Page 38 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Marcello

The Elysian is a Michelin-starred restaurant where reservations must be booked months in advance.

Its crimson-linen tablecloths exude elegance, the crystal glasses chime with every pour, and even the saltshakers resemble cherished heirlooms. The air smells of roasted garlic, fresh basil, and the kind of expensive wine I’d never touch, but recognize from years of watching men toast with it over deals.

It’s safe to say that restaurants like this aren’t exactly my first choice of places to eat.

But my mother loves coming here. Our housekeeper, Lourdes, is an excellent cook, though her expertise leans heavily toward Italian cuisine.

So we come to The Elysian on our weekly lunches, not only because it’s one of Mom’s favorite places to eat, but it also offers a different type of cuisine.

With my mother’s arm hooked through mine, we walk into the restaurant and pass the hostess without stopping, heading straight to our reserved table by the wide windows overlooking the street. I try not to groan as every head turns and conversations stall, replaced by not-so-subtle whispers.

I’d like to think they’re all staring because my mother exudes sophistication and embodies grace in her designer cream coat and dark sunglasses, whereas I’m clad entirely in black, as if I were perpetually ready for a funeral.

But that’s not it. We don’t need the name Romano stamped on our foreheads for people to know who we are and what that means.

I ignore their curious stares as I help my mother out of her coat and pull out her chair. The quiet gesture says ‘I’m not just her son, but someone who was raised right.’

“All eyes are on us as usual,” she murmurs with a tight-lipped smile, already halfway into her role. “Try not to scowl, darling. That will only give these vultures more to talk about,” she says, removing her sunglasses and setting them neatly next to the menu.

“I’m not scowling,” I reply. “This is just my face.”

“And what a pretty face it is.” She grins, stretching her arm to cradle my cheek in her palm. “Prettier still if it showed me a smile every once and a while.” As if on cue, I force a smile for her. “Not as sincere as I would have hoped, but I guess it will have to do.”

I can’t help but chuckle at the mischievous glint in her eyes, my mother’s grin widening at its sound.

“Better?”

“Much better.” She smiles from ear to ear just as the waiter approaches our table.

Happy to get a genuine grin out of me, Mom proceeds to place her order, and I follow suit.

“Will that be all, Mrs. Romano?” the waiter asks.

“Yes. Thank you,” she says with a gracious nod.

Once the waiter leaves, she turns to me, her tone shifting, and says, “You look troubled.”

“No more than usual, I hope,” I offer with a faint smile.

Her lips hold their curve, but it’s not for my benefit.

It’s for the clientele and the whispers that live in every corner.

We have an image to maintain. One that is supposed to fool the normals into believing that our family is as clean-cut as they are, not the criminal masterminds of the Chicago underworld.

“There’s something different about you lately. Something that is unsettling you.”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I add, sipping my water just to hide my face from her.

She watches me intently, as always, trying to dissect the truth out of me.

I never lie to my mother. Or at least, I try not to.

Aside from the monster that torments me daily, I’ve always done my best to be honest with her.

More so than with my father, Vincent, sometimes.

He understands the animal in me—the demon that needs to feed to keep me whole.

But sometimes I get the feeling that’s all he sees.

Not Mom. My mother still sees me. Her Marcello. She still looks at me with nothing but love in her eyes. Still sees the young boy who used to follow her everywhere like a shadow worshipping the sun.

Aside from my fathers, I’m probably her closest confidant.

Jude used to be that for her too, until resentment set in.

Being left out of the family business built a wall between them.

Thankfully, they’ve patched things up since, but now that Jude lives across the Atlantic, I’m positive they both feel like it’s just too far to fully restore what they once had.

I know it’s been a comfort to our mother, knowing she still has me and Annamaria to listen to her counsel. The twins have always leaned on each other, while Stella… well, Stella’s music plays in its own key.

Maybe that’s why Stella and I have always been close. Neither of us fits the mold. But where I like spending time with our mother, Stella tries to keep as much distance as she can. Especially now that Vincent has given her the green light to be inducted in a few months.

“I think I might know what’s been troubling you of late,” my mother starts, raising my hackles.

“It’s probably the same thing that’s kept me up at night these last few weeks.

You’re worried about Stella,” she says as if reading my thoughts, but misinterpreting them through the lens of her own worry.

“ Mammà, ” I reply, flicking my eyes from left to right to show her this is neither the place nor the time to discuss my sister’s omertà.

“Oh, give me some credit, Marcello. I was already a pro in the art of discretion long before you were even born,” she chastises, low enough for only me to hear.

“Now tell it to me straight,” she says, her emerald eyes fixed on mine.

“Do you think your sister is really equipped to handle the family business straight out of college?”

In other words, she’s asking me if there is any ammunition, even if only a sliver of doubt on my part, that she can use to get Vincent to change his mind.

“Stella is a natural businesswoman, Mom. She will far exceed any and all expectations Father has for her. You’ll see.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” She chews her lip.

The waiter arrives with our amuse-bouche in the meantime, while my mother takes a large sip of her Cheval Blanc before even looking at her food.

“So,” my mother says after a long pause. “Aside from work and the gym, what have you been up to lately?”

“Not much,” I say, thankful she decided to change gears and leave Stella out of our conversation.

“You’re being vague. That’s unlike you.” She hums, unconvinced. “Which means… there’s a woman in the mix.” Her eyes instantly light up.

Of course, she’d assume that. My mother’s been trying to marry me since I turned twenty a couple of years ago.

She’s never liked the idea of me going through life without someone by my side.

Without even a close friend to lean on. If only she knew the truth about how I’ve never had a minute to myself since I was a prepubescent kid.

“There’s no woman, Mom,” I retort, spearing the smoked salmon macaron in half, while the image of Izzie’s pink cheeks and swollen lips flashes before my eyes.

“Why don’t I believe you?” She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Because you’re naturally suspicious like the rest of our family.” I shove the rest of the macaron into my mouth.

“That might be true, but I can always tell when any of my children have met someone who has caught their eye.”

“I very much doubt that,” I mumble, pouring a bit of wine into my empty glass and downing it in one go.

“Oh, I can guarantee it. You all have your tells when you’ve become smitten with someone.” She grins while tapping her nail on the empty wine glass as if trying to prove her point. “You never drink, Marcello.”

“Maybe I’m trying to pick up a new hobby.”

“Or maybe this woman, whoever she is, has made a bigger impression on you than you’re willing to admit. Or at least, admit to me.”

Jesus fucking Christ. We’re still in the amuse-bouche portion of our meal. If this line of interrogation is how my mother intends to spend the remainder of our lunch, I’m fucked.

“So,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “When do I get to meet this mysterious woman who’s captured my son’s attention?”

“Never,” I deadpan.

Her smile falters. “And why not? Are you embarrassed of your family? Of me?”

“No, Mammà, ” I quickly rectify, reaching over the table to squeeze her hand. “It’s just… well… not every woman a man gets involved with merits meeting their mother.”

She rolls her eyes exactly like Stella does whenever I’m full of shit.

“You know I’m not a fan of men sowing their wild oats,” she mutters disapprovingly. “I thought I raised you better than that. Women are to be respected, not collected like stamps or baseball cards. Of all my boys, I was sure you’d never act so cavalier toward women.”

She’s right. I’ve always treated every woman in my life with the utmost respect. Though to be fair, the only women I even allowed into my life were my mother and sisters. Everyone else I kept at arm’s length. A trait not all my brothers shared.

I was too young to really know the details about Jude’s dating life before he fled to London.

Still, I did hear he had broken a heart or two in school before heading off to college in England.

As for the twins… Well, before Lucky fell head over heels for Frankie, he was kind of a player.

And Enzo—pre-Alejandro—never said no to a good time, no matter who was offering.

“How about this?” I start, needing to tranquilize my mother’s concern. “If it gets serious, I promise you’ll be the first person I introduce her to.” I know it’s a blatant lie, but it does the trick of erasing that frown on her face.

Izzie is never meeting my mother. Not only because she’s a federal agent, but also because I actually meant what I said.

The only way my mother would ever meet a girlfriend of mine would be if I honestly saw a future with her.

And since neither love, marriage, nor family is in the cards for me, this whole conversation is a moot point.