Salvatore

5

As it turns out, the silence that fills the rest of the house is entirely non-existent in the communal living areas.

We're currently in a building just outside the main house, in a space that feels like a high school cafeteria. there's a massive kitchen at the back of the room, and a buffet before it. The rest of the space is filled with couches, chairs, benches and tables. Only about half of them are filled, but they're unbelievably noisy.

"Just don't talk to anyone unless I introduce you, okay?" Jordan warns. "And try not to make too much eye contact."

"Got it," I nod, walking further into the room. A few people have already stopped to look at me, but more and more eyes keep turning my way. One of the guy's wolf whistles, causing a wave of laughter to fill the room.

"Ay, yo!" someone calls. "Who's the bitch?"

"Sainte's gonna whoop your ass for bringing a chick in here, dude," a new voice says. "She your girl?"

I glance over at the source of the voice, but there's no way I can identify which of the men said it. There's not a single woman in this room. Not one. I vaguely recognise a few of them, but I can't place them. Except for one — David Rossi. I shoot him a harsh glare. I can tell he recognises me. He's eyeing me up and down with a smirk on his face. The same smirk I've spent years trying to forget.

"Settle down, you assholes," Jordan says. "She's with Sainte."

"Bullshit," one of the guys scoffs. "The boss doesn't even let us bring strippers in. Why'd he bring in some weak-ass Barbie?"

"It's Sofia Delfino, dude," David says. "Why do you think she's here?"

"Sofia Delfino? Delfino's daighter?"

"Yeah, man. We used to train with her."

Of course they know who my father is. He supplies all their weapons.

"Oi, Sofia!" the first guy calls out to me, but whatever he wants to say, he doesn't get a chance to.

"Shut the fuck up, bro," Jordan warns. "She's not supposed to be talking to anyone. Bosses orders."

What? I'm not allowed to speak to anyone?

"Just tell us why she's here."

"Fuck if I know," Jordan shrugs, ushering me towards the buffet.

"Why do you think she's here?" David scoffs. "Sainte's about to turn 30 and he hasn't found a regina yet."

And it sure as shit isn't going to be me.

"Is that true?" Jordan turns to me, his tone a harsh whisper. He hands me an empty plate, but his eyes are far more concerned with something else. "Is that what you're here for?"

"He wishes," I snicker.

"It makes sense," he insists. "What else could you do here? It's not like he'd let you join a field squad. You have, like... Zero combat skills."

"Hey, I did the same training you did," I defend.

"And you were shit at it."

I don't respond. I just follow Jordan along the buffet, picking up foods as we go. He grabs a bunch of pizza slices, but I stick to my fruits and vegetables.

"Look," I sigh, speaking in a hushed whisper. "I don't know what I'm allowed to say about the situation."

"So you admit you're here for him?"

"I mean... Yeah, but it's not going to work out."

"Why not? You don't want to be the boss?"

"No, I don't really care about that," I admit. I love being in charge of my own business, so I wouldn't mind expanding to running a family, but not like this. "Sainte's just a dick."

"You think?" he snickers. "But he runs this place better than his dad did."

"Really?"

"Definitely. And I mean... He's not that bad all the time. He can be pretty decent when he has to be."

"Give me an example."

"He paid for my mum's cancer treatment."

"Your mum has cancer?"

"Not anymore. Sainte got her into this experimental treatment, and she's fine now."

"Wow," I furrow my brows. I didn't expect that.

"And you remember the Alberti family?" he asks. I shake my head. "Well, they have a daughter with severe autism, so Sainte moved them out Seattle so she could go to, like... The best school for disabled kids in the country."

"Damn. That's pretty nice."

"I mean, he's harsh, but he takes care of us, you know?"

I'm surprised. His father never would've done that. If anything, he would've kicked the kid out of the family. That's the type of stuff he did.

"I didn't think about that," I tell him.

"He has a brother, too, you know?"

"Really?" I didn't know that either.

"He's about your age, maybe a little older," Jordan tells me. "His name's Roman."

"Roman Sainte?" I raise my brows. This family loves wordplay.

"Roberto sent him to New York when he was born, and Sainte keeps him in the dark about the whole family. He doesn't want his brother to get involved with this shit."

"What does he do then?" I ask.

"He runs Sainte Systems."

"Ah," I nod. That's the business this family started when they first moved to America from Sicily. It's a legitimate company, dedicated to technological advances or something like that. But we also use it to launder money.

"You should give him a chance," Jordan says. "I know he can be pretty hard to get along with, but he's not all bad."

"I don't know," I hesitate. "I feel like a prisoner."

"He's probably just worried, you know. Women aren't usually allowed here. It's too dangerous."

"That sounds kind of sexist."

"It's for their own safety," he shrugs. But it doesn't make me think any differently. I know this is only one compound in the country, and Sainte has way more people working for him. But where the hell are the women? They can be just as good at combat as guys can. Maybe not me, but there are plenty of others.

It's unfair.

Women are highly respected in Italian mafia families. Not just as wives and daughters, but as bosses. They're the glue that holds everyone together. They're considered to be the smart and rational ones, often responsible for ethics and law. But why the hell aren't they allowed in combat?