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I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white, but I don't notice until I'm almost veering off the road. I give a sudden start as I get the car back on course, but not without a car honking furiously behind me, muttering expletives in rapid Italian. I shout an apology as he speeds past me.
I sink back in my seat, my eyes trained on the road. Enzo's got me all muddled up from the inside out.
The heat in my blood is a traitor as my mind calls up memories of his hands on my skin, but I ruthlessly shut it down.
This morning, after I received the call from Aida, the news she delivered had fazed me, but it was Enzo seeing the effect it has on me that fazed me the more. I'd secretly wished he'd put up a protest to me coming to see Papa, given that they're enemies—even though they're in-laws. I'd secretly dared him to. I'd have lashed, and perhaps, that'd be a sort of respite from the shame I feel. But he'd been understanding, pathetic, even, and it grated my nerves. I don't want his sympathy. I want nothing from him.
Nothing at all?The voice in my head taunts. I ignore it.
I firmly put him out of my mind and concentrate on the dread I feel in my chest. Aida’s call keeps echoing in my head as she'd informed me of Papa's illness. She didn’t say how bad, but it was bad enough that her fear had shine through her tone. The tone she'd used is the kind that makes my stomach twist into knots. It's the same tone that'd been used to deliver my mother's death those years ago, only Papa had been the one delivering it.
Perhaps, the call from Aida is a lie. Maybe he's already dead and she'd told me something else so I wouldn't panic. If Papa dies, his enemies are going to wage a war I don't think we can stand yet. I should be mad at him, still, for pawning me off to Enzo, but I can't quite muster up the anger that had driven me on that wedding day. I need to see him. I need to know he’s still here.
The villa’s gates rise ahead, iron and unyielding, set into stone walls that have guarded our secrets for generations. Secrets that rule us, mold us. I pull in, expertly maneuvering the car toward the driveway. A memory of the first time I'd driven a car after I got back from the US resurfaces. Papa had refused for me to drive alone without protection. He'd only later given in because I'd stood my ground with him.
It hits me then that Papa has always been all about protecting me, whether it was him hiring guards to protect me during my American days, or even after u got back when he was convinced he couldn't protect me and had employed a guard, until I reassured him I could hold my own. In his own way, he loves me, even if he's too bullheaded to show me. Likewise, how he must trust Enzo, even if faintly, to protect me.
The guards nod stiffly as I pull up to the driveway, their eyes not revealing a hint of agitation. They must not know about Papa's severe illness. If they do, their emotions will betray them. Papa's frail health must not get out to the public, it'd provide an opening for his enemies to attack. We need to be well fortified before that can happen. It's why he's been treated here in the villa, instead of going to a hospital. We have to avoid bloodthirsty press at all cost.
I park by the fountain, its marble angels staring at me like they know my shame, my fears. I step out, my heels biting into the cobblestone. The humid air hits me first. The air’s thick with jasmine and lemon, a scent that used to mean home but now feels like a weight pressing down on me. My black tank top clings to me as sweat drenches my body.
In that instant, Carlo morphs into shape beside me, a tight smile on his face. Relief courses through me at seeing him. His presence is a reassurance that Papa is still here.
“Welcome, Signora,” he says and his voice is less tight… as if he's glad to see me.
“Bon Pemerrigio, Carlo,” I nod to him. “Dov’è il Papà?”
È nel suo studio,” he says, pointing towards the direction of his study.
I follow in his steps as he walks ahead of me, leading me to where Papa is. Inside, the villa’s gloom wraps around me like a shroud. I carefully avoid the old paintings of my ancestors lined against the wall, their gazes cold and a tad judgemental. I wonder if they see through my outer, tougher shell.
Red velvet curtains frame the tall windows, letting in slivers of light that barely touch the shadows. My heels echo in the silence as we come around the dining hall. I see Aida’s dark hair bent first before I see the entirety of her. She's been waiting for my arrival. Her dark curls are a mess like she'd been fussing over it.
The moment she sees me, brightness springs into her eyes. She’s in her usual blazer, the one she wears when we’re deep in business over where next to move money to. I wonder if this is somehow business. Her hands flutter as she rushes over, grabbing my arm.
“Fina, you’re here, thank God,” she says, her voice dripping with drama, like I’m some savior she’s been praying for. It grates on my nerves, especially now, when I’m already raw from the news of Papa's failing health, but I let her cling to me. She’s my ally, and I've honestly missed her. I miss her animated talks, her endless chatter. So I let her squeeze me in a hug until I start to feel squirmish.
“Enough, Aida,” I say, pulling my arm free, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. She steps back, her face falling at my gentle rebuke, but I don’t have time to soothe her. “Papa’s in his study, sì?” I ask, my voice now. She nods.
She casts a furtive glance at Carlo before she says, “it’s bad, Fina.” Her voice breaks, and my heart stumbles in my chest.
“No drama, Aida,” I tsk at her as I make my way to Papa's study. Carlo stays behind, letting me pass.
The study door’s ajar, and I push it open. The first thing that hits me is the sharp sting of antiseptic. It hits me hard, and I scrunch up my nose. Papa’s there, slumped in his leather chair. I almost don't recognize the man on the chair. He doesn't look like the Papa I know. He looks like a ghost of the man he used to be. His signature navy suit hangs off him—a failed attempt to look less sickly—his gray hair thin and patchy, and tubes run from his arm to an IV stand, dripping slowly and steady. His skin’s sallow, his cheeks sunken, and his breathing’s so shallow I can barely hear it over the pounding in my ears.
Domenico Rossi, the man who built an empire on blood and steel has been reduced to this. He's fading, teetering on the edge of death, and I can’t breathe around the ache in my chest.
“Papa,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I drop to my knees beside him. I take his hand. It’s cold, too cold, and I swallow the sob clawing up my throat. The last time I cried was during the death of my mother. I refuse to cry now. That'll mean his death is already an assurance. Besides, I'm not one to give in to hysteria.
His eyes open, those green eyes I got from him, but they’re dull now, clouded with pain and something worse, something that looks final. “Fina, mia cara,” he says, his voice a shaky whisper, thick with his Italian accent, and it takes everything in him to speak.
I hold his hand tighter, my fingers trembling. I quell the fear snaking up my spine. He's here. He'll live. Without him, I don't know if the Rossi empire will stand for much longer. I'm only one person against all the conniving intents of his enemies. “I'm here, Papa,” I whisper to him.
I hear the sound of feet. I don't need to look to know who it is. He smells the same: spice and must. In my haste, I hadn't given it a thought that he'd be here. It's a little relieving to know that he's been here with Papa this whole time. He steps into the room behind me. I don’t turn to look at him. Not yet. I have a lot to say, first starting with demanding an apology from him for making me take the fall for the failed ambush on Enzo.
But I stay quiet. He's here, I'm here. We're together, staying by Papa’s side, but I know this moment of quiet won’t hold. Riccardo’s never been good at keeping the peace, and I’m not sure I am either, not with everything breaking apart around us.
Riccardo’s boots scrape the floor as he moves closer, his shadow stretching across Papa’s chair. I keep my eyes on Papa, on the slow rise and fall of his chest, but I can feel Riccardo’s resentment burning into me, a heat I’ve known forever, one I'm already accustomed to.