Chapter 22 Chapter 22
Damon’s POV
My grandfather looked at her. His expression had softened considerably. "Of course. You should rest. Don't let that fool upset you."
He was worried about her. About the baby.
The housekeeper appeared. "I'll show you to one of the guest rooms, ma'am."
Scarlett followed her out.
Once she was gone, my grandfather leaned back in his chair. "Don't bother with him. He's young. Stupid. Let him tire himself out."
"He's twenty-seven," I said flatly. "Still acting like a child? What is he, a man-baby?"
My grandfather's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Your uncle's family naturally has resentment. You got the entire family business. They got nothing."
I wanted to argue. To point out that I'd earned my position. That I'd built the empire while Rocco partied and wasted money.
But I didn't.
Because my grandfather was right. In a way.
Yes, I'd earned my place through skill and hard work. But it was also true that my grandfather had given me opportunities he'd never given Dominic's family.
The old man looked down on me. Called me a bastard. Reminded me constantly that I didn't truly belong.
But when it came to the business? To the money and power? He'd chosen me over his legitimate son and grandson.
I'd always known that created resentment. Created anger. Created enemies within my own family.
I just hadn't realized how far they'd go. Hiring assassins. Actually trying to kill me.
Outside, Rocco was still screaming.
"Damon! You coward! Come out here and face me!"
I ignored him. Took another bite of beef.
"I'll get you for this! You can't hide behind grandfather forever!"
More cursing. More insults.
Even my grandfather was starting to look uncomfortable. His fingers drummed on the table. His jaw tight.
Then we heard it. A loud CRASH.
Followed by Rocco's scream. "What the— Who the fuck just threw that pot down here? Can't you see I'm standing in the goddamn courtyard?"
Another crash. Pottery shattering.
"What the hell?" Another crash. "Damon? Is that you, you bastard? Attacking from behind like a coward?"
I pressed my lips together. Tried not to smile.
More crashes. More cursing.
"You fucking bastard! I'll kill you! I swear to God!"
The sound of running footsteps. Car doors slamming. An engine roaring to life.
Then silence.
My grandfather looked at the window. Then at me. "Was that you?"
"No."
"Then who—"
We both knew.
Scarlett.
A smile tugged at my mouth. I couldn't help it.
She'd thrown flowerpots at Rocco. Multiple flowerpots. From an upstairs window. While he stood in the courtyard cursing and threatening.
My wife had just assaulted my cousin with gardening supplies.
And I'd never been more attracted to anyone in my entire life.
"That girl," my grandfather said slowly. "She's got spirit."
"Yes."
"Sharp tongue. No fear. Willing to fight."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he picked up his wine glass. Took a long sip.
"She'll fit in just fine with this family."
Coming from him, that was practically a blessing.
Scarlett's POV
I stood on the rooftop terrace, looking down at the shattered pieces of ceramic in the courtyard below.
The expensive planters I'd thrown at Rocco were scattered across the stone pavement. Broken into dozens of pieces. Some were powder. Some were large chunks.
The anger in my chest had cooled. Not completely gone, but manageable now.
I picked up the last decorative planter I'd been about to throw. It was heavy. Beautiful. I set it back down carefully. No point destroying more property than necessary.
The housekeeper appeared at the terrace door. She was wringing her hands nervously.
"Mrs. Wolfe, I saw what happened. Should I call someone to clean up the courtyard?"
I pulled out my wallet. Took out several twenty dollar bills. Handed them to her.
"Yes, please clean it up. I'm sorry about the mess."
She looked at the money in surprise. "Oh, you don't need to—"
"Please. Take it. And thank you."
She nodded and hurried away.
I stayed on the terrace for another minute. Taking deep breaths. Letting the cool evening air calm me down.
Rocco had called Damon a bastard. Multiple times. He'd screamed insults about Damon's dead mother. Called her a whore. Said disgusting things about why Damon existed.
And all I could think about was my baby.
Would people call my baby those same names? Would they look at my child the way they looked at Damon? With contempt and judgment?
Over my dead body.
Rocco could insult me all he wanted. I didn't care. I'd heard worse. I'd survived worse.
But nobody was going to talk about my child like that. Nobody.
So I'd given him a warning. I smoothed down my clothes. Fixed my hair. Put on my calm.
I walked back into the dining room. The atmosphere was still tense. Grandfather Wolfe sat at the head of the table with a lit cigar. The smoke curled up toward the ceiling. Damon sat to his right, his face completely blank.
Neither of them said anything when I walked in.
I sat back down in my chair. Picked up my soup spoon. Continued eating my Italian wedding soup like nothing had happened.
The silence stretched out. Finally, I set down my spoon.
"I should probably apologize for the mess outside," I said. My voice was quiet but clear. "I broke some of your planters."
Grandfather's eyes moved to me. Sharp. Waiting.
I took a breath. "The large terracotta urn with the hand-painted Sicilian lemon motif. Eighteenth century, if I'm not mistaken. The pair of Tuscan olive jars with the verde glaze. And I think one of those blue and white Majolica pieces from Deruta."
I paused. Looked directly at Grandfather.
"I saw the craftsman's mark on one of the pieces before it hit Rocco. Museum quality. I'm really sorry about that."
I turned to Damon. "You should have someone replace them. Or send me the bill. I can pay you back."
I knew those antiques probably cost tens of thousands of dollars each. Maybe more.
Grandfather's expression changed. The hardness in his eyes softened slightly.
"Most people wouldn't notice the difference between a fifty dollar pot and a fifty thousand dollar antique," he said slowly. "You've got a good eye."
He leaned back in his chair. Studied me carefully.
"So, Miss Romano. Tell me about your family."
I could tell what he was doing. He was trying to figure out my connections. Which mafia family I belonged to. What kind of alliance this marriage represented.
I decided not to lie.