Page 50 of Cruelest Contract (Storm’s Eye Ranch)

JULIAN

T he sun is inching toward the horizon when the plane touches down at the regional airpark about twenty miles from the Grimaldis’ vineyard.

Cecilia has been quiet on the flight. At first I wondered if she was preoccupied by memories of the last time she was on our family jet. She rubs at her bad knee often and leans to the right every few minutes to peer out the window. More than once she toys with the Gemini charm around her neck.

When I touch her hand, she jumps. It’s like she was so lost in her thoughts that she forgot I’m sitting next to her. But then her fingers relax and I bring her palm to my lips for a comforting kiss.

Cecilia seemed pleased when I suggested the trip after returning from Sicily last week. She’s desperate to see her twin brother. Still, a return to the family estate and the scene of her parents’ murder is bound to stir up some conflicting emotions.

As for Gabriel, I’ve kept my thoughts about him to myself.

In my book, he’s still a gutless sack of shit.

He was even too much of a wimp to stand up to his grandfather and travel to his sister’s wedding.

But of all the Grimaldis, he’s the least threatening.

If I can put up with spending a week in the seething company of Matthias Grimaldi, dealing with Gabriel for a day or two should be a piece of cake.

Both Gabriel and Angelo are waiting for us at the terminal when we land. Angelo, unrepentant fucker that he is, barely says hello to his sister.

Gabe, on the other hand, hugs his twin with enthusiasm as they are reunited. The smile he gives Cecilia appears to be genuine. But when his focus shifts to me he’s not quick enough to mask a glare of resentment with a polite nod.

No wonder he’s feeling a little testy. It must suck to live with the fact that his cowardly failures are responsible for sending his sister into my arms.

Tough shit. That’s his fucking cross to bear. Cecilia is my wife now and she’s much better off with me than she would have been as a prop in old man Grimaldi’s plans.

Unless Gabe gives me a reason to react, I’ll hold my tongue. Cecilia is clearly happy. To keep that smile on her face, I can tolerate some side eye and attitude from the Grimaldi boys for twenty-four hours.

Two of the most trusted members of Sonny’s team traveled with us. On my orders, they remain quietly in the background. As soon as we arrive at the Grimaldi estate, I send them on a mission to inspect on-site security, figuring that will keep them busy for a while.

Benvolio Grimaldi chose not to relocate after the wedding massacre.

He must have had his reasons. But even at first glance it’s clear he can’t maintain the place.

The vineyard itself looks unkempt and half dead.

The rest of the grounds are overgrown and weed-choked.

Bullet holes are still visible on the back patio.

Even the enormous villa is in bad shape.

Most of it is completely closed off and boarded up.

I’ve already spotted water damage on the ceiling of the dining room and there’s a vague but persistent odor that clings to every room.

Fusty and stale, as if it rots from the inside.

I’d place a bet that there’s a serious mold problem.

From what I’ve seen of the foot soldiers who still wander around the place, all are past their prime and in sorry physical shape.

But it’s a tossup which is more decrepit; the rotting estate or Benvolio Grimaldi himself. Hard to believe that Cecilia’s grandfather once reigned at the top of the west coast underworld pecking order.

A year after the wedding massacre, he suffered a stroke. Now his cheeks are hollowed out and the skin sags on his face. Beady, feverish eyes blaze out of his hairless skull and he creaks his way around in a motorized wheelchair.

Ordinarily, I would have felt sorry for Grimaldi. Instead, I just feel contempt bordering on hatred.

After all, this bastard would have given Cecilia to that gross pervert Mancini without a second thought. And I can plainly see how there’s not a trace of affection when his gaze lands on his granddaughter.

Thankfully, Cecilia pays no attention to her grandfather’s disdain. She stays close to Gabe and keeps smiling.

“Look at what I’m wearing,” she says as we all sink into creaky chairs at the heavily chipped, unpolished dining room table. She holds up her necklace.

Across from us, Gabriel blinks bloodshot eyes and stares at his sister.

He’s pale and lanky with sunken cheeks. His movements are twitchy.

Even without the investigative reports to back up my suspicions, I’d clock him as a man with more than one vice.

When he’s not drinking, he’s snorting something up his nose or dabbling with needles.

Any money that lands in his pocket is quickly gambled away.

He’s not a natural fighter but between his drunken swaggering and the weight of his grandfather’s expectations, he’s led in foolish, volatile directions.

Frankly, it’s difficult to imagine a man less suited to Mafia leadership.

However, when Gabe gives my wife an affectionate smile, I try to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“I remember giving you that,” he says with pride. “I saved my allowance for a month.”

“I still wear it often.” Cecilia carefully tucks the necklace back into her shirt. “Oh, I haven’t told you yet but I’ve actually been horseback riding. Well, sort of.” She giggles. “I climbed into the saddle and slow walked around the corral but I’m calling it a win anyway.”

“Is that right?” Gabe says and pours himself a glass of wine.

“The horse was a wedding present from Julian.” She touches my arm, attempting to draw me into the conversation. “He wanted me to feel at home on the ranch.”

“Huh,” mutters Gabe and downs his glass of wine. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gloomily stares at the empty fireplace to his right.

Angelo sits beside his brother and dicks around with a video game on his phone in between shoveling forkfuls of rubbery lasagna into his mouth. Good thing no one misses his sparkling conversation.

“Something wrong with your food, Tempesta?” Grimaldi fires from the head of the table. Though his body has withered with age and the stroke damage, his voice remains shrill and imperious.

“No sir,” I say and hack off a shallow bite from the lasagna lump on my plate.

Whoever is doing the cooking around here doesn’t have Enzo’s skills. Or any skills. This shit tastes like it came from the frozen food aisle and then was nuked in the microwave for too long.

I look up to find that Grimaldi is watching me with a scowl.

The old man’s mood is throwing me off. I’ve spent many years acquiring a finely tuned instinct for hostility.

Now I sense it coming from him. Common sense tells me to proceed with caution, although I’ve got no clue what’s got this fossil all bent out of shape.

Our family has been friendly with the Grimaldis since the old days when my grandfather was in charge. Now thanks to us, his dumbass grandson is still alive. Plus I’m doing my best to make his granddaughter happy.

So what’s his fucking problem? I mean, nobody needs to roll out the red carpet but some basic respect wouldn’t be too much.

This lasagna tastes like used shoelaces. Cecilia only took a tiny portion and it just gets pushed around her plate. She daintily sips the cheap red wine in her glass and wrinkles her nose in that cute way she has when she dislikes the taste of something.

Something happens to me whenever I look at my wife.

The breath stalls in my lungs and my pulse accelerates.

When I’m not with Cecilia, she’s constantly on my mind.

I hate letting her out of my sight. The need to protect her and keep her all to myself is ferocious but also laced with a feeling that’s painfully gentle.

“What’s your father up to these days?” Grimaldi asks. He slurps an uneven shard of shitty lasagna through his crinkly lips. The sauce stays on his mouth. “He sure doesn’t go out of his way to stay in touch.”

“My father sends his regards,” I reply. “The Grimaldis have always been important allies and he’s very pleased that we’re officially family.”

Yeah, I’m laying it on a little thick. Whatever. These are my in-laws now and I have to kiss ass a little.

Grimaldi grunts. “That wasn’t my damn question.”

“If you want more details on my father’s hobbies, give him a call.”

A spasm of pain causes Grimaldi’s face to contort. He twists in his chair. One of his minions was standing just outside the door and rushes to his side.

“Back the fuck off,” Grimaldi says through clenched teeth. The guy scampers away.

Angelo glances up from his phone and frowns. He’s subtle when he checks the weapon holstered at his side but I’m uneasy that the thought even crossed his mind at a family dinner.

The vibe in here is rapidly sending off my alarm signals. I’m armed but there’s Cecilia to consider. If tempers get high, she’s my priority. I’m starting to wish I’d kept our soldiers close.

Gabe sits tensely on the edge of his seat. He glances at his sister and then at their grandfather. I wouldn’t count on him for any help.

“Maybe we can talk business later,” I say, trying to placate the old man. “There should be some opportunities for our families to work together.”

Grimaldi’s stare is pure acid. “I’m not a dog. Keep that in mind when you try to throw me some scraps. It seems you Tempestas have forgotten your old friends now that you’re making new ones.”

So that’s how it is. Grimaldi has presided over the slow destruction of his own family and now he’s lashing out.

I don’t need my father’s input to know we’ll never trust the Grimaldis with anything serious.

In light of our history and our new connection we’d be willing to toss a few crumbs their way and that’s all.

Grimaldi would be wise not to piss all over our goodwill.