Page 14 of A Love Most Fatal
“Why don’tweget 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 watchedhergodmother 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.”
“Youwouldbe 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 havean 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 womanin the slightest, and generally I try to like women, especially off-putting ones.