Undressed By The Mafia God

No.

No, no, no.

The morning was too young for this. There were boundaries, surely. Somewhere in the universe, surely, there were boundaries.

"You can testify to that," Massimo added, looking at Carol with a shameless smile.

Marco set his cup down carefully. "Okay...Do I need to dig a hole here and crawl into it, please?"

"Ignore him." Carol turned towards the stairs. "I’ll bring Valentina down."

"Thank you."

"What’s got you so uptight?" Massimo asked, turning to Marco again.

"She’s my ma."

"I’m going to marry her."

"It doesn’t make it okay," Marco grumbled.

There were several other things he could have said. But Massimo was still Don. Respect had to be maintained.

Even if respect was currently fighting nausea. Massimo looked amused.

"So, any word about Luca’s timeline?" Massimo asked.

Marco shook his head. "No."

"Well, get back to him. Tell him I sent for Elio. He should be here in two days or so."

Marco’s brows lifted slightly. "Elio is coming here?"

"Yes."

"Does he know why?"

"I assume his father told him enough."

Elio Genovese had been raised far from the true rot of the famiglia. Men like Luca were forged in blood and loyalty. Men like Elio were often forged in softness.

"Yes, sir," Marco said.

Breakfast went on after that, though Marco barely tasted any of it. Carol returned with Valentina and Matteo not long after, and the table filled with the ordinary sounds of morning: cutlery against plates, Matteo babbling nonsense with profound confidence.

Valentina sat across from Marco. She barely looked at Marco and when she did, her eyes moved away first.

The distance between them sat at the breakfast table. As soon as breakfast was done, Marco stood.

He crossed to Carol, who had Matteo in her arms, and kissed his son’s cheek. Matteo grabbed at his jaw with sticky fingers.

Marco smiled. "Be good."

Then he glanced at Val. Out of habit, out of love, he leaned in and kissed her forehead too. He said nothing.

"Marco..." she whispered.

But he did not respond. What did she even plan to say?

Nothing.

Marco left with Massimo. The morning outside was too beautiful for the errand ahead of them. They drove in silence for most of the journey.

When they reached the property, Marco felt the atmosphere change before the car stopped. Bianca’s war room.

The place where Bianca’s hatred had been mapped, funded, planned, and inherited by the twisted brother she had left behind. .

The building sat behind locked gates and armed guards. Sealed off, as Luca had ordered. Chains crossed the main entrance. Two men stood watch, straightening immediately when Massimo stepped from the car. Marco followed.

The guards unlocked the chains. Massimo stepped in first. The smell hit him at once.

Old blood.

Dry blood.

Tables had been pushed aside. Marks remained on the floor where furniture had scraped during the fight.

Massimo moved slowly, not touching anything. His face had hardened into the old Don’s mask, but Marco saw the anger beneath it. He walked to the spot where Graziella had been stabbed and looked down.

Marco stopped beside him. Graziella’s blood was still on the ground.

"He killed his own mother here," Massimo said.

Something in his tone shifted as he looked at the blood dried into the concrete. She had been David’s mother and David had cut her down like she was nothing.

"Yes, Don," Marco said.

Massimo stared at the stain for a few more seconds, then looked away. "Did Regina say why?"

That was what Massimo called Veronica. It fit her now more than ever. She had survived this place.

"I don’t think she wants to talk about it yet," Marco said.

"I wonder who she learned that from." Massimo moved away from the blood and crossed into the smaller room.

Marco followed. Bianca’s board covered most of one wall, and even now, it remained disturbingly intact. Photographs. Typed notes. Red thread. Names. Arrows towards possible leverage.

"Impeccable," Massimo muttered.

Bianca had been organised. Every person she hated, used, or planned to use had been pinned into place. A war had been built here, one photograph at a time.

Massimo stopped in front of Julian’s picture. His fingers lifted, then hovered for a second before brushing the edge of the photograph.

Julian Genovese stared back from the wall. Massimo’s son. A man who had allowed himself to be turned against his own family.

How had Julian let her use him so treacherously? How had he looked at his family and chosen Bianca’s poison over blood?

Marco stood behind him and allowed the old Don his moment. His eyes moved over the board.

Faces everywhere.

Then Marco saw Valentina. Her picture sat near the lower right side of the board, not central like Veronica’s. Right beside Ricardo’s photograph.

Matteo’s biological father. Above Val’s picture, in Bianca’s neat handwriting, was one word.

Malleable.

What the fuck did that mean? Had Bianca watched Valentina too? Had she thought Val could be pushed into place with the right pressure?

There were notes on everyone. Carol’s photograph had been pinned further up, with several documents beneath it. In red ink, Bianca had written: case study.

Carol Genovese had left Massimo. Studying Carol was reasonable. But in the centre of everything was Veronica.

Veronica’s face sat at the heart of the web, arrows and notes spreading out around her. Every thread moved towards Vee. She had been the target.

"You pick anything, Marco?" Massimo asked behind him. "Anything we need to look closer into?"

"No," Marco said. "Every one against us is either dead or taken care of."

"Hmm." Massimo’s hand lifted and stopped over one picture, pinned near the edge but connected by two separate red lines.

"Who is this?" he asked.

Marco followed his finger. "That’s Vito Scalese."

"The girls’ father?"

"Yes, sir," Marco said.

"And where is he?" Massimo asked.

"Luca sent him off," Marco answered. "He figured early on he was a danger to his kids."

"Find out if he is still off," Massimo said.

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