The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,30

her in the dark felt wrong. “Well, Dita—my father’s housekeeper—said she ran off with a French man, but Nina Genovese believes it was all just assumption and, uh, well, Toto killed her for it.”

Aisling didn’t look frightened. I imagined she had probably heard worse things during her time with the mafia. “What do you believe?”

I remembered the painting of Danta, how her eyes had been savagely crossed out and the words BLOODY WHORE had been scratched across her forehead. Was that the behavior of a man who would kill his wife? Toto was not known for his ability to be reasonable, so did I think he killed Danta?

I didn’t not believe he killed Danta.

Aisling picked up on my expression and sighed deeply. “It’s all just speculation.” She sounded like she was trying to assure herself more than me. “He’s never given me a reason to think he might hurt me.”

Really? I wanted to laugh but held back. “You’re not married, so maybe...”

“He will go easy on me if I run off with a French man?” Slight humor crossed her face. “What a relief.”

I forced myself to laugh. “Just stay away from the Corsican Union,” I joked but it fell flat.

“I do try to,” she mused. Then her expression sobered slightly. “Saison...Saison has returned to the Union.”

“It’s better than being killed.”

Aisling nodded in agreement.

My phone buzzed, and I quickly glanced at it. It was from Elena, telling me she was hours away from her wedding and would call me when she could.

“Elena?” Aisling asked when she saw my expression.

“Yes. She’s getting married today.” I typed back my response, trying to sound as comforting as possible.

“I lived in New York with the Ó Fiaich’s for a few years,” Aisling said, “and they never had a bad word to say about the Falcones.”

I appreciated her attempt to make me feel better but instead I asked, “You lived in New York?”

“When I first came to the States,” she said. “I couldn’t have been older than nineteen.”

My stomach cramped thinking about young Aisling in the hands of the Irish Mob, alone and unprotected. “Were you...?”

“A mistress?” She didn’t seem upset with the question. “Of course. That’s all I have ever been trained to be.”

“There’s training involved?”

Aisling smiled. “You were trained to be a wife, weren’t you? I suppose my training was a little less Catholic than yours, but yes, training was involved.”

“Who trained you?”

“My mother,” she said. “She was a mistress her entire life, as was my grandmother. We’re not smart, or wealthy, but we’re beautiful. That’s what she always used to say.”

I looked to Nora, who was now reading to Dante.

“Nora’s not going to carry on the Shildrick women’s legacy,” Aisling said quietly. “She’s going to go to college, to be someone, and earn her own money. Not be some rich man’s plaything.”

Despite her words, there was no bitterness in her tone. She sounded determined for her daughter, but more accepting of her own role in life. Aisling had been a mistress her entire adult life, it sounded like. Perhaps she had given up hope that there was anything more for her.

I squeezed her hand. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Surprise fluttered over her face, and her cheeks reddened. Instead of saying anything, she bowed her head in thanks.

I looked back over at Nora, a spitting image of her mother with a bright future ahead of her. She was explaining to Dante what an atom was. My son looked very interested, watching her red hair fly as she spoke.

I turned back to Aisling, beautiful and self-sacrificing.

If my father-in-law hurts either of these girls, I thought, I’m going to kill him.

When I returned home, I was surprised to find Chiara di Traglia outside my house. She stepped toward me as the car rolled up on the driveway.

“Do you want me to tell her to leave?” Oscuro asked.

I shook my head, sighing, “No.”

I hadn’t even gotten Dante out of his car seat when she approached. “Have you heard anything?” she asked.

I held my son, wrapping him up to protect him from the November chill. “No, I haven’t,” I told her kindly. “How about you come inside and have some tea?”

Chiara set her jaw in anger but accepted my invitation.

Dante napped in his bouncing seat while Chiara and I sat in the living room, neither of us making a move toward the tea and biscuits.

“Adelasia is somewhere out there, alone and pregnant,” Chiara bit out. “Your family have not had any success in finding her.” The sharpness to