The Promise
Page 97
“That’s your decision; it’s your life. I came by, we had our words. I leave, you continue your life. I’m happy for you. You’re tryin’ to make a good one for the family you wanna build. But that doesn’t mean what you’re sayin’ isn’t complete bullshit. The thing is, you sit there knowin’ it. You cast judgment for the decisions Francesca has made in her life, sittin’ there knowin’ you let your sister lie in a hospital bed with a hole in her without showin’ your face and givin’ some love. And still, you did that to her, Frankie calls you because she’s worried about you. What’s that say about her, Cat? And more, you can take this as my good turn to you: what’s it say about you?”
He knew he scored another point when the red went out of her face and it got pale.
He also didn’t give a f**k. He was done.
“Dinner’s at seven,” he ground out. “You’re there, you’re welcome. You’re not, I do not share blood with you so I do not have to put up with your shit. You don’t show, Frankie won’t cut ties. But seein’ as I’m in love with her and she’ll be the mother of my kids one day, you’ll have to work to get me to let you in our door, because, straight-up, Cat, I don’t need my woman or my kids around that kind of f**ked-up shit.”
He left it at that, turned, and walked out, deciding he wouldn’t share this visit with Frankie. Cat and Art showed the next night, then he’d get the goodness of her gratitude that he went out of his way to get her sister back. If not, she didn’t need to know.
And anyway, he didn’t need to give more headspace to Cat, seeing as not fun as that visit was, the next one he was going to make he knew was going to be a f**kuva lot worse.
* * * * *
Ben looked around the huge-ass house Gina was leading him through, thinking that she’d had the whole f**king place redecorated since the last time he’d been there.
Since he lost track of when that was, he shouldn’t be surprised. It was more than eight years. It was more like fifteen.
She now had marble floors. Acres of them.
Things must be good in the mob business. He’d never be able to give Frankie acres of marble floors. That said, she’d never want them, and if she did, she’d work to get them for herself.
“It really is nice, you showin’, Benny,” Gina murmured, and he looked at her.
She held some weight, not much, but she no longer had the slender, built figure she’d had a couple of decades ago. That didn’t mean she wasn’t dressed well, she was. She’d always dressed well. Slightly over-the-top with jewelry and bright colors, but she wasn’t the stereotypical mob wife you saw in the movies.
But she was beyond middle age and her face didn’t have a line on it that he could see. And she dyed her hair so there wasn’t a strand of gray.
She took care of herself. Then again, she could. She had the money and she had the time.
Wouldn’t matter if she didn’t, Sal was devoted to his wife. Doted on her. Never was a time back in the day when they were around where he wasn’t affectionate or didn’t look at her like she jumpstarted the world every morning.
That didn’t mean he didn’t f**k around. He did. Always. Even now. Word flew through the family, regardless if you didn’t want to hear that shit, and Ben knew Sal had two women on the side, both kept, both thirty years younger than Gina.
Gina probably knew too and kept her tongue. It was a thing with men like Sal, and the women with them had to put up with it. It was his way to show how big his balls were and that they still worked.
It was also as whacked as everything else Sal did.
“It’s good to see you, Gina,” he muttered in order to be nice, even if he didn’t mean it. He liked her, but that didn’t mean she didn’t bring up bad memories.
She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him and he knew she knew he was lying through his teeth by the sad look in her eyes.
Her husband f**ked around on her and did seriously f**ked-up shit for a living, which meant every day anything could happen, and that “anything” could include him being incarcerated or assassinated. When you lived a life like that, family was important, and not the kind who were all in danger of the same thing.
He couldn’t say he didn’t feel for her. She was a good woman. But he couldn’t help her by biting the bullet and giving her the big family that would make the shit in her life less shitty. She’d made her choice.
She looked forward again and led him out onto a patio with a pool, gazebo, and pool house. There was a huge-ass, ostentatious fountain shooting water into the deep end of the pool. There were pots filled with thriving flowers and greenery all over the place. It looked like it belonged in a resort, not in an affluent Chicago suburb that would much prefer the local mob boss hadn’t bought a house there but no one would say jack for fear they’d find a horse’s head in their bed the next day.
And like he was at his own personal resort, which he was, Sal Giglia was sitting at a table with an iced drink in front of him, along with a tablet, his phone to his ear.
He, too, was a good-looking man, a big man, tall, broad. He’d been built back in the day, but now he had a gut. His dark hair had silvered and he’d left it at that, but he did slick it back, even if he was doing that to sit on his patio. He dressed well—designer polos, nice slacks, custom-made Italian loafers. He looked like Tony Soprano with more hair, classic features, and an extra fifteen years.
When they came out, Sal’s eyes came to Gina and Benny. He then said something in his phone, ended the call, dropped the cell on the table, and stood, face breaking into a huge smile.
Ben felt his throat prickle and fought back the urge to form his hands into fists or, the better option, turn and walk away.
“Benny, figlio,” Sal called as they made their way over the expensive pavers to Sal.
Figlio.
Asshole.
“Frankie’s birthday, am I right?” Sal asked, eyes lighting, misunderstanding the situation and thinking Ben getting in there with crazy-beautiful Francesca Concetti meant that either he was thinking with his dick or being led around by it.
“Not exactly,” Ben replied, his gaze moving to Gina and back to Sal to make his point that what he had to say, Gina shouldn’t be around to hear.
Sal’s huge smile faded, but only slightly, as he took hold of his woman’s hand, pulled her closer, kissed her cheek, and leaned back to ask, “Get Benny a drink, would you, cara?”
He knew he scored another point when the red went out of her face and it got pale.
He also didn’t give a f**k. He was done.
“Dinner’s at seven,” he ground out. “You’re there, you’re welcome. You’re not, I do not share blood with you so I do not have to put up with your shit. You don’t show, Frankie won’t cut ties. But seein’ as I’m in love with her and she’ll be the mother of my kids one day, you’ll have to work to get me to let you in our door, because, straight-up, Cat, I don’t need my woman or my kids around that kind of f**ked-up shit.”
He left it at that, turned, and walked out, deciding he wouldn’t share this visit with Frankie. Cat and Art showed the next night, then he’d get the goodness of her gratitude that he went out of his way to get her sister back. If not, she didn’t need to know.
And anyway, he didn’t need to give more headspace to Cat, seeing as not fun as that visit was, the next one he was going to make he knew was going to be a f**kuva lot worse.
* * * * *
Ben looked around the huge-ass house Gina was leading him through, thinking that she’d had the whole f**king place redecorated since the last time he’d been there.
Since he lost track of when that was, he shouldn’t be surprised. It was more than eight years. It was more like fifteen.
She now had marble floors. Acres of them.
Things must be good in the mob business. He’d never be able to give Frankie acres of marble floors. That said, she’d never want them, and if she did, she’d work to get them for herself.
“It really is nice, you showin’, Benny,” Gina murmured, and he looked at her.
She held some weight, not much, but she no longer had the slender, built figure she’d had a couple of decades ago. That didn’t mean she wasn’t dressed well, she was. She’d always dressed well. Slightly over-the-top with jewelry and bright colors, but she wasn’t the stereotypical mob wife you saw in the movies.
But she was beyond middle age and her face didn’t have a line on it that he could see. And she dyed her hair so there wasn’t a strand of gray.
She took care of herself. Then again, she could. She had the money and she had the time.
Wouldn’t matter if she didn’t, Sal was devoted to his wife. Doted on her. Never was a time back in the day when they were around where he wasn’t affectionate or didn’t look at her like she jumpstarted the world every morning.
That didn’t mean he didn’t f**k around. He did. Always. Even now. Word flew through the family, regardless if you didn’t want to hear that shit, and Ben knew Sal had two women on the side, both kept, both thirty years younger than Gina.
Gina probably knew too and kept her tongue. It was a thing with men like Sal, and the women with them had to put up with it. It was his way to show how big his balls were and that they still worked.
It was also as whacked as everything else Sal did.
“It’s good to see you, Gina,” he muttered in order to be nice, even if he didn’t mean it. He liked her, but that didn’t mean she didn’t bring up bad memories.
She turned her head to look over her shoulder at him and he knew she knew he was lying through his teeth by the sad look in her eyes.
Her husband f**ked around on her and did seriously f**ked-up shit for a living, which meant every day anything could happen, and that “anything” could include him being incarcerated or assassinated. When you lived a life like that, family was important, and not the kind who were all in danger of the same thing.
He couldn’t say he didn’t feel for her. She was a good woman. But he couldn’t help her by biting the bullet and giving her the big family that would make the shit in her life less shitty. She’d made her choice.
She looked forward again and led him out onto a patio with a pool, gazebo, and pool house. There was a huge-ass, ostentatious fountain shooting water into the deep end of the pool. There were pots filled with thriving flowers and greenery all over the place. It looked like it belonged in a resort, not in an affluent Chicago suburb that would much prefer the local mob boss hadn’t bought a house there but no one would say jack for fear they’d find a horse’s head in their bed the next day.
And like he was at his own personal resort, which he was, Sal Giglia was sitting at a table with an iced drink in front of him, along with a tablet, his phone to his ear.
He, too, was a good-looking man, a big man, tall, broad. He’d been built back in the day, but now he had a gut. His dark hair had silvered and he’d left it at that, but he did slick it back, even if he was doing that to sit on his patio. He dressed well—designer polos, nice slacks, custom-made Italian loafers. He looked like Tony Soprano with more hair, classic features, and an extra fifteen years.
When they came out, Sal’s eyes came to Gina and Benny. He then said something in his phone, ended the call, dropped the cell on the table, and stood, face breaking into a huge smile.
Ben felt his throat prickle and fought back the urge to form his hands into fists or, the better option, turn and walk away.
“Benny, figlio,” Sal called as they made their way over the expensive pavers to Sal.
Figlio.
Asshole.
“Frankie’s birthday, am I right?” Sal asked, eyes lighting, misunderstanding the situation and thinking Ben getting in there with crazy-beautiful Francesca Concetti meant that either he was thinking with his dick or being led around by it.
“Not exactly,” Ben replied, his gaze moving to Gina and back to Sal to make his point that what he had to say, Gina shouldn’t be around to hear.
Sal’s huge smile faded, but only slightly, as he took hold of his woman’s hand, pulled her closer, kissed her cheek, and leaned back to ask, “Get Benny a drink, would you, cara?”
