The Mafia Heir I Shouldn’t Love

Chapter 2

As I draw closer, the area begins to fill with people—locals and strangers alike who, instead of intervening to stop the fight, wait to see what happens. I come to a halt, unable to find a clear path toward the men who seem to wish death upon each other with their very gaze; at the slightest provocation, they look ready to tear each other's skin off if necessary.

Judging by their clothes, I assume they are nothing more than employees of the Carusso household, but it takes nothing more than a brawl like this to unleash hell in Verona.

“What are you waiting for, pezzo di merda?” a Carusso spat. Greta’s grandson is about to land a punch on his face, but the other boy accompanying him holds him back.

“Pagherai per questo,” the gardener’s son says, looking down at his shirt, which bears a distinct stain of yellow gelato—mango, perhaps.

“As if that piece of old rag were worth anything,” the Carusso mocks.

I furrow my brow, remembering Vittoria’s words; they really are fighting over things as trivial as an ice cream stain, though one can't tell if he intended to dirty him just to provoke a reaction. What truly surprises me, however, is that the people say and do nothing to stop them, even though the streets are crowded with tourists; then again, it’s not unusual for Italians to argue like this in public.

I try to move closer again, but as I take in the scene, I notice that one of the Capuletti has drawn a folding knife. Seeing the sharp weapon, the crowd surges back to give them space, pushing me away from the boys I'm trying to protect. They shouldn't be facing the Carussos, especially if they are armed.

“What is going on here?” I hear an authoritative voice. Then, from the midst of the crowd, a man appears—polished and elegant, wearing a dark suit.

The young Carussos put away their knives as the man approaches. They seem to know him, though I doubt he is one of theirs, as he looks at them with pure disapproval.

“Nothing is happening, Signor Francesco,” one of them says, taking small steps backward as if wanting to flee.

“Nothing?” the man questions sarcastically. “You have a whole audience here, and on a weekend no less, when there are hundreds of tourists visiting the city, and you're causing a riot.”

“It wasn't our intention,” one says, pointing at my boys. “Those guys bumped into us and knocked over our gelato, and now they're blaming us for their clumsiness.”

“I don’t care who started it!” he shouts loud and clear, causing the crowd to begin dispersing. “Leave, or next time I’ll force you into community service, and your masters won’t be able to do a thing about it this time.”

This time? I ponder the man’s remark. It seems this isn’t the first time this has happened, though it strikes me as highly unusual; the center of Verona and the high-traffic tourist spots were supposed to be neutral ground where the disputes of both families could not and should not occur.

In the blink of an eye, the boys vanish and the disturbance finally ends. I turn around with the intention of returning to Vittoria, but someone grabs my shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” a very familiar male voice demands.

“Alessandro?” I ask, looking him up and down.

My memories fly back to our school days; whenever I went out with Vittoria, Alessandro, our partner in mischief, was never far behind. But from what I can see, his days of misdeeds are over, as he is wearing the cassock of a seminarian.

“The one and only,” he says, flashing a smile. “You shouldn’t be wandering around here by yourself.”

“I’m not alone, I’m with Vittoria,” I say, pointing toward the fountain, though as I glance over, I realize my cousin’s figure has disappeared.

“Oh, really? And where is she?” He cranes his neck, trying to find her.

“She probably went to the restroom,” I explain, though I have no idea where on earth she went. Alessandro lets out a sigh and shakes his head. He gives me a light nudge on the back to signal me to follow; together, we walk to the fountain where Vittoria had been sitting and where it seems my gelato has spilled.

“Why shouldn’t I walk alone?” I ask him.

“Verona isn't the quiet city you used to know, Romy,” he says with a seriousness that strikes me.

Alessandro was never serious when he should have been; he was the one who used to make both Vittoria and me smile. Hearing him talk like that unnerves me, as does his appearance. While he was quite attractive when we were friends and had a few girls chasing after him, seeing him in a cassock feels strange—as if I were talking to my own father. I can’t believe that he of all people chose chastity and the Gospel over the life he already had; though I suppose I haven’t been in Verona long enough to know what happened to make him choose the path of the Church.

“You mustn’t be careless,” he says. He reaches out and tucks a strand of my brown hair that had escaped the half-ponytail I secured with a pink bow.

“Don’t treat me like a child,” I complain, crossing my arms. Perhaps his clothes unsettled me more than I’m letting on; I feel angry, though I’m not sure if it’s because of his insistence that I shouldn’t be alone or because he hadn’t written to tell me about his decision to become a seminarian.

“I’m not. As you saw back there, things between the Carussos and the Monttecis aren’t going very well.”

“Has the agreement been broken?” I venture to ask, because otherwise, how could they attack one another?

“All I know is that there are disturbances wherever they are; so you must be careful and not get involved in fights like you tried to do back there,” he says, and although it’s a scolding, I don’t feel it as such.

“Well, well, well!” I hear my cousin’s voice behind us. We both turn toward the source. “If it isn’t little Father Alessandro. How is it going, Your Eminence?”

“I told you not to call me that, it’s disrespectful,” Alessandro complains, though he plays along.

From what I can see, Vittoria already knew he was a seminarian and they’ve likely seen each other several times for her to be teasing him like this. It makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, as if I don’t quite fit into the group.

“Forgive me, Father, I didn’t mean to be rude. Could you tell me how many Hail Marys I must say to expiate my guilt?” Vittoria continues, but Alessandro seems done putting up with her, so he shakes his head.

“I have to go,” he says, confirming my suspicions. “I only came to drop off an errand for the parish priest at the Sanctuary of Lourdes; I still have some classes to attend, but it was good to see you. I’ll visit as soon as I can.”

“Sure, that way we can talk about why you decided to become a seminarian,” I grumble, looking him up and down.

“You too?” he retorts, leading me to believe I wasn't the only one to complain. “We’ll talk later, alright?”

I nod as he runs off; it seems he’s quite late. I wave goodbye to him.

“Shall we go?” Vittoria proposes. I nod and she takes my hand, but we don’t head back toward the car. Instead, we continue down the avenue until we reach a costume shop.

“What are we doing here?” I ask, confused.

“I told you there’s a masquerade ball tomorrow; we need masks and the whole lot,” she mentions, opening the shop door. There’s clothing of all kinds: monsters, princesses, and knights in shining armor (though with a wooden horse).

“Vittoria,” I murmur, realizing the place is half-empty, “that party is on the other side of the city. Are you sure you want to go?”

“What, didn't you hear what I told you in the square?” she counters.

“Yes, you know a Carusso, but that doesn't mean we aren't at risk if we go to that party,” I say in a second attempt to persuade her.

“You’re wrong: he isn’t just any Carusso. His name is Julius, and he is the eldest son of the Carusso family,” she reveals suddenly.

I feel the words make my blood pressure drop, and I find myself needing to sit on a sofa in the small waiting area.

“What did you say, Vittoria? What kind of people have you been getting involved with?”

“Don't you see? If he wanted to hurt me, he would have done it by now; after all, he is a real Carusso, not like those foolish servants who want to look good for the family,” she argues as if that would reassure me. “He will be hosting the party, but since I told him we couldn't attend because we’d be recognized, he changed the theme so we could wear masks; that way, no one will recognize us—Carusso or Montteci, no one will know.”

“Wait. Did you say ‘we’?” I ask, uneasy. “Did you tell him you’d bring a companion?”

“Actually...” she says with a nervous giggle, “I told him about you.”

“How I’d love to wrap my hands around your neck! But if I did, everyone would think it was a Carusso, and that would only cause trouble,” I tell her angrily. “How could you talk to him about me?”

“I’m sorry, maybe it wasn’t right, but he started talking about his brother, and since I don’t have a sister, I wanted to brag about you... a little,” she says, pinching her fingers to show just how much she spoke of me.

“Oh, Vittoria, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you!” I cover my face with my hands.

“Julius is quite warm and pleasant,” she repeats.

“Yes, you mentioned that before,” I grumble as I run my hand over the costumes hanging on the rack; nothing seems to be to my liking.

“He isn't like your father—stubborn and obstinate. Can you imagine it, Romy?” she says excitedly. “When his father retires, he will take over the family business, and if you do the same, maybe you could reach an agreement to end this senseless fight.”

“It’s possible,” I mutter, though not very convinced. “But how do you know I’ll take over my father’s business? How do you know Julius is telling you the truth and not manipulating you?”

“That’s why we’re going to the party,” she states, stopping before a mannequin wearing a green period dress with puffed sleeves; it’s quite beautiful.

“What are you talking about?” I say, though honestly, I’d rather not hear any more.

“Julius really wants to change the situation between our families; he said he wanted to talk to you about this. To reach an agreement.”

I fall silent, weighing my response. I don’t know what this Julius person has told Vittoria, but she seems to have a lot of faith in him. There are many things to consider; first, the possibility that all this man's promises are nothing but lies to mock the naive Montteci girls or, far worse, to kidnap us and ransom us to my father. That has happened before; it’s something my father and Vittoria’s mother don't like to talk about, as they had an older brother who sought peace between the families, but what he got instead was death.

Vittoria tends to trust people too much, and I fear for her.

“What kind of agreement?” I manage to say while browsing the costumes. I find a section of medieval-style dresses. Among them, I see a very beautiful pink dress; it seems the person who made it took the time to make it look realistic yet extravagant. I pull it from the rack to examine it in more detail.

“He didn't mention that,” she explains, coming closer to look at the fabric. “I like this one; try it on. Let’s see how it looks on you.”

I don’t like the situation at all; it feels like strange things are happening. However, another part of me wants to go and try to understand what is going on—to see it with my own eyes instead of locking myself away behind the safety of the house walls. I take a deep breath and nod decisively.

“I suppose we can try to communicate, but I’m not promising you I’ll accept his proposal, Vittoria,” I say finally. She smiles excitedly.