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“A young woman in his office who may have had my number reached out asking me to set up a meeting.” He winks. Even reserved Matteo is a bit of a man whore; the men in this family, honestly.

“Right. Let’s tee it up and see what he knows.”

Matteo nods, but he doesn’t make any moves to leave. “You aren’t going to arrange a marriage for me are you?” he finally says and I can’t help but laugh.

A smirk tugs at the sides of my mouth. “Nah, I’ll leave you to choose your own wife.”

“What about you? You going to find a wife?” This is not the kind of conversation Matty and I usually have. We don’t get into each other’s love life.

“Ha! Who would have me?” I revert to the self-deprecating humour which is one of my go-to defence mechanisms.

“She likes you. Like really likes you. Be careful.” We both know who he is talking about.

“Fuck Matty. So what? Why have this conversation? It doesn’t mean shit. She is currently out at dinner with our brother.” I’m nearly shouting and I don’t usually shout.

“Sorry, G. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He gets up and walks around the desk to press a kiss on my forehead. He’s such a good guy and I shouldn’t be mad at him.

“No problem, Matty. I’m meeting some of the capos atLa Fazendain half an hour. Doing some recon on how much Stefan has snaked in on relationships already. You coming with?”

“If that’s an order then, of course, I’m coming. If not, maybe take Massimo? He needs some experience.

“Good idea. Send him to me. Oh, and Matty, if I give you an order, you’ll know.”

He smiles and raises an eyebrow. “Yes, boss.”

“Love you, Matty,” I remind him.

Chapter Twelve

Giovanna

Massimo pulls my Range Rover in between the cracked painted lines of our reserved parking spot right outside Sydney’s oldest Italian restaurant. Not much to look at from the outside, the interior is warm, intimate, and could be right out of a mob movie. It sits not far from the harbour on a block that was once industrial and dirty, but now teems with trendy restaurant and bar conversions.

But it isn’t the Instagrammable location or decor that has the booking sheets full. It isn’t even the incredible food which is truly part of Sydney’s culinary history. The real reason every Tom, Dick, and Hazza wants a table is that it is hardly a secret that the restaurant is owned by the MarinoFamiglia.

La Fazendais run by Auntie Savia and her family. She is my mother’s sister, god rest Mama’s soul.

Savia’s kids do much of the work these days and they keep things above board. We don’t run mafia money through it. The only purpose it serves theFamigliais that we hold meetings here either on the family table in the corner or in the private dining room upstairs. It is our home ground.

The interior is warm and cosy. Wood panelled walls are adorned with candlestick sconce lamps casting artful shadows over the tables. We used to have red and white chequered tablecloths, but Savia’s eldest daughter Sarah said it looked like we were trying to mimicThe Sopranos.Now crisp, white tablecloths sit stiffly atop the tables, the excess fabric folding as it drapes.

“G! Massimo! How’s it going?” Sarah’s dark head pops up from behind the counter near the door. “Tavola di Famigliaor upstairs?”

“Hey Sez,” the sound of our air kisses punctuates the warm hug she wraps me in. “The Family Table is fine, thanks. A few of the capos will be joining us.”

Sarah bustles on ahead, leading us to the large round table we have sat at since before we were old enough to talk. “Are you eating?”

“I’ll just have an espresso thanks.” I don’t want this to be a long discussion. I’ve been flat out like a lizard drinking all week and I’m about to start fantasising about crawling into bed.

“Same, but I wouldn’t say no to some of your cannoli.” Massimo gives our older cousin a cheeky grin, his green eyes twinkling.

Patting his arm fondly, Sarah coos “Always for you, baby cousin.”

Baz Rossi and Fat Tony arrive right on time which puts me in a more favourable mood. Marginally.

They’re getting old and I wonder when they’ll make the move into retirement. They’re both about a decade younger than Dad though so they could stick around.

Next to arrive is Craig ‘The Exorcist’ Falconi. He’s built like a brick shithouse and his sheer size has heads turning as he reaches our table. He’s younger than two capos who arrived before him. Late 40s I would guess.