Page 108 of I Would Beg For You
I swallow hard, my hands going to my belly. It feels tight under the layer of soft flesh that’s covered my whole body recently. But round, full? I never…
My eyes go wide. My belly is indeed round and full when I press harder. And when I cradle it, the most incongruous of sensations registers.
It’s like the flutter of butterfly wings, but coming from inside me.
A baby, moving in there already? This can’t be. Valentino always uses a condom, knowing I’m not on the pill. We never—
Except we did. Once. In the attic of his house, during our first weekend together.
That was in January, and it’s now the end of June. I’m almost six months…
“Pregnant,” I mumble. “I’m pregnant.”
Chapter 33 Valentino
Damn it all toHell! All of us looking into this is getting us nowhere. Every hour that passes draws out my agony, my rage, my absolute impotence at getting anywhere closer to Naomi, to helping her, to saving her. I want to curse and kick something, break something, but I can’t. Not on front of Don Giorgio. We’re in his house, after all.
It’s mid-afternoon on the longest day of my life. I didn’t want to drag the old man into this, but we’re really hitting block after block, and I’m hoping he can help us see a way out. In times of trouble and strife, you always go to your elders—it’s been ingrained in us all since our childhood. So here I am, consulting with the patriarch of the Italian-American Mafia on the Northeastern coast of the United States.
Fat lot of help this is being, though.
“We don’t want a war,” he tells me solemnly.
I sigh. “No, we don’t.”
“But one of them has your wife,” he adds.
“Exactly,” I bite out. “They struck first. First offense.”
Connor Gatling sang like a canary, in the end. It took Pesci breaking all the bones in his left foot then cutting off each finger on his right hand one by one—cazzo tried to keep it all in, but he caved. No man is strong enough against my men, especially when they’re being directed by a stone-cold Marco on a mission.
It’s been feeling like an eternity spent in the endless maze of the corridors of Hell. The worst is, I’m a Don now, meaning I’m not supposed to get my hands dirty. Talks the other night hinted at me needing an enforcer going forward, someone to take care of the dirty business while I keep my hands outwardly clean. I’m not liking this, to be honest. I’m a man used to getting things done, not just calling the shots. Overlaid on this feeling of helplessness is this almost hopeless quest we’re on, a fool’s errand at every turn. Each time I think we’ve landed on something, we turn and find ourselves slamming into another wall.
The latest in this string of obstacles? I’m sitting in his living room right now.
It’s surprising how little you can know about an organization you’ve been part of your whole life. My father was a member of the Northeastern coast syndicate. Not a Don, but as a boss, he had his say in the big decisions that were to affect our livelihood as the Mafia here in this region. Dons get a seat at the table; I now have one of those.
Except, this revered sanctuary I just managed to step into? It has an inner sanctum, and not everyone is privy to what goes on in here, or even has a say in its decisions and thinking patterns. One person is the be-all and end-all of this shadow government-type of leadership, and I’m in conversation with him right now.
It reminds me I need to thank my stars for making Don Giorgio Vitale notice me and decide to take me under his wing. I’m not his heir, but I’m close to him, it seems. I wouldn’t behere hearing all this if I were just another useless Joe in the big pyramid that’s the Mafia.
Good thing Victor was being his usual pragmatic self—he’s the one who told me to apprise my godfather of sorts. We’re using his house, some of his resources, so it stood to reason we best keep him in the loop. As an elder, at least, and the oldest Don currently at the table, he’s our patriarch. I never thought that could also imply so much more behind the scenes.
I saw it in the way Don Giorgio welcomed me inside his home. His shoulders had been tense, and he point-blank asked me what I had done. I hadn’t even started with my revenge, so I told him as much.
His shoulders sagged at that point, and he placed a gnarled hand on my shoulder. It had felt like relief on his part, then on mine. Being impatient could’ve seriously fucked me up inside the very syndicate I’d just been given a place in. Thank God I listened to my brother. Further talks with Don Giorgio revealed how much of a key player he really is.
“So, what do you want to do?” the old man asks me. “Burn them to the ground?”
“Am I allowed to?”
He laughs softly, then sobers. “Let’s hope it never comes to that.”
I steel myself, too. If I were ever given permission to take down a whole other non-Italian mob, it would imply they’ve killed my blood—my children, or at the very least, my wife. No matter how much I want to crush the ashes of these fucking Albanians into the ground under the sole of my shoe, I can’t take on such an endeavor. Not yet, anyway, and when I think of the reason why I actually could, then not ever, I hope.
Naomi can’t die!
I won’t let this happen.
