The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,31

her tone made me bite down on my words but keep my face pleasant.

“We are doing—”

“You are doing everything you can. Save it,” she sniped. “I have heard it all. And yet, Adelasia is still missing and our family is still suffering.”

I drew back slightly. “Chiara,” I kept my voice level, “I understand you are upset but you will not speak to me in such a way. When I tell you, ‘We are doing everything we can to find your misguided niece,’ you should believe me.”

Chiara’s eyes flashed. “Without the di Traglias, the Outfit would be nothing,” she snapped. “Nothing.”

The di Traglias did make up most of the Outfit. Out of all the families, they were by far the largest.

“Our family’s reputation has been soiled. Now, our daughters are pariahs for marriage and our sons unlikely to become Made Men.”

“I am sorry that your family’s reputation has taken such a hit,” I said. “Especially such a respectable family as your own.”

Chiara ignored my ass-kissing. “Your brother-in-law needs to find Adelasia and marry her. Claim his bastard chid.”

“Or?”

“Or the di Traglias will leave the Outfit.”

I didn’t let my reaction show on my face. “That is a very hearty threat to be throwing around, Chiara. Let us forget this conversation, and instead put all our energy toward bringing Adelasia home.”

“No. Find Adelasia or forget about ever being donna. Without my family’s support, you and your husband will never be able to rule.”

In her own way, she was correct. Not having a large majority of the Outfit’s support would make it extremely difficult to run the organization.

“Chiara, you have my word, we will find Adelasia.” Dead or alive, Alessandro’s voice said in the back of my mind.

Chiara rose from her seat. “You best hope so. For your own sakes.”

I called her name before she left, not rising from my seat. “Oh, and before you go,” I said when I had her attention. “I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you, if you ever speak to me the same way you just did, Adelasia will be the least of your problems. Family support or no.”

She bowed her head, realizing she had gone too far, and left swiftly.

When she was gone, I picked up Dante and held him on my lap. He slept peacefully in my arms, barely stirring as I moved him.

My brain was moving hurriedly and with panic. If we lost the support of the di Traglias, Alessandro and I would have a lot more problems than just his father and brother. They could tear the Outfit in two.

On their own, they would never make it. But the di Traglias could do some serious damage to my own ambitions on their way out.

I kissed Dante’s forehead softly.

Chiara’s words were ringing through my brain. A marriage is the only way to fix something like this.

I closed my eyes, breathing in my son. He wasn’t even a month old, and already the plan for his life was forming in front of him.

Tears welled up in my eyes. I knew what I was going to do—what my husband was going to do. We wouldn’t risk losing the di Traglias, we wouldn’t risk losing the Outfit.

In that moment, I wished Dante had better parents, parents whose blood didn’t run Cosa Nostra.

Dita found us in the dark hours later, my cheeks still wet.

“Get some rest, Sophia,” she murmured. “I will watch him.”

I took her up on her offer but I wasn’t going to rest.

T he church was freezing.

I shivered in the pew, head bent down low. Whenever I slipped into my thoughts, into the chanting of my prayers, I could’ve sworn I felt the eyes of Mary Madonna burning into my skin. But when I snapped my head back up, taking in the still statue, I was both relieved and alarmed to find it was nothing but my imagination.

Behind me, the large doors clanged. Footsteps neared me, strong and confident.

Oscuro was waiting out the front and wouldn’t let just anybody enter, so I knew who it was immediately.

My husband slid into the pew beside me, his warmth seeping into me.

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked, his deep voice nothing but concerned.

I tilted my head to the side, taking in his hands. Large and rough, pink scars decorating the olive skin. They were hands that had brutalized and tortured, hands that at just fourteen years old had wrapped around a man’s neck and strangled him to death.

Yet never had they turned to me in anger, never had