John + Siena: The Complete Duet Read online

  No, this was about John’s family.

  Other than Andino Marcello, Siena didn’t really know any of John’s family. Some of them by face or name, sure, because of her own family or things she had seen on the news over the years. That didn’t mean she knew them on a personal level.

  Not who they were beyond the last name. Not what they thought of her. She didn’t know anything about the Marcellos. Nothing at all.

  It made her so anxious, she was damn near ready to puke. And wouldn’t that just be fucking fantastic to add to her problems. She could go to service smelling like a vomit factory, and two steps away from spilling what was left of her breakfast on a pew, or something.

  Maybe she was being a little dramatic, but Siena figured it was better for her to prepare for the worst. Then, she wouldn’t be all that shocked or disappointed if that was exactly what happened to her.

  Her luck, it would.

  The ding of a text on her phone drew her attention away from the dresses on her bed. She grabbed the device, and swiped at the touchscreen. A message from John rolled across the screen, and made her anxiousness pick up a bit.

  A lot.

  What was wrong with her?

  Be there in twenty, his message read.

  Siena let out a low breath, and tossed the phone aside. She put her hands to her hips, and eyed the dresses once more. She didn’t have a choice but to pick a damn dress and get ready right now—John was nearly there.

  At least her hair and makeup were done. That was one less thing to worry about. You know, on top of the mountain of other things she was already worrying about.

  Fuck her life.

  The knock on her apartment door sent Siena’s heart jumping in her throat. For a whole three seconds, she thought she had dazed out staring at the clothing, and lost time. Like that might have been John coming to pick her up, or something.

  She quickly realized that wasn’t the case when her mother’s muffled voice carried through her apartment.

  “Siena, I let myself in, darling.”

  Why was her mother here?

  “In the bedroom, Ma,” she called back.

  Soon enough, Coraline was standing in the doorway of Siena’s bedroom, and surveying the dresses on the bed. She acted like it was totally normal for her to be there, and not at all like she actually barely visited her daughter’s apartment to begin with.

  “Did you or Dad need something?” Siena asked.

  “No,” her mother replied. “I came to help you.”

  “For what?”

  Coraline smiled widely, and gestured at the dresses. “To get ready for church, Siena.”

  Siena felt like she had swallowed a fly. “I know how to dress myself.”

  “Of course, you do.”

  So, why did it sound like her mother was patronizing her?

  “It might not seem like a big deal to attend services with a family like the Marcellos, but I can promise you that it is,” Coraline added.

  She had not told her parents that she wouldn’t be attending services with them that morning. She simply said something else had come up.

  Sure, she had thought it was a little strange when her father didn’t question her on it. Attending church was non-negotiable in their family, after all. She let it go and didn’t press her father, thankful for one less argument.

  “How did you know I was going to church with John this morning, Ma?”

  Coraline stepped closer to the dresses, and looked them over. “At least you didn’t pick anything black.”

  “Who wears black to church unless it’s a funeral?”

  “Siena, you would be surprised.”

  “I know black is a no, Ma.”

  “Good,” her mother replied with a smile. “Also, the red one is a no. Catrina Marcello, the wife of the boss, prefers red. It’s never respectable to show up in the same color as her, and since you never know if she’s going to be wearing red or not, simply don’t ever wear it at all.”

  Huh.

  Siena blinked. “Ma.”

  “Yes?” Coraline moved to the white dress. “This one is nice—you have a pair of Valentinos that match the color, too.”

  “Ma, did John mention to Dad that he was taking me to church this weekend?”

  “Siena, focus on the dresses. I know what time their Mass starts. You do not have time to be messing around with silly conversations.”

  Her mother was right.

  Siena put her attention where it needed to be.

  The white dress it was.

  John looked good in anything. Of course, he did. But a well-fitted suit, on an early February morning, grinning like he didn’t have a care in the world, and looking at Siena? She thought he looked the best like that.

  He brought their connected hands up from his side. Tucking her hand into his elbow, she was brought even closer to him while they climbed the stairs to the entrance of the cathedral-style church.

  The gathering people at the top of the stairs couldn’t seem to drag their gawking eyes away from the two. It was a little disconcerting.

  “Ignore them,” John said like he could read her mind. “Marcellos always seem to draw attention when it comes to church. Half of the parishioners think we shouldn’t be allowed to attend, considering who we are, and the other half just like a good soap opera.”

  Siena swallowed her nerves. “Huh.”

  Then, the people parted, and several men came down the steps. One, she recognized. Andino. The others, she thought she knew, but wasn’t comfortable enough to say. They met them half way up the stairs.

  “John,” the man standing beside Andino greeted. “Good to see you this morning.”

  “Uncle Gio,” John greeted.

  The oldest man—his face weathered with age—smiled at them both. “You don’t come to church nearly enough, Johnathan.”

  “I’ll rectify that, Grandpapa.”

  Antony, Siena realized.

  The oldest Marcello. A man she had only heard people whisper about, or spoken with great respect in their voices.

  “Where’s my mother and father?” John asked.

  “Inside,” Andino said.

  John gave a little laugh under his breath, and his gaze darted somewhere higher on the stairs. At the people gathered, maybe. “What, he couldn’t come out and greet me or something?”

  “You didn’t really give him a choice about this,” Gio said, his gaze darting to Siena. “You simply said this would be happening, and he had to make a choice.”

  “So, his choice is to make me walk into church alone?”

  “You’re not alone,” Andino jumped in. “We’re all here.”

  “Yes, but my father isn’t.” John shook his head, adding, “And neither is Dante—the boss. So, not only did my father shun my choice, so has the family’s head. Someone could have given me a little warning about that, couldn’t they?”

  Siena felt like she had missed something important. Like maybe the traditions and customs in the Marcello family were a lot deeper than anyone actually knew. Surface appearances seemed to be important, but it went far beyond that, too.

  The hurt in John’s gaze—though he hid it everywhere else—was evident to her. Something about this hurt him, and she didn’t like that.

  Not at all.

  “It’s like deja vu all over again,” Antony murmured.

  Everyone looked to the man. All of them wore masks of confusion. The older man simply chuckled at the attention turning on him.

  “Oh, I get it,” Gio said, grinning a bit.

  “What is so fucking amusing about this?” John snapped.

  All eyes flew back to him.

  He was so up and down lately. One minute, he was light, carefree, and happy. The next, he snapped at somebody or at something.

  Never at her, though.

  “I just meant,” Antony said calmly, “that there was a time once when your father stood on these steps with a woman whom he too made a choice about, and this same thing happen
ed to him. He took my lack of presence out here to greet him as a sign of my disapproval, and rejection. It was neither of those—I was being cautious, and had something else to deal with.”

  “Does he?” John asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Have something else to deal with, Grandpapa?”

  Antony smiled slightly, and his gaze drifted in Siena’s direction before going back to his grandson. “We all have things to deal with at the moment. It’s a part of being a Marcello, John. You shouldn’t forget that, regardless of other things in your head or heart.”

  Gio cleared his throat. “We’re going inside. Do you want to walk in with us, or not?”

  The three men waited.

  John sneered. “Nah, I’m good.”

  That was that.

  Andino gave John a nod as the older two Marcellos turned and headed back up the stairs. Gio kept a hand on Antony’s arm as the two navigated the icy parts. Andino stayed behind them both, and a couple of paces back.

  “What was that about?” Siena dared to ask.

  John shook his head, and gave her a smile. “Nothing, bella. Don’t worry about it.”

  She didn’t think it was nothing.

  “Do they not want me here?”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “Bad blood,” John murmured. “It’s always been that way, and it’s probably not going to change.”

  “You mean—”

  “You’re a Calabrese. I’m a Marcello. The history between those two names in this city is enough to make any man in my family cautious.”

  “Cautious,” she echoed.

  “Yeah, love.”

  “About me.”

  John coughed, and squeezed her hand tucked into his elbow. “Like I said, don’t fucking worry about it. We’re doing us, not them.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I did what I did, and here you are,” John said, giving her a look with hazel eyes that stopped her words, heart, and breath for a split second. “Now, come on. God doesn’t like people to be late to Mass. Or, that’s what everyone told me growing up. Apparently, He fucking takes attendance like it makes a difference or something.”

  Siena laughed.

  What else could she do?

  “It’s inviting them in,” someone growled. “That’s what this does, or at the very least, gives them the idea that’s what we’re doing.”

  “That’s not necessarily—”

  “The idea of it can be just as fucking dangerous, Lucian.”

  “Everyone knows that isn’t his intention.”

  Andino’s voice added reason to a conversation that only seemed to be growing louder the closer John and Siena came to the dining room of the large Marcello estate. A mansion that rested on six acres of land in Tuxedo Park, and belonged to his grandparents. Or, that’s what he explained to her during Sunday service.

  “The intention doesn’t have to be known,” the first man said again. “That’s where the problem is, and we all know it. An idea is more than enough. I do not want even the suggestion that our home or lives are open to them. Not even her.”

  “Do you think I want them in my life, Dante?”

  “He’s your son, Lucian, so you tell me.”

  John’s suddenly stiff posture straightened impossibly more at Siena’s side. Yet, she kept holding his hand because for no particular reason, she thought it might ground him to her. His stress was obvious enough, and he didn’t need more added on just because of her.

  The two rounded the last corner of a long hallway, and came to stand in the entryway of a massive dining room. A chandelier the size of a small car hung from a vaulted ceiling overtop a table that was so big, it looked like it could fit three families in every seat.

  Standing around the table, glaring at one another, or staring at the shiny oak top were several men. The same ones who greeted them outside the church, but also, the ones John had introduced her to after the services.

  His uncles—Gio and Dante.

  Gio’s son, Andino.

  His grandfather, Antony.

  And his father, Lucian.

  Another man sat in the corner nursing what looked to be a glass of bourbon. Siena did recognize him, although he hadn’t been at the church, and he definitely wasn’t a Marcello. He did come from a family like theirs, though.

  Cross Donati.

  Like the Marcellos, Cross’s family occasionally did business at arm’s length with Siena’s brothers. That was the only reason why she recognized his face. That was about all she knew regarding him.

  Her introductions to John’s family after Sunday services had been, at best, tense and short. Even his aunts, cousins, and mother had made sure to keep the conversation to the point, and respectful.

  Nothing they did made her feel out of place or unwelcome at the church. At the same time, she didn’t particularly feel their friendliness or care, either. They would smile at her, but it was guarded. They shook her hand, but little else.

  Still, she could tell …

  She didn’t need to be told.

  Siena was not a stupid girl.

  None of these people trusted her.

  All because of her last name.

  At the sight of the two of them standing in the entryway, the conversation between the Marcello men silenced damn near instantly.

  John laughed darkly. “Now, isn’t that the kind of conversation we reserve for a weekday, and not in the dining room where any-fucking-body can hear it?”

  Dante—who Siena now knew was the man heading the Marcello family—gave John a look, and it clearly voiced his displeasure without him needing to. “I can discuss issues with my family wherever I want to, Johnathan. You are quite aware of that.”

  “Except when anybody else does it on a Sunday, you’re quick to shut them up.”

  “This isn’t business. This is family.”

  “John,” Lucian said, taking a step closer to his son. “Maybe we should go upstairs, and have a chat for a minute before dinner is served.”

  John shook his head, and tipped his head in Siena’s direction. “No, I have a guest, so I’m going to settle her in. It’s what a gentleman does. We don’t leave anyone out to the wolves, right?”

  At that statement, Dante stiffened.

  “You think we would—”

  “I think nothing at the moment,” John interjected.

  “Don’t interrupt me, Johnathan. I am your—”

  “Son,” Antony murmured, his voice cracking a bit, “let him take the girl in, and have her meet Cecelia.”

  Antony’s old gaze turned on Siena. “She had to help at the church after services, and so she didn’t get to meet you properly, young lady. She would really like to say hello.”

  “Thank you,” Siena said.

  At her soft reply, the defensive postures in the room lessened a bit. John seemed to take that as their cue to get the hell out of the room.

  Once the dining room was behind them, the conversation started up again. Although this time, it was a little bit quieter.

  “She’s just a woman,” Andino said. “Did you hear her talk? She heard you insulting her, and she still spoke like a little mouse. How in the hell is she going to do anything to us?”

  “It’s not her,” Dante said sharply, “it’s where she comes from.”

  “I’m sorry,” John murmured.

  Siena shrugged. “They’re probably right.”

  Who the hell knew?

  Cecelia Marcello—with her dark hair snaked with tendrils of white, and kind eyes—shooed anyone in her kitchen out with a single whistle. All she had to do was see John and Siena standing in the entryway, and she made everyone else leave.

  Johnathan’s mother gave her son a quick smile, and a pat to his cheek as she passed him by. Her gaze barely drifted over Siena at all.

  The rest of them followed the same suit.

  She wasn’t even offended, now.

  “Grandmamma,” John
said, grinning wide, “what are you cooking?”

  “Everything,” Cecelia said, just as happy. Her soft eyes turned on Siena. “And you must be this Siena I keep hearing about.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope,” she joked.

  Everything was bad, she knew.

  Cecelia let out a quiet laugh, and waved a hand. “It’s a little awkward right now, Siena, but those are only details. You have to give these Marcello men a little room to figure out their nonsense. But me, on the other hand, is another story.”

  Already, Siena liked this woman with her wise words and her kind offerings.

  Cecelia gestured at the dough in front of her. “Do you cook?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, come cook. I talk best when I cook, Siena.”

  “Watch yourself, love,” John warned her. “Cecelia is a well-known tyrant in the kitchen.”

  Cecelia didn’t even deny it. “And yet, you all come back every Sunday for more.”

  Careful conversation flowed at the Marcello dinner table. Siena couldn’t help but notice how everyone made a great effort not to discuss anything too personal or behind the scenes when it came to their family. If someone did accidentally say something of that nature, Dante Marcello’s gaze would dart in Siena’s direction, and the topic would change.

  She tried not to be offended.

  She didn’t want to take it personally.

  It still stung a little.

  John kept one hand on her leg under the table while at the same time, discussing the upcoming opening of a new restaurant with Andino at his left.

  Across the table, Lucian Marcello’s gaze continued to drift between Siena, and his son. Lucian, maybe even more than Dante, was the most intimidating to Siena. Where the others were loud and talked, he was still and quiet. His presence felt imposing. His words—when he did speak—were careful and delivered with a flat tone.

  She didn’t know what to make of him at all.

  “You work with your brothers and father, don’t you?” Lucian asked.

  John’s fingers squeezed Siena’s thigh at his father’s question. She, too, was surprised Lucian had engaged her outright in conversation. He hadn’t done that yet, except to say hello earlier. Very little else.

  Siena answered quickly. “I do.”