The Mafia Heir I Shouldn’t Love

Chapter 4

“Of course,” my father says, but I notice a hint of nervousness in his voice, “Just don't take too long or go wandering around the streets; I’ve heard that incidents with pickpockets have increased.”

“I will, Dad,” I say just to keep him from worrying. I finish the bread and coffee I served myself and finally stand up from my seat.

“Are you leaving already?” the nonna asks. From the way she looks at me, I assume she’s worried about me being out in the streets alone. I wouldn’t risk going out if they were being honest with me, but since they enjoy keeping secrets in this house, I prefer to go find out for myself what is happening.

“Yes, I won't be long. I’m just going to pick up Vittoria’s commission and I’ll be back; I have to get ready to go out tonight,” I admit, though a second later I regret revealing it to them right now.

“Santa Madonna!” the nonna utters in distress, no longer able to hide her feelings. I frown and try to feign a bewildered expression.

“Is there a problem with me going out at night?” I swallow hard. My father had never forbidden me from going out before, although the truth is I didn’t care for it much unless all my friends came along. I only hope this isn't the first time.

“Will you be going alone?” my father questions. This time his voice sounds serious and somewhat concerned, but I ignore their worry; I want to see how far they will go to hide the truth from me.

“No, I’m going with Vittoria,” I admit. I suppose a good lie must be accompanied by a bit of truth, and since they aren't being sincere with me, why should I be with them? “It’s a costume party.”

“Where is it?” the interrogation begins.

“I don’t know, Vittoria didn’t tell me where it would be, but I assume it must be at one of her friends' houses,” I state. And since neither of us is supposed to have friends on the other side of the city, my father finally sighs.

“Well, since it’s with Vittoria’s friends, I have no objection to you going,” he says, though he doesn't seem entirely convinced. Truth be told, neither am I, but if my own family won’t tell me anything, I must seek my own means. “Take Alonzo so he can wait for you; that way you won’t have to drive if you drink.”

“I’ll mention it to Vittoria, but I doubt she’ll want your chauffeur to take us,” I explain so as not to raise suspicions; he knows Vittoria perfectly well and how stubborn she can be.

“If she comes for you, tell her to stop by and see me; I’ll make her change her mind,” he says, like a threat I don't doubt he could carry out. But since neither he nor anyone else in the house should know the location of that blessed party, I suppose we’ll have to slip away before my father finds out.

“Sure, I’ll tell her,” I lie. Then I approach him and give him a kiss on the cheek, do the same for the nonna, and leave the dining room to go back to my room.

There, I finish getting ready: I brush my teeth and pack my phone, my wallet, and a lip gloss just in case. Then I retrace my steps to the ground floor and leave the house. Outside, I see Alonzo, the chauffeur, reading the newspaper—specifically the sports section. I approach him and take the liberty of asking him to take me to downtown Verona. He nods and, without any objection, moves to open the door of the black car he usually drives.

After half an hour, and due to the traffic, we arrive a block away from the location.

“I’ll get out here, Alonzo,” I inform him. “You can go back home; my father might need you.”

“But, Miss Romy...” he says, perhaps in an attempt to stop me, but I ignore his words and hop out before the traffic light turns green. I walk through the crowd so that Alonzo loses sight of me, and once I reach the jewelry store, I do as Vittoria asked.

Upon asking for Vittoria’s commission, I discover that she actually placed the order in my name, which doesn't surprise me since, when we were younger, she used to do the same; sometimes she would pose as me at businesses that offered me credit and, being a Montteci, they rarely questioned her.

After leaving the jewelry store, I tuck the commission inside my bag and walk toward the plaza. If I remember correctly, there is a taxi stand there that I can use to return home. On my way, I look everywhere, hoping something out of the ordinary might happen—perhaps a confrontation like yesterday’s—but as I walk, absolutely nothing happens.

One street before reaching the taxi stand, I notice an elderly woman ahead of me being pushed by a guy who passes by without even looking back at what he’s done. The old woman falls onto her knees on the sidewalk, dropping a bouquet of roses, and I instinctively rush over to help her.

“Hey!” I raise my voice, but the guy keeps walking.

I try to lift the woman; she grips my shoulder to pull herself up with difficulty. She is wearing a green dress that falls below her knees. However, as she puts weight on her legs, I realize she is bleeding from one knee. She winces immediately.

“Hey, you i***t, look what you did!” I insult him upon seeing the blood, but I doubt he heard me. I try to find a place for the woman to rest; nearby is a bench that seems to belong to the local flower shop—I assume that’s where she bought the flowers.

“What did you say, you damn b***h?” I hear a male voice. After settling the woman, I turn around and find the same guy who had pushed past her.

He isn't very tall, but his petulant attitude puts me in a bind. I highly doubt someone like him wants to avoid trouble, so I decide to confront him, even though I’m not sure I can do it alone.

“Apologize to the lady,” I order, trying not to lose my nerve at the sight of the anger in his eyes.

“Why should I?” he protests sarcastically. “That old hag got in my way.”

“You pushed her on purpose,” I snap. “Apologize to her.”

“And who are you to tell me what to do?” he inquires, scowling.

“It’s none of your business who I am, just apologize to her,” I insist, though I now doubt whether picking a fight in the street with this man is a good idea.

“Ah, the little b***h is brave!” he exclaims with a most perverse smile. Unexpectedly, he grabs my hand and forces me close to him until he wraps his arm around my waist.

I saw many scenes like this in Rome, especially at parties I attended with my friends. Italian men can be quite dominant, but I find it distasteful enough to slap him across the cheek as hard as my hand allows.

the guy lets go of me, but from where he stands, he gives me a fierce look that terrifies me. Defenseless and anxious, my heart begins to throb wildly with fear. I know that now that he’s let go, I should run, but my legs remain frozen.

“You’re going to pay for that, you little b***h!” the guy bellows while covering his cheek with his hand.

“Would you mind repeating what you just said?” I hear a male voice. The enraged guy turns around and looks back; I don't know what’s happening, but he suddenly calms down.

“Sir...?” he manages to say.

A young man with brown hair raises an eyebrow at the man who intended to hit me—or at least, that’s what I gather.

“I was looking for you,” he lies, addressing me, though I don't know why. “I see my lateness caused a misunderstanding.”

“Forgive me, sir, I... was just... I was...” the other one stammers.

“Don’t you think it’s time for you to leave?” the young man suggests with a certain severity. “You and I will settle accounts later.”

The man runs off, skirting around the young man in the black suit. The latter watches him calmly as he disappears into the distance. Without that man, I don't know what would have happened. I pause to observe him for a second; his expression is affable, and I would even say he looks apologetic. His face is sharp, quite handsome, and his blue eyes seem to brighten upon seeing me. Though he is wearing a dark suit, he wears it casually, with shoes and no socks, and an open-collared shirt without a tie.

“Thank you for helping me,” I dare to say. Apparently, this young man and the rogue who escaped know each other, though the latter seems terrified of him.

“It’s nothing,” he tells me, flashes a bright white smile. “I wasn't going to stand by and watch that scoundrel take advantage of you, even if it was his fault.”

My cheeks turn red. Apparently, this young man saw everything. Even though he didn't intervene sooner, maybe he thought I could handle it myself; in the end, I was rescued, but I wasn't going to get into a brawl with an i***t like that either.

“I think he was in shock when you hit him,” he says, taking a step back to where the elderly woman’s bouquet of roses lies scattered. “A little more strength and you would’ve knocked him out.”

I let out a small laugh, as I assume it’s a joke to make me feel better after that sour experience.

“Thank you very much, young people,” says the old woman, who is still sitting on the wooden bench. Beside her is another lady, who I assume is the one who runs the flower shop. “I’m very glad he didn't do anything to you.”

“You’ve hurt yourself, grandmother,” the young man says, sounding somewhat moved. Unexpectedly, he reaches into his pockets and pulls out a white handkerchief which, from what I can see, has the initials "J. C." embroidered on it.

“Can you hold this for me?” he asks, handing me the bouquet of roses, which seem to have suffered from being thrown violently; some of their petals have fallen off.

He leans down, places the handkerchief over the wound, and very carefully cleans the blood from her skin.

“Do you have a first aid kit we can use?” he asks the woman from the flower shop. She nods and immediately goes into the store to get it.

When he finishes cleaning the wound, the lady hands him a white box with a red cross painted on it. It contains everything needed to treat a superficial wound. As he takes the supplies, the young man moves his hands with agility; as I watch him, it strikes me that his hands, though smooth and perhaps delicate, have a dexterity I have never seen before.

After a few minutes of sterilizing the area, the young man finishes by applying a blue adhesive patch.

“Can you stand up?” the young man asks, helping the old woman. The woman obeys and, once she is on her feet, we all watch her to make sure everything is in order.

“Don’t try to take the patch off; it will fall off on its own in a couple of days once your wound heals. But if you feel anything bothering you, please go for a medical checkup,” the young man suggests kindly. I am surprised that he seems to have experience in these kinds of things. It is then that I return the bouquet of roses to the lady.

“I think some of the flowers were damaged,” I inform her regretfully.

“Thank you very much, young people. How could I ever repay your kindness?” the lady says, addressing both of us, but I shake my head.

“You don’t have to pay us anything,” he says with a smile. It’s then that I notice he has a pair of dimples in his cheeks; it makes me feel a certain tenderness. “Just don't go out in the streets alone. After all, it seems the tension in the city has intensified considerably. Everyone is on the defensive, so don't take it personally; it’s just that many are scared.”

The lady frowns and shakes her head.

“The Carussos and the Monttecis,” she says, reminding us of the source of the conflicts in the city. “If it goes on like this, the tourists will stop coming and many businesses will go to ruin.”

“I think that would be the least of it,” he mentions, and his words force me to think of the cases Alessandro mentioned. If the conflict continues, not only will the families try to destroy one another, but many innocents will be hurt.

“It’s true,” the woman mentions with a sadness that doesn't last long. “It’s strange to see two young people interested in the well-being of an old woman like me. I don’t have any money with me, but perhaps I can reward you with this.”

The old woman pulls out two roses, the prettiest ones that survived. She gives one to me and the other to the young man beside me.