The Mafia Heir I Shouldn’t Love

Chapter 1

“Romy,” Vittoria says calmly, “I’d like to give you my opinion, if you don’t mind, regarding this dispute—the one where no one even remembers how it started anymore.”

I purse my lips, unconvinced, but I eventually nod.

“Have you ever met a Carusso?”

I shake my head and cross my arms.

“That would be the last thing I’d ever think of doing in this life,” I remind her; though they aren't exactly my own words, but rather the warnings my father gave me when I was a teenager.

“I met one of them a year ago,” she reveals with a calmness that frightens me.

“What?” I say, startled, glancing toward both sides of the room, hoping no one had overheard her. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Please, Romy, it was bound to happen sooner or later,” she says, taking another bite of cake, though this time a very small one.

“How did you meet him?” I ask, part curious and part shocked.

“At the Verona Arena,” she admits with a smile. “Though I must confess, I don’t like asking for last names when I meet someone new.”

She smiles as if remembering something wonderful, which unsets me deeply.

“Do you know what your mother—or worse, my father—would do to you if they found out about this?” I question, reminding her who our family is.

“I know, that’s why it’s better to get out of here, don’t you think?” she proposes, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. Now I understand her persistence in leaving; what she wants to tell me is not something intended for Montteci ears.

I nod and stand up, my exhaustion gone now, perhaps replaced by curiosity and the worry of knowing what Vittoria has been doing behind the family’s back. Before leaving, we run into Greta, an elderly woman who has worked for the Monttecis since my father was young.

“Romelia!” she calls out, moving as fast as her age allows. Vittoria lets out a laugh at the sound of that name—one that fills me with horror, a fact my father says was the reason my mother decided to use the nickname “Romy.” The woman hugs me tightly and plants several kisses on me that at first annoy and even sting, but then I remember how she used to tell me I was the spitting image of my mother, and I understand her affection. “La mia bambina.”

“How have you been, dear Greta?” I force a smile, but she takes advantage of the gesture to pinch my cheeks.

“Molto bene,” she mentions, taking my hand firmly and dragging me back toward the dining room.

“I will prepare a delicious carpaccio for you, so good you’ll lick your fingers!” she says happily, mimicking a kiss with her fingers.

“I’m sorry, Nonna,” I say, attempting to break free from her grip; she stops dead and furrows her brow. “But I have to go. Vittoria and I were going to head out to the square.”

“Sei appena tornata!” she shoots back, waving her hands in the air as a complaint. “You must eat before you leave.”

“Forgive us, Nonna,” Vittoria says this time. “Romy already had cake, but if we get hungry, we’ll eat at a restaurant.”

Greta scowls. Saying “restaurant” in this house, when she has cooked for us for so many years and was like a grandmother to my mother, is a grave offense.

“We’re just going for a gelato, Nonna,” I announce to soothe her; I give her a kiss on her wrinkled forehead. “But we’ll be back for dinner, and after such a long walk, I expect we’ll be quite hungry.”

Greta smiles and nods, then gives me her blessing.

“Fate attenzione, ciao!” she shouts as Vittoria takes my hand and, just as Greta did moments ago, pulls me along as fast as she can before anyone else can intercept us.

As we head down the stairs, I spot a white car not far from the entrance—one that seems very much my friend’s style. She unlocks it and gets in, signaling for me to join her in the passenger seat. As I climb in and she settles in to start the engine, I notice how spacious it is inside despite looking small from the outside; also, from what I can see, it’s quite clean, knowing her habits.

Vittoria says nothing; she simply turns on the radio as we drive toward the house gates. Before exiting, we encounter the security guards, dressed in black in an attempt to hide their handguns. When they recognize us, they signal for the gates to open.

“I can’t believe you did this every day when we were in school,” she complains, crossing her arms as the gates swing open. “How did you always make it on time?”

“I had to leave twenty minutes early,” I reveal with a bit of embarrassment. Honestly, having to wait for the gates to open is tedious, but after a few minutes, Vittoria finally pulls out, hitting the gas hard to get us away from that area, which is known to be controlled by the Monttecis.

She rolls down the windows to let the cool summer breeze play with our hair and refresh us after our hurried departure. On the radio, Annalisa’s song “Bellissima” is playing, and Vittoria starts to sing along joyfully; she seems in love. I don’t dare join in like we did when we were teenagers and did exactly this: escaping, not from home, but from school. I watch her with a smile at the silly things she does, trying to dance while driving; it’s quite funny and, near the end, I sing the chorus.

It takes no more than twenty minutes to reach the center of Verona. Vittoria leaves the car in a blue parking zone just two blocks from Corso Porta Nuova, the main street of Verona that divides the north and south of the city. That area—for us and for any Carusso who approaches—is neutral ground.

We walk toward the square where several gelaterias are located, but the best of all is the one by Ponte Pietra. Of course, since Verona is a tourist city, there are crowds and lines that seem endless.

“When exactly do you plan on telling me?” I complain as we move up two spots in the line.

“Alright, I’ll tell you,” she says finally, craning her neck to see how many people are left. “Where did I leave off?”

“You said you met him at the Verona Arena,” I remind her.

“Ah, yes!” she says enthusiastically. “Last summer I accompanied my mother to a play—you know how she is. If I remember correctly, the story was Romeo and Juliet; believe me, it’s such an unbelievable story. How can you fall head over heels for someone just by seeing them once?”

“Vittoria,” I protest, realizing her explanation has gone off-track.

“Right, right,” she remembers, letting out a little giggle. “Well, you see: during the intermission, I went to the restroom to stretch my legs, but on the way, I bumped into a very handsome and charismatic young man; so much so that I even forgot where I was going.”

You, Vittoria? How could you? I mocked internally.

“We talked quite a bit, he was very pleasant, and when the intermission ended, he asked me out,” she admitted with a victorious smile.

I shook my head. What I fear so much seems to be coming true with every word Vittoria speaks.

“You actually went out with him?” I question, shocked, praying to heaven she’ll say no, but the shameless girl just smiles and nods.

“It was fun; he showed me places in Verona I didn’t know,” she says calmly. We finally enter the shop; only three people left.

“Please tell me you didn’t kiss him,” I beg her. “Tell me you didn’t fall in love with him.”

Vittoria lets out a laugh and finally shakes her head.

“No, of course not. Even though he was a very nice guy, he wasn’t my type; we just became friends and have gone out a few times, but only for gelato and nothing more,” she explains. Her explanation leaves me thinking; I feel there are quite a few gaps in her story that don’t add up, so I venture to ask:

“When did you find out he was a Carusso?”

“On the first date,” she admits. But then our conversation is interrupted by the clerk.

Vittoria orders a lemon one for herself with a chocolate wafer on top, and I get strawberries and cream with walnuts. Once we pay, we walk to one of the fountains in the square where we can sit.

“Why did you keep seeing him knowing which family he belongs to?” I ask, puzzled.

“He’s very pleasant; he makes you feel good when you talk to him. He’s attentive and, best of all, he knows how to listen. I think you’d like him if you met him. He seems sincerely concerned about the situation between our families.”

Suddenly, I bite off a large portion of my gelato upon hearing her words; immediately, I feel the cold trigger a brain freeze.

“God!” I groan, closing my eyes until the pain passes, while Vittoria mocks my accident. “Don’t tell me you told him you were a Montteci.”

I wait for Vittoria’s answer, but when none comes, I suspect the worst.

“Vittoria?” I insist.

“Forgive me,” she says, shrugging.

“You’re a fool,” I tell her. “Why did you do it?”

“Because he told me he wanted to meet someone from the Montteci family to try and resolve the problems between the two families,” she reveals with an innocence that makes me lose my patience.

“And how do you know he didn’t say that just to trick you? What if he just wants to play with you because you’re a Montteci?” I protest, standing up. Staying still when I’m frustrated is not my style.

“No, Romy, he’s not like that,” she justifies. “If you only knew him, you’d know he’s not what you think.”

I fall silent, trying to calm down. My first thought is to forbid her from seeing that boy, but “forbidden” is not a word in Vittoria’s dictionary.

“Fine, let’s do this. Let’s assume he really does have a good purpose. If he already achieved what he wanted—meaning, meeting a Montteci—what does he plan to do to avoid the conflict between our families?”

I watch my cousin open her lips to explain, but at that moment, we hear a disturbance not far away. Looking up, I discover a couple of men are fighting; I would have ignored it if not for the fact that I recognize two of them. They are the gardener’s son and Greta’s grandson.

“My God!” Vittoria says.

“Why would they be fighting?” I say immediately.

“What else could it be?” she complains. “It’s surely the Carussos again. Who else would be looking for a fight over insignificant things?”

“We’d better go see what’s happening,” I propose.

“What are you saying?” she says, alarmed. “We shouldn’t get involved in men’s business; we could get hurt.”

“Then stay here,” I suggest, handing her the rest of my gelato. “I’ll see if I can persuade them to ignore the Carussos' stupidity.”

“But...”

“I won’t be long,” I tell her as I take long strides toward the scene.