Page 108 of Fake Dark Vows

But the terms aren’t.

The Rossi family runs a shipping empire. They import luxury goods from every corner of the globe, but mostly through Europe.

Those goods come in to ports that were, at one time, staffed by De Luca workers. The De Lucas would then take the goods, along with anything else that showed up in those crates, and turn them into cash, which the Rossi’s would get a cut of.

A healthy cut of goods that were both legal and illegal.

The Rossi family is Italian. Like, Elio and all of his siblings except one were born in Italy and they only have citizenship in America because of some slick dealings and greased palms.

The De Lucas, via my great-grandfather and great-grandmother, came to the United States around the turn of the century. At first, we did quite well; there’s a whole section dedicated to us in The Mob Museum in Las Vegas. I’ve never been, but Dino says that it’s a hoot.

Then, along with the rest of organized crime in America, the feds got smarter than we were, and one by one, De Lucas filled up prisons from sea to shining sea.

With the lack of manpower came a decline in our ability to be the pin in the Rossi flow of goods. We still have a solid presence on the docks in the Port of New York, but it’s nowhere near what it used to be.

My dad and Elio’s dad must have been drunk on some prime shit, reminiscing about some old times, in order to dream up this ridiculous arrangement.

With the unification of the families, the Rossi’s agreed to only use De Luca docks and De Luca distributors to sell. This is a terrible plan because the amount of goods that Rossi Industries brings in would vastly overwhelm our workforce.

I have no idea what Elio gets out of this deal.

Well... I did once. I grimace and sip my prosecco.

Me.

There was a time when Elio and I would have been good for each other. I was a wide-eyed girl, just starting my junior year of college. He was handsome; he’s my brother’s age, and they had been friends since grade school.

I can’t remember how handsome he is.

Physically, I’m capable of remembering. I see his unusual grey eyes every time I look at my daughter’s face. I see the slope of his cheeks, the tilt of his nose. There’s no doubt that she has Elio’s face.

Thank God it’s a pretty face, for both of their sakes.

And thank God even more for the fact that her personality is all mine.

I’m capable of remembering how handsome Elio is for sure.

But I can’t remember it.

Because if I think about how attractive he is, how he makes my knees feel soft and wobbly when he smiles that dimpled smile, I’m going to do something stupid.

And I can’t be stupid.

Not in this.

Not when so much is riding on it.

Elio Rossi made me very, very stupid once.

And I’m never going to be that girl again.

Elio

There’s only one week left until I finally get my revenge on Marco De Luca.

It’s going to be the longest fucking week of my life.

Since I dislike spending any time stewing in my own dread, I’ve decided to spend the week at my villa in Tivoli as a way to avoid the impending disaster of the marriage contract.