Page 100 of Righteous Deceit
My husband stands with an eagerness that tells me he was mere seconds away from following Salvatore without an invitation. He takes a single step but pauses, turning to Carlo, who has always been anti-Alessia until now. Now, he’s quieter than I’ve ever seen him.
“Do you want to join us, or have you learned what happens when you disrespect my wife?”
Carlo has his words primed and ready to go. “I’m happy to remain here.” He dips his chin in my direction in a fabricated apology, and it takes everything not to roll my eyes.
“If you don’t mind…” I place a hand on Diego’s arm. “I’m going to keep our guests company.”
I saw enough bloodshed yesterday. Sure, taking my revenge on Freddie for his outward disdain over the years would feel fan-fucking-tastic. But I won’t let his blood ruin my favorite pantsuit, and I won’t give up the opportunity to solidify our relationship with another family when the Irish have begun threatening us directly. I want heads to roll, and Freddie’s is inconsequential in this much larger fight.
Diego walks away slowly, my hand skimming the tattooed skin of his arm until he’s out of reach.
I spend the next thirty minutes updating the men around the table on the information Diego shared last night about the mystery woman his software cannot identify. I email Rocco, Dominic, Lorenzo, and Vincent a copy of the photos we managed to screenshot before heading over today, but none showed a hint of recognition when met with her face.
“We’ll keep trying,” I say as Diego and Salvatore arrive back at the table, neither of them covered in the copious levels of blood I expected.
I raise a questioning brow, and Diego leans into my ear. “We decided we didn’t have near enough time for all the ways we wanted him to feel pain. He’s restrained for now.”
He kisses my jaw.
“What took you so long?”
“We were negotiating.”
I sit back and eye him warily. “Negotiating what?”
“Buying your place. It’s your home. It should belong to you. Not him.”
The sounds of the table fall away, and I stare at Diego in shock. The truth is, I know Salvatore would’ve signed the house over to me in a heartbeat had I asked. I just never gave it enough thought to care. Placing both hands on his cheeks, I kiss his lips, unperturbed by the men surrounding us. Diego lets me guide the kiss, matching my energy and letting me control the entire exchange. Pulling back, I touch my fingers to my bottom lip, checking for smudged lipstick.
“You’re good,” he murmurs.
“On that note”—Rocco clears his throat—“I miss my wife, so if there is nothing more to discuss, we’ll be on our way. We’ll check in with our associates with the photos you sent through, Alessia.” He stands, and Dominic follows his lead. “Keep us updated with what you find, and we’ll do the same.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Dominic adds.
They say their goodbyes, and I’m surprised at the peace that seems to have settled over me as a result of such a short lunch meeting.
When Salvatore killed Dino and finally took his rightful place heading up our outfit, the family was divided. Itremainsdivided. We’re smaller than New York, and our father and Dino managed to ensure we were seen as disreputable, which is a feat in the underworld. Salvatore’s assumed slaying of our father and then Dino’s murder hasn’t helped us. By all outward appearances, Salvatore Bianchi is power hungry and unethically ruthless. Men and women of the Mafia are right to be wary of the likes of Salvatore’s reputation. But he’s worked hard to establish a loyal bond between Caruso’s outfit and ours. The Rein and Shay conglomerate is a bonus. We’re no longer a small-scale threat. Salvatore knows it, and I’m finally seeing it. We’ll always remain vigilant, we have to, but we no longer have to beasconscious of keeping untrustworthy soldiers in our ranks merely to keep numbers. Our alliance with New York gives us greater power to build the type of syndicate we’ve always wanted.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
ALESSIA
It’s been two weeks since Freddie’s final meal. I spent some time with Caterina, Gabriella Caruso, and Bianca Ferrari while the men disposed of one of Chicago’s disloyal family members. These women were kinder than I thought they would be. Gabriella is relatively new to the underworld, but she’s made her mark. Bianca spent most of the time focused on her sister. Worry lined her face, and concern leaked into every question she put forward about Salvatore. She’s overprotective, but then rumors have swirled that she tried to undermine Lorenzo Caruso to save her sister’s virtue. Her plan tied her up in Vincent, but she doesn’t seem to be complaining. On the contrary, she looks very much in love. It makes me hopeful, but I didn’t have the courage to ask herhow.Howdid she make the unhinged fixer of New York fall hopelessly in love with her? Vincent Ferrari and his aloof persona isn’t too different from Diego. I want to know how she broke down Vincent’s walls, but her visit was about her sister and not me. So I kept my silence and swallowed my burning questions.
I could have flown privately to New York, but the family is a business, and for some reason, Chicago eats up gossip websites that feature even the most mundane stories about me. It builds publicity and takes the focus away from the under-the-table deals we run with city officials and politicians while the media splashes stories about my style choices and personal relationships. Sometimes, I long to submit an anonymous tip that I’m as ruthless as the men the tabloids are too afraid to write about. Imagine if they knew thatIwas responsible for my father’s death, that it was me and not Salvatore who wore his blood on my hands. Would they run the story and watch as women painted their hands red as a fashion statement Alessia Bianchi made spring’s hottest trend? Or would they tear me down and vilify me like they do my brother? Would the paparazzi lose their confidence in my presence, afraid I’d offer them the same end I gave my father?
We’ll never know because my gender offers us the ability to fill our bank accounts legally. We can splash our wealth around without question because brands trip over themselves to pay me ridiculous amounts of money to represent them with a purposefully placed handbag or coat. My union with Charles Lincoln put the Bianchi name on the map as a luxury brand. We may be lawless, but we do it with flashy cars and extravagance, so people overlook the corruption because the illicit is apparently on-trend.
I play my part for the family. People frequent our restaurants and bars, which offers us the opportunity to launder more money than we have ever been able to do before. We’re rich, our money both dirty and clean, and our success makes it near impossible for authorities to differentiate the impure from the unsullied.
Diego waits outside, leaning up against a matte black RAM pickup. He stands tall when I exit the building, unconcerned by the small cluster of photographers trying to pay their mortgage. His face shows no emotion, a typical Diego mask of indifference.
“Hi.”
He steps forward, kissing me instead of greeting me with words. The kiss is only a peck, but his lips envelop mine, caressing my mouth in an unexpected and ardent show of affection.
“Welcome to Page Six, husband,” I whisper.