the front walk and the entryway while Mary was in the middle of dishing up lasagna for everyone. She’d quickly handed the serving tools over to my mom, who entertained the Old Head and the kids with Willa, while the rest of us took the joker to the basement.

I would prefer to not do business in house like this, but desperate times call for unsavory measures.

Cillian said the guy was the closest they’d found to the missing shipment; the owner of the last car the security cameras picked up before going down. He wasn’t in the clan, just a wannabe gangster known for selling firearms to kids.

Prick.

He was tight-lipped, only opening his mouth to shout profanities at us, and he lost consciousness after Mary worked on convincing him for the better part of an hour. Her white sweater was completely soiled, stained deep red down the front and on the sleeves, and she would have joined the family for dessert looking just like that if I hadn’t told her to go change.

The guy was dead by the time we went down again a few hours later, though Mary swore she’d been easy on him. Said no way could he have died from that beating, even if he was on blood thinners, but sure enough, there was not a heartbeat to be found. She and Leo took care of his body, but god, it’s exhausting work running about like that while there are guests upstairs.

“It’s only a matter of time before we smoke them out,” Cillian says now. He’s all confidence—in fact, he’s always all confidence about things like this. Someone steals his shit? He cuts off their fingers. Someone betrays him? He kills them. It’s like this life doesn’t faze him. As the head of the Donovann family, he’s got to be tough. I’m just glad he’s on my side because he’d be a son of a bitch to kill.

“You’re right,” I sigh.

It’s not the stuff going missing that’s really upsetting me, it’s the disrespect of it. A container of bombs disappearing is inconvenient, but ultimately pennies in the grand scheme of the year. We aren’t going out of business because of a few missing boxes.

But a bad egg in the operation? That could cost a fortune if left to rot.

Sean looks down at his watch and stands from his chair. “I’ve got to be on one of the sites,” he explains. “OSHA violations abound, apparently.”

I close my eyes to the news, trying to hide the uncontrollable roll of my eyes. Running the workings of the mafia clan is a business in itself; there’s the logistics of employees, shipments, transportation, orders, and every other detail. Then, of course, there’s the deals to be made, individuals to be bought out, and relationships to be fostered. The construction business, though, is what lets us do the things we really want to do and gives us more capital to do it. So, nothing gets to be ignored.

On the side of Morelli Construction, Sean manages the construction sites, Willa handles the legal, I’m the acting CEO. All these roles would be a lot if we weren’t also managing some of the largest crime operations in the city.

“You look stressed,” Cillian says once his brother leaves. I let myself slouch in my chair until my head is resting on the back of it. If he was anyone else outside of my family I wouldn’t show such fatigue, but Cillian has been on our side since I was eighteen. He’s earned our trust with his partnership, and I’ve seen him low, exhausted, or with bloody fists in defense of someone from my family. He’s not blood, but he is one of us.

“I can’t stand this stuff. Like there’s a rock perpetually in my shoe, and until we find who did it, I’ll never walk comfortably,” I say.

“Anyone in your clan you think might have it out for you?”

I think about this, scrolling through names and faces in my mind. “I pissed Ronaldo Sinclair off last week, but he’s too much of an idiot to retaliate.”

“Why him?”

“Because I wouldn’t marry his nephew. You know James?” Cillian nods. “And I wouldn’t give him Mary for either him or his brother Ryan.”

Cillian whistles.

“She’d kill him in his sleep.”

“I know.” I stand and look out the window to the back yard. Mom is hard at work in the garden, weeding and planting and otherwise making sure it’s going to be the most beautiful garden in the neighborhood.

It’s nice to see her outside again. For over a year after my father died, she didn’t touch the garden. It was something they did together, him following her around telling her what troubled him, her listening, adding her input where she could.

Cillian meanders over until he’s by my side and leans against the wall on the other side of the window frame.

“How many this month?”

“Hm?”

“Marriage proposals.”

“Oh.” I sigh. “Just three. A notable one from the Barga family, though.”

“They’ll send their son here from California?”

“Well, I’m a hot piece of ass,” I say. My father made quite a name for us in his tenure, drawing eyes of crime families across the country. I think his cooperation with them is what made him such a strong leader. It’s a fine line for me to walk in his stead, interfacing with crime lords a world away. “Obviously they didn’t offer their favorite son. Probably not even the spare. They’d send the third in line. He’s probably nineteen.”

“Did you kill them for even offering?”

“No. Figured that would make traveling to California very difficult,” I say. Every inquiry has come from a place I understand, a place that craves security. My family could offer that. “The funny thing is that they always ask if I’d arrange for a match with Mary if not for myself. They have no idea what a handful she’d be.”

“They’d be lucky to have her,” Cillian says, which makes me smile. He and Mary haven’t always gotten along—something about Cillian gets under her skin, always has—but Mary at least hasn’t threatened to strangle him in a few years, which is progress. She tolerates him. He recognizes that she’s an asset.

“She’d take over from within. It would take three weeks. If that.”

“All the more power for you, then.”

“I suppose.”

Cillian is older than Willa and Sean, mid-thirties I think, but he is like me in that both of us became the heads of our families much younger than we intended. He’s a peer, and practically family. The Donovann’s used to be enemies to us, but when Willa and Sean fell in love, our fathers eventually agreed that the match would be an advantageous one.

It’s been a fruitful partnership, our combined families.

“Why don’t we get married?” Cillian muses.

I smile at my friend, but his lack of laughter tells me that he isn’t joking. I mirror his pose, leaning against the wall facing him.

“That desperate for an heir?” I ask.

“Aren’t you?”

I look out the window instead of answering. Outside, Mom stands and dusts dirt off her hands and knees.

“I’d like to train my nephew, but his godmother wants better things for him,” Cillian teases.

“Well, I heard that your nephew’s godfather is a rotten mobster, so maybe she’s onto something there.”

Cillian rolls his eyes.

“She sounds smart,” I add. “Probably beautiful, too.”

He huffs through his nose, which is about as much of a laugh you’ll generally get from him, and we lapse into a silence. The air conditioner kicks on and blows cold air through a vent on the floor between us.

I remember Artie and Angel’s baptism. Cillian and I both held Artie, Mary and Leo held Angel. Four godparents for the two tiny creatures. Artie was so tiny, his head fit in the palm of my hand, and his little fingers were wrapped around Cillian’s pinky. The truce was so new still, not even a year since Willa and Sean’s wedding. I was just seventeen.

Willa decided she didn’t want to be the head of the Morelli family—she wanted to take care of the law side of the business, and give her kids all the attention she was able. Father had just announced that I would inherit his position instead. I was terrified, though strong enough not to show it. I’m still terrified. Afraid I didn’t learn enough before he died, or that I won’t be able to hold onto the power I have. Worse, I worry that I won’t be able to protect them in the end.

I suppose he must’ve feared the same, though if he did, he never said so. There’s so much he never said—or maybe didn’t feel like he needed to say, at least not yet.

I thought I’d have another twenty-five years to prepare.

“What about your niece?” I ask. He glares at the concept.

“I’ve watched her godmother gut several men. I do not wish to be one of them.”

“That’s fair.” Mary is lethal, a sharp blade, but her goddaughter is as sweet as they come, and Mary will do every single thing to keep her that way.

“ Yeah ,” he echoes, mocking, and I let out a small laugh.

After another quiet moment, I release a heavy breath. “I would be a bad wife,” I admit. This is a truth I’ve never spoken aloud, one that I’ve been harboring for the better part of a decade. “I don’t know that I’m made for relationships like that.”

“You would be a bad wife. You work too much,” Cillian says, then smirks. “I’d be a shit husband, though, so it evens out.”

We watch each other, both surveying how serious the other is, gauging if the other is actually considering the offer. I have considered this. More than once, in fact. He and I are the same; too young to have so much power and responsibility, unmarried, in need of heirs. We would make sense as a pair.

Cillian’s hot, too, in his brutal way. He’s a mobster and he looks the part; tattoos on his hands and neck, buzzed hair, sharp clothes. He’s a friend, which is more than could be said for most of the men in this community. I trust him, which means something. It’s a tempting thought, but if I’m going to have an arranged marriage it should be with someone who can offer something I don’t already have. Our families are already so tied with Willa and Sean, there would be no power gained for either of us.

I break first, turning to look at the portrait of my parents over the fireplace. My dad’s large hand on my mom’s shoulder, protective even in the painting, his gaze daring anyone to touch her. Their love was epic, something my sisters and I used to daydream about, a love that started as duty but blossomed into something much larger.

Our father was dear to us, and loyal to her. After having Willa and me, Mother almost died giving birth to Mary, and he never made her try for another. And though Leo was the obvious choice for heir—his nephew and godson is nearly as good as a son, and much of the clan expected him to—he didn’t doubt his daughters could handle it. He cared for and believed in us in a way that most men in this world are incapable of.

I feel the familiar burn in my throat when I think too long about my father. As to not cry, I say, “Your dad would roll right over in his grave if he knew you married an Italian. Another Morelli in the family, no less. Is that the kind of generational karma you want?”

Cillian huffs again, and the tension floating with the dust between us ebbs.

“Sean did it,” he reminds me.

“Sean’s the spare.”

“I know,” he says, and walks back around the desk. He shrugs his suit coat over his wide shoulders. “It would give my Ma a heart attack.”

“Couldn’t have that,” I say, though my disdain for his mother is no secret, nor her disdain of me. The truce between our families has never been enough to make her a pleasant woman in the slightest, and generally I try to like women, especially off-putting ones.

I push off the wall and step back to my desk, opening a folder then closing it.

“I talked again with Mr. McGowan,” Cillian says. “He wants to accept your bid for the building.”

I don’t let myself celebrate this. “But?”

Mr. McGowan always has stipulations and has made every part of this process a unique hell. First, the back and forth on the proposal was egregious, and he’s somehow even worse now that we are discussing a contract. He wants us to build it, because we are the best, but he will act like he’s doing us a favor at every fucking turn.

“But he still doesn’t want to work with you directly on the contract,” Cillian says gently, like he knows it will make my stomach boil, which it does. “He’s old, he’s Irish, he’s. . . rooted in tradition.”

“So, what? He can see the quality of work we do, but he refuses to acknowledge that I’m the one in charge? Jackass.”

“He is,” Cillian agrees. He presses his fingertips on my desk and waits until I meet his eyes. “But this is four hundred million dollars we’re talking about.”

I heave a long sigh. Cillian is generally removed from the workings of Morelli Construction—he has his own dealings for the Donovann clan that keep him plenty busy—but he has been instrumental in getting deals for new builds from the old Irish of the city. They want what we can offer in terms of unofficial add-ons (see: rooms and basement levels not listed on any blueprint for the less above-board dealings), but they only want it so long as they can go through Cillian. It’s been over a decade since Willa and Sean got married, tying our families together, but some prejudices run deep.

It doesn’t help that I’m a woman—a disgrace in their eyes, even if they don’t say in so many words.

“I’ll pull the deal right now,” he says. “It’s up to you.”

He means it. There’s no judgment behind those pale eyes.

“Keep moving forward,” I say.

After a moment, Cillian knocks on the desk. “Okay.”

“Nice watch, by the way,” I say, and he looks at the gleaming thing on his wrist like it’s just fine. Pretty nice instead of thirty-five thousand dollars of vintage gold and leather Rolex. Cillian loves his watches.

“This old thing?” He heads for the door but pauses before he can step through to the hallway. “Teasing aside, Ness, I would marry you. If you needed, of course.”

Cillian smiles and I give my best estimation of a genuine one in return. It feels a bit stale on my lips.

“Thank you, Cillian.”

He leaves without another word, his gait so sure in every step. I recognize the confidence, so much of what we need to be is the same, but I need to be tougher, smarter. He isn’t underestimated by default.