Page 18 of I Would Beg For You
“So, you’ve set your sights on a girl to build your own family now, ensure the lineage continues?”
I groan inside. All these old ladies want is babies. Weddings first, then lots of bambinos. “What century are you living in? Regency times?”
“It is your duty now, you know.”
A sigh escapes me.
Zia Vivi draws closer, her hand on my arm closing tight as she presses her slight frame against me to reach up and whisper in my ear. “Sheisa Reeves on her mother’s side, but her father is…”
She doesn’t finish her sentence. Everyone in my entourage knows what a piece of work Joel Smith is, though not all of them know the whole truth.
The cazzo himself comes into my line of sight. The champagne in my mouth sours, and I spit it back out into the flute before dropping it off on a side console.
Look at him being the happy buffoon. Joel Smith looked affable anytime you saw him. Full of laughs, cheeks a little too pink from drink, but he struck anyone as jovial and not a drunk. His gray hair gave him an air of respectability, the aura quiteliterally expanding whenever he drew his beautiful daughter to his side.
I wince as he pulls Naomi to him with one arm, smiling in a besotted, benevolent way at her.
The world saw the devoted single father who single-handedly brought up his only child when his wife tragically drowned during a family vacation in the Hamptons.
I knew for a fact Joel Smith had, despite hinting at getting into politics one day, not entered the running for any official position on purpose until Naomi had finished school. It gave him credence as a family man to have his only daughter standing on her own two feet before he deigned to take his focus away from her to pursue his personal ambitions.
While he did exactly that, it’s not because he’s a good father. It’s been a planned political move all along. It makes for a heartwarming story in a Hallmark movie type of way.
The only one who doesn’t see it is Naomi.
A snarl curls my mouth as I watch them.
“It’s hard to believe your father and he were such good friends at one point,” Zia Vivi says.
Her words make me tense up. I’m the only one who knows why my father fell out with one of his best friends. They bought houses next to each other to be together, the third one in their trinity, Antonio Bravi, getting a place on the next block. As close as they were, they became sworn enemies.
“Be careful,” she continues. “He’s up to something.”
“I know.”
“He always had it in for your father. Don’t go shaking the hornet’s nest, Val.”
I pat her hand and give her a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Joel Smith has it in for me, too. Because I once confronted him many years ago, throwing all his dirty dealings at him. The fact I know makes me a target.
“Tale padre, tale figlio,” she says with a sigh. “I hope you know what you’re doing, figliolo.”
The fact she used the endearment which can mean son or grandson softens her admonishment a bit. I can hear she’s worried for me. Just like she was for my father, who fell for the only daughter of a Turinese boss and almost started a war when he began courting her.
I place a soft kiss on her temple. “I’ve got this.”
She nods. “Know we’re all here for you.”
The solicitude in her tone almost unravels me. I know I’m not alone, but to hear it stated like a pledge by those who are mine never fails to make my heart trip a little.
I clear my throat. “Looks like the governor is making a beeline for you.”
No mask can hide the poufy ginger coiffe that gives the man away from a mile out.
“And you’re going to use this to slink back in the shadows,” she quips.
I wink at her. “You know me too well.”
