Livia
I press my ear against the door, listening. Maybe it’s bad manners, but I never claimed to be the mannered lady Mom so desperately wants me to be. I never claimed to be anything other than a Russo. As I listen—eavesdrop, if you want to be technical about it—I get more and more angry. They’re making a deal; we’re making a deal with the people responsible for Luca’s death. Then they stand up, and I run to the desk quickly before they catch me. But, dimly, I hear them talking more, but I can’t make out the words. Maybe I should go back to the door, I think, but then the desk phone begins to whine.
“Ciao,” Mom says, voice chirpy. “I have some brilliant news for you, sweet, lovely daughter of mine.”
“Really?” I reply, wishing I could slam down the phone and return to the door. What are they discussing? That Irish brute! That animal! He repulses me, but those arms, that beard, his ruggedness...No, no, no, he disgusts me. Why aren’t they out yet? They’ve already discussed the deal. What else could they possible be talking about? I need to—
“Livia!” Mom cries, voice pitched high. The receiver crackles in my ear
“What?” I snap, not meaning to, but unable to stop myself. Sometimes, Mom’s voice is like a siren.
“I said I have some brilliant news.”
“Fine. What is it?”
I realize I’m squeezing the phone hard in my hand, furious with Dad. I want to barge into the office and slap him—and the Irish animal—across the face and demand to know what the hell they think they’re doing. An Irish-Italian truce. What next? A wolf-sheep truce. A lion-gazelle truce. An eagle-mouse truce. It’s madness! I squeeze the phone so hard the plastic actually makes a creaking sound.
“I’ve arranged a date for you, with a nice, handsome Italian man, a son of Adriana’s friend’s cousin’s mother.”
“Right...But I never said I wanted to go on a date, Mom.”
She breathes heavily and shakily down the phone like a teapot seconds before the lid is blown through the roof. “You have to go on dates sometimes, you silly girl! How do you expect to find a husband otherwise?”
I’m about to respond—telling her for the zillionth time that I don’t need a husband at this precise moment—when the office door opens and Dad and Aedan walk out. They’re smiling, both of them, as though they’re friends, and when Aedan turns his smile on me, it’s still cocky—if a tad more respectful now he knows who I am. Looking at those muscles, my body gives an unwanted and reflexive twinge, my breasts and my clit ganging up on me and getting warm at the sight, and then I start imagining...
No! Nothing! He’s a red-haired Irish beast, that’s all.
“Livia, I’m talking to you...Hello!”
“Livia,” Dad says, “I want to discuss something with you.”
“Livia!”
“Is that your mother?”
“Are you ignoring me, girl?”
“What does she want?”
“Livia! Livia!”
“Is she hassling you?” Dad asks, with an ironic smile. He walks to the desk and takes the phone from my hand. “No, no, that won’t be necessary. Not today. I already have something arranged for her.”
I’m reeling, head spinning. Sometimes being caught between Mom and Dad is like being a ball in a game of soccer, kicked here and there with little to no time for recovery. I end up looking past Dad to Aedan, who watches me with a sympathetic smile. Strange—and wrong—and revolting—but that sympathetic smile prompts a swelling in my chest, a warmth, a tingling that isn’t there when any other man smiles at me. It’s a smile that says he knows exactly what I’m going through, a rare thing in this world. Stop it, silly girl...
Dad slams down the receiver and returns to Aedan’s side. “Your mother can be a bull sometimes, Livia,” he says, but he’s smiling cheerfully. “A real bull, rushing, charging. An animal. Especially in the—”
“No!” I interrupt, jumping to my feet and inadvertently causing my boobs to jiggle, which immediately draws Aedan’s dark eyes. I focus on Dad, ignoring the way those eyes dance across me, not entirely unpleasant. “Dad, do not say what you were about to say.”
He shrugs. “Fair enough. Anyway, Livia, I had to let your mother down because you and Aedan are going to go on a business dinner this afternoon.”
He says this as though it’s already been decided, as though my thoughts on it don’t matter in the least.
“What if I say no?” I snap.
Dad looks me levelly in the face. “Then you will put the future of this family in grave danger.”
I sigh, puffing out my (dimpled) cheeks, as Dad returns to his office. Aedan comes and stands near me, eyes now on my face, now on my breasts and my bare legs. The way he looks at my legs, I get the sense he’d like to do way more than look at them. But the truth is, I don’t know what to do with a look like that. I may be the daughter of dangerous people, but I’ll be the first to admit my upbringing has been sheltered. I’m not overly experienced with men, hence Mom’s constant pushing and prodding. But, when his hands twitch and his eyes linger on my legs, my body, inexperienced as it is, responds enthusiastically. A shiver runs down my spine and I start imagining what those twitching hands might be capable of.
“Just so you know,” I say, keeping my voice as hard as I can, “I have absolutely no desire to do this.”
He shrugs. “Alright, then.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me, the infuriating, rugged wolf.
I grab my coat and we walk through the bar, which only serves to highlight how utterly non-Italian Aedan is. His skin is snowy, whiter than that, even, and his red hair stands out like a red-sore thumb in the bar. Italians sit everywhere, slicked-back black hair, flashy suits, jewelry on display. One of them, sitting in the corner—his name is Antonio and he’s a round-bellied, drunken man—calls over to Aedan: “Hey, check out Peter Pan over there!”
Aedan ignores him, the only sign that he feels any anger a low, chesty grunt, and together we walk out into the street.
“Is that how you let men speak to you?” I say, hoping to annoy him because...well, just because.
He grins at me. That easy, comfortable grin. It drives me crazy.
“No,” he says. “But your father and I have an agreement. I don’t think giving his bar a new red paintjob will help that agreement any.”
“Is that supposed to sound tough?” I say.
He shrugs, at ease, always at ease, rugged and handsome and wild and comfortable and not trying to prove anything like Dad’s men always seem to be. I am not attracted to this man, I tell myself. I am not!
“No,” he says. “I’ve always found that men who try and sound tough aren’t too tough when you really get down to it. Shall we get a cab? We’ve got a date to keep, remember.”
“Don’t call it a date,” I snap, and then walk right past him and down the street, leaving him to jog after me.