The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,14
was more complicated than a Rubik’s cube. It had taken three lawyers, all of the Rocchettis and Nicoletta, to try and distinguish some meaning from it. It was written in English (with the exception of his estates back in Italy), but it was so full of legal jargon and riddles, it was basically indecipherable.
The only part of the will we had managed to understand was the new ownership of his beloved dogs. The dogs would continue to live on Don Piero’s housing estate, under the care of his groomer, trainer and whoever else worked with the pets. However, they legally belonged to—you guessed it! —Sophia Antonia Rocchetti and Polpetto Rocchetti.
When Salvatore Sr had seen Polpetto had something in the will, he had nearly grown a horn.
So, on top of everything else going on, Don Piero’s will was another thing to handle.
Alessandro was ready to go homicidal over it.
“Even in death, he is a difficult man,” Alessandro grumbled. “When I die, you can have all my shit.”
“Don’t say things like that.”
He made a noncommittal noise.
“You would think everything would go to Nicoletta. She is his wife.”
“He was very smart about the wording,” Alessandro said. “And since Nicoletta is, technically, dead, arguing her place in the will is going to be another headache.”
I cupped the back of his head, weaving my fingers through his hair, and smiled at him. “Speaking of Nicoletta, what do you think of Ophelia?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you asking as her employer or as my wife?”
“Like you could do any better,” I reminded him. “I’m asking because Nero’s taking an interest in her.”
“Ah, you noticed that, did you,” Alessandro muttered. “It’s enough to make me feel sorry for the poor girl.”
“Tell Nero to back off.” My husband looked like he was going to laugh at the idea of telling Nero to do something. “He listens to you. I will not go through the process of hiring another nurse, Alessandro. Ophelia is the only one I like—and who is in enough dire straits that she needs this job. Where else am I going to find a desperate nurse?”
He bowed his head. “As you wish. However, I must warn you, once Nero puts his mind to something, very little can stop him. That’s what makes him such a great killer.”
I stroked my son’s soft hair. He blinked sleepily at me, content just listening to our voices. All I could think to say was, “Poor Ophelia.”
Alessandro caught my hand, holding it tightly. “I am serious about you going and getting some sleep,” he told me.
I sighed, unable to put up a fight any longer. A nap, it would be.
As I turned to leave, Alessandro called out.
“You know I won’t let anything happen to you or Dante, don’t you, Sophia?” he asked.
I looked over my shoulder at him. My beautiful husband who had forsaken God and Heaven in his quest for power, who would walk through Hell in order to protect his family.
“I know,” I murmured. “I know.”
I didn’t realize it was the was the last day of the month until Beatrice kindly reminded me.
I was leaving another Historical Society meeting—my first after Dante’s birth—where, instead of discussing landmarks, everyone had been incredibly interested in photos of my son. I, of course, was always delighted to show off my baby, and I’d had a great time.
As I went to leave, I called Beatrice for an update on her pregnancy. She wasn’t due until the beginning of next year, but it was so nice having someone to talk babies with. Whenever she moaned about a pregnancy symptom, I could coo in sympathy because I understood.
“Pietro’s been lovely,” she said as I wrapped my scarf around my neck.
“Pietro’s always lovely.”
Beatrice laughed softly on the other end of the phone. “He has been very...protective lately. Is something going on?”
Curiosity about the Outfit from Beatrice was a rare thing. Usually, she liked to go on with her life, not knowing the gritty details behind the money she used and the people she called family. It wasn’t because —of ignorance, I didn’t think. Beatrice was just aware of what she could and couldn’t handle—and the mafia had always been something she couldn’t deal with.
“Has Pietro said anything?” I asked.
“No.” But clearly, he was doing something that was making Beatrice worry.
“Everyone is on edge after the death of Don Piero,” I told her. “I imagine Pietro’s just worried about who is going to be his next capo dei capi.”
She made a noise of understanding but didn’t ask