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“You don’t want to tell us what you need from us before you leave?” Elio asks gently like he is approaching a frightened kitten.

“Need to think further on it, I think,” he says gruffly. “I’ll be in touch.”

Weirdest meeting I’ve been to in a while.

The Trotters bustle around grabbing their belongings and Francesca shows them out leaving Elio and me to communicate through raised eyebrows.

“Haven’t seen someone leave a dinner that fast since Auntie Savia tried to set you up with her friend’s son,” Elio laughs to himself.

“Shut the fuck up,” the napkin I throw at him falls short, landing on the table between us.

“Giovanna, he’s adoctor,” he continues in his best imitation of our loud and clueless auntie.

My middle finger salutes him while my other hand scrolls through my phone and Elio cackles. The cool and calculated mafia don of a few moments ago has left the building and my idiot brother has reappeared.

“I could hear you laughing from the bottom of the stairs,” Francesca snipes, her hands resting on her hips in the doorway.

“Thank goodness. I won’t worry about our children inheriting any deafness from you then,” he spits back, cold sarcasm replacing his laughter.

He’s deadset insane. Sure, Francesca is shitty, but her life has been upended. Cut the poor girl some slack.

If I was him I’d take great fuckin’ pleasure in kissing that scowl off her face. He just doesn’t seem to realise what he has been handed on a plate. She is perfect.Fucking perfect. And instead of thanking his lucky stars, he’s pushing her away.

How he handled the Commissioner impressed me so much, but his immediate attitude switch with Francesca pisses me off. He’s like an overgrown toddler acting out because he feels insecure or unsettled.

I blame Dad. He has made his talented oldest son a performing monkey not trusted to make actual decisions and stripped away yet more self-respect from a man who despite pretending otherwise, clearly hates himself at times.

As much as I resent doing the thankless work of running the Family businesses only to be dismissed as a mere woman in meetings, Elio has it rough too. He is capable of much more than just being charming. He just needs to figure out what he wants.

Back at home, Francesca throws herself down on a sofa in the living area and blows a few flyaway strands of hair off her face. “That was kinda fun,” she muses.

Elio looks at her like she just grew another head. “Glad someone enjoyed themselves.”

“You hated it? But you were great!”

He pours himself a whiskey and leans against the wall facing her. “Enjoyment isn’t guaranteed just because you’re good at something,’ he takes a sip and pauses. “Only sometimes. Thank fuck I love eating pussy though because I’m a fuckin’ champion at it.” He winks at her and she rolls her eyes.

“Received lots of feedback, have you?” Francesca mutters and then snaps, “Thanks for offering me a drink by the way.”

It looks like this conversation is going to descend into warfare and I’m not keen to stick around to referee. Especially not if Elio manages to charm her into makeup sex.

“You could have asked,” he doesn’t take the bait. “Anyway, I’m heading out. You can stay here I guess. Or ask G to take you home?”

He’s a fuckin’ moron. How can such a smart guy be so stupid? He’s obviously struggling because I don’t like to think he would be so unnecessarily rude to a young woman who is essentially being forced to marry him. Maybe I am giving him too much credit though.

Francesca’s face is a picture of shock. Seeing her hurt gives me a pang in my gut. She doesn’t deserve this. He’s dismissive as if she is some clingy girl he banged and now wants to get rid of.

“Why are you like this?” she whispers. “Would it hurt you to treat me with some respect?”

He rolls his eyes and I can’t bite my tongue any longer, “Elio! For fucksake, man.”

It’s a miracle his crystal whiskey tumbler doesn’t shatter as he necks the last of his drink and slams it onto the kitchen countertop. His dress shoes clack across the wooden floor as he strides with purpose towards the stairs to the garage and without so much as a backward glance calls “later” over his shoulder.

“I don’t want to marry him,” Francesca looks right into my fucking soul with those Bambi eyes. A tear trickles down her cheek and her pain rockets through me as if it is my own.

“I know,bella.Let’s have a drink; what do you want?” I soothe her.

“Red, please.”