Chapter 31
Aldo
Morning sunshine streamed through the expansive arched windows of the formal dining room, bathing the sprawling dining table in a warm glow. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee and just-out-of-the-oven pastries wafted through the air from the kitchen. An utterly idyllic scene, truly.
And frankly, one that I could not appreciate with my mother and Aurora staring me down like twin hawks. Seated at the head of the table, my mother cut through thickly buttered toast with the efficiency of a lumberjack. Beside her, across from me, Aurora stirred her tea with deliberate focus. But I didn’t miss the way her eyes occasionally flicked up to observe me.
I felt like a man under siege.
I opened my mouth to break the silence—with talk of the weather, golf times, movie tickets, literally anything—but my mother spoke first.
“Aldo.” Melissa didn’t look up from her toast. “It’s time you fulfilled the remainder of your responsibilities to this family. I’ve been lenient thus far, but enough is enough.”
The food in my mouth turned to ash, but I swallowed it down anyway. “I understand, Mother.”
To my surprise, she sighed. And when she spoke, her voice softened with uncharacteristic sympathy. “Mafia life isn’t easy, Vas. I know that. You think my life was easy—being married to your father, raising his two sons when he was so busy with the family? Our life isn’t meant to be easy.”
I set down my fork and reached out to take my mother’s hand. For all that we were Italian—exchanging the required kisses and hugs—we weren’t physical people. The small touch of my fingers on hers felt tremendous.
“I know you gave up a lot to be our mother.” And his wife, I didn’t say. “And I’m grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“We have duties, Aldo.” Mother didn’t remove her hand from beneath mine, but her voice hardened again. “You know what’s expected. Duty to the family before self. You’ve served the family well for eight years. Now, it’s time to prove without question that you’re the leader this family deserves.”
I knew what she’d say before she spoke the words.
“It’s time you and Aurora got married and had a child.”
I turned to meet Aurora’s soft brown gaze like her eyes were magnets pulling me towards them. I could certainly do worse, that was certain. She was nothing if not breathtaking.
So, why did my heart clench at the thought of walking up to the altar to face her in a white dress?
Aurora offered me a soft, encouraging smile. “You know I care about you, Vas. You know I always have. And I’ve always been ready to do whatever this family needs. At your side.”
My throat tightened, but I forced myself to return her smile. She truly was the perfect partner, and not just on the outside. She was smart, hardworking, connected. She knew the ins and outs of Mafia life. She’d been born into this world, and she knew how brutal it could be.
She’d never balked from my ugliest self.
So why couldn’t my heart believe my head, that she was perfect for me? Why did my heart see only one woman—the last woman who’d ever want me, after the hell I’d put her through?
“I understand my obligations,” I said, because what else could I say, with both of those imposing women staring me down. My mother and Aurora were goddamned forces of nature, and I was a poor sapling tree at their mercy.
“I hope, for the sake of this family,” Mother said, “that you do. For your sake, too. And hers.”
Across the table, Aurora’s smile gained a fixed, pained tension that cut through me like a knife. I attempted a reassuring smile, but the gesture felt so hollow.
Later that evening, I sat in my study, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a stack of papers in the other. It’d been a busy day filled with work and obligations of one kind or another, but it was the conversation from breakfast that occupied my thoughts.
Oh, how my mother’s words lingered—like an unwelcome guest. Duty and obligation, love and passion. Children. Heirs. Impossible choices.
A sharp knock at the door jerked me unceremoniously from my reverie. Made me realize I’d been staring into my glass like the amber liquid inside was an endless ocean of answers.
“Come in!” I called, setting the glass onto the end table.
Carlo stepped through the door, his usual composure tempered by an unease I was starting to see too much of lately—typically because it involved either Layla or Marco. Or both.
I resisted the urge to reach for the glass. “So, which is it this time?”
“Which—oh.” Carlo’s mouth twitched up in a reluctant smile. “Marco again, boss. Sorry.”
“You want a drink?” I waved a hand towards the empty armchair. “Might help with your delivery?”
“Not unless we plan on reliving our college benders,” Carlo said, and for a moment, I saw the boy he’d been—the boys we’d both been. Caught up in a world too big for us, but it hadn’t mattered. We were second sons; duty didn’t have to come first.
“Guess those days are over,” I admitted. Our elder brothers, ironically enough, had gone down together—off a winding mountain road and into a river that left nothing but the ruined car behind.
“We got more about Marco’s connections to the Moretti family.” Carlo, in spite of his earlier words, did reach for a glass. “It’s not good.”
“Worse than a connection to Maria Moretti?”
Carlo nodded, and my stomach bottomed out. I reached for my glass, drained the rest in one go. “Tell me.”
“Maria’s not his connection. It’s Moretti himself. He’s Moretti’s son.”
I stared at Carlo as my brain processed this new information. “His son.”
“His bastard son.” Carlo sat forward to refill both our glasses. “He didn’t get the family name, went to medical school instead of joining the business. But he clearly still has ties.”
I swirled the ice in my glass. Mafia bastards were a tricky lot. Half of them wanted nothing to do with the family, and the other half were determined to prove themselves to their absent fathers—determined to seize power they’d been denied.
Which, I wondered, was Marco?
“He’s ambitious,” I murmured, half to myself, half to Carlo. “And he’s known Layla for years, has never tried to pursue a relationship with her before. Now, suddenly, she’s got ties to the Marcello clan, and he’s taking her out to dinner?”
I shook my head.
“Suspicious,” Carlo agreed. “He’s got ulterior motives.”
My fingertips went white on my glass. The thought of Marco dating Layla was bad enough. The thought that he might be dating her only because he thought it might win him points in his father’s eyes …
And I thought I couldn’t hate the bastard more. “I’m willing to bet he’s got some kind of plan.”
Marco’s motives towards Layla weren’t purely innocent, that much I was sure of. I was also more than a little certain Layla wouldn’t hear any of it. Not anymore.
She trusted Marco more than she did me, and I supposed she wasn’t wrong to. If I went to her with yet another theory about Marco’s questionable goals, she’d simply think I was concocting more conspiracy theories to drive a wedge between them.
I sighed. How on earth was I supposed to keep her safe if she didn’t listen to me?
Before I could come up with an answer, my phone jangled on the table beside my empty glass. I swept up the device, and blanched at the sight of Layla’s name across the screen.
I answered in a heartbeat. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing is wrong,” Layla said, voice tight with frustration. “Except, could you please tell your boneheaded bodyguards to let Marco onto my property?”
My stomach flipped over. “Marco is there?”
“I invited him to dinner,” Layla sighed. “I didn’t realize I required your written consent to have male guests.”
I winced. Beside me, Carlo winced, too, before mouthing an apologetic, Ouch.
“You don’t,” I said, picking through words like a man in a minefield. “But Marco … are you sure that’s really a good idea?”
“Oh, right, because he’s secretly planning to murder me to get to you, or whatever the theory is today.”
Well, at least my own theory about her reaction had proved accurate. “He’s not what he seems, Layla.”
Layla’s voice hardened. “This again? You’ll say anything to make him look bad. I’m not naïve, Aldo.”
“He’s dangerous—”
“And you’re trying to control my life,” she shot back, but her voice had softened. “You tell me who’s more dangerous: the man supporting me or the man trying to control me?”
The words were yet another blow hard enough to be almost physical. I inhaled, forcing myself to stay calm. “I’m just asking you to be careful, that’s all.”
There was a pause, and I wondered if she was gathering up more barbed truths to throw at me. But when she spoke, her voice was soft. “I know you are. But I need you to let me go, Aldo. You need to let me move on. Please. I can’t—I can’t keep reliving the heartbreak over and over, every time you pop back into my life.”
The words hung in the room like old cigar smoke, heavy and opaque. How was I supposed to do that—to let her move on—when my heart clung so tightly?
“All right,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue. “But if you need anything, you call me. Anytime.”
“I will,” she said quietly. “Goodnight, Aldo.”
“Good night,” I said, but she’d already hung up. So the words rang hollowly in my ears.
