Of volume lineage

“I don’t trust you either, Tommy,” Giova

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Whatever rumor you’ve heard…”

“I don’t worry myself over rumors–they’re too fickle. But I do find myself believing the word of doctors.” Giova

Thomas Sr. was sick, near death by the sounds of it. It was expected that Tommy would take over his father’s mantle, but it had been believed he would do that in ten, twenty years. If Tommy wasn’t ready and failed to rule over the Ó Fiaich’s, then other mobs would take his territory and New York would be plunged into a gang war.

When Konstantin Tarkhanov had seized the Falcone organization’s territory, he had avoided a gang war by removing the Falcone’s entirely. My husband had done something similar, but instead of a cull that would have led to a more blood, he had married me to join our two mobs together. Two gang wars successfully avoided.

But could we avoid a third?

Tommy surprised me by answering honestly. “The doctors are not optimistic. He’s not going to leave the hospital–alive.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“I am not a child, Vigliano,” said the Irish Prince. “We need our shipments and you’re the only one who can move through water undetected.”

Giova

“I know.”

Negotiations began, outrageous amounts of money being discussed as casually as the weather. Tommy wanted to know how Giova

When the meeting came to an end, Tommy and Giova

“Shall I give my father your regards?”

“No.”

I swallowed down my laughter, especially when Tommy inclined his head to me. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Vigliano.” To Giova

“She is right here,” I hissed. Tommy looked at me in alarm.

“Of course. I meant no disrespect.” He left before I could say another word.

Giova

I tried not to tense. “What else was there to do?”

“Did your father encourage such curiosity?”

I snorted. “Not at all.”

Giova

“What do you think?”

The question almost made me startle from shock. “What do I think?”

He just nodded.

“I–” What did I think? The thing was, I had a lot of opinions and thoughts, but no one had ever asked me about them. No one had ever inquired “What do you think, Isabella?” It had always been “Smile more, Isabella” or “Be like your sister” or “no one cares what you have to say.”

“I...”

Giova

“I think that the Ó Fiaich’s have never liked my family, especially my father, so they would accept you despite your lineage...or lack thereof.” His eyes twinkled so briefly I thought it was the light catching. “I think they need you right now, but Irish and Italian mafias have an infamous history of not getting along.”

“We do.”

“What do you think?”

Giova

I snorted. “You would choose money over Marzia?”

“No, but I am not an ambitious young man whose father is on his deathbed.”

“Just an ambitious old man whose father is in his grave?”

Giova

For a second, I had forgotten who I was sitting next to, who was speaking to me with such little restraint I had felt comfortable.

“I’m sure he had it coming,” I said casually.

His brows arched ever so slightly. “As much as your father does.”

I looked away, taking in the neon blue sphere. It resembled the sun–if the sun was man made and powered by lightning.

“Do you think your father deserves worse?” Giova

I turned my head back to him. His eyes were almost as bright as the sphere. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“On the contrary, Isabella–”

“Don’t say my name,” I blurted. “You say it wrong.”

He didn't. He said my name like he was picturing me and not the sweet girl who I was named after. I hated it.

“Now you’re angry,” he said, voice contemplative. “Excited, curious, uncomfortable and now angry. Isn’t it exhausting?”

My anger grew hotter, and I scowled. “Isn’t it exhausting having no emotion? Going through life as blank as a piece of paper?”

“You’ve confused apathy with disinterest.”

“You think you’re interesting?”

His lips twitched. “You certainly do. Why else would you watch me with such intense focus?”

“Maybe I’m waiting for you to kill me.” I tried to keep my tone dry and simple, even though I felt like I was sinking slowly into quicksand. “I’m watching you for the same reason the deer watches for the wolf.”

“I’m glad to know you have a semblance of self-preservation. I have found myself questioning your instincts often.”

“Likewise,” I mumbled as I sipped my wine.

Giova

“Are you relaxing?” I asked outright.

He glanced at me. “I’m never relaxed, Isabella. Especially outside my home.”

I scrutinized him, trying to understand what was happening in that head of his.

“Many have looked at me like the way you’re looking at me now,” he said.

“I pity everyone who tried to figure you out before me.”

Giova

“That’s even more horrifying.”

He huffed. A laugh, I noted. His huffs are laughs.

Thread by thread, Giova

I thought about the picture in his study, of him and his clone. Did he trust his brother? Or had he killed him the same way he had made me kill mine?

My stomach twisted as I recalled the sensation of tearing through muscle, the sticky blood on my hands.

I gulped down my wine as the memory hit me.

“What are you thinking about now?”

“How you made me kill my brother,” I snapped.

Giova

“Your wife? You won’t touch me.”

I should not have said that.

The wine in my stomach turned sour.

I should not have said that.

I stared down at the glass, refusing to look at him. I couldn’t bear to see the impassiveness, not when my organs were slowly twisting themselves like vines inside of me.