Page 7

The walls are stone, lined with old paintings of my ancestors, their eyes cold and judging, but they don't scare me. Red velvet curtains frame tall windows, sunlight barely sneaking in. The gloom suits the villa. We pass by the paintings and my eyes briefly lift to them. I wonder if they're proud of me, of the woman I've become. It's a trifling thought that disappears as quickly as it formed.
“Luis is sweet on you,” Aida teases, nudging me. She's always coming up with ridiculous theories.
“Oh?”My mouth forms.
She spares me a look. “Of course, he does. That’s why he’s been at your throat since you got back from Yale.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “I don’t give a shit. I hate their games and their guts. Always underestimating me and thinking they can get away with it every time.” Aida grins. I wonder if I've made a joke. She can be a little infuriating, but I’m fond of her anyway. “You love a challenge, Fina. Maybe that’s why he keeps trying.” Not willing to continue the conversation, I wave her off.
“Enough.”
She clamps her mouth shut.
We pass the armory. Its entrance door is open, and even without looking in, I can see the racks of guns gleaming behind glass. We move past the armory to the dining hall where a long mahogany table sits under a gold chandelier. It's where my father and I often have our meals since I finished from Yale.
The villa’s a maze, built and stocked appropriately for war, its every corner hiding secrets—hiding corpses—one of them being my mom. I shudder as the memory of the morning I'd gotten the call of her death threatens to assail me.
As we step out into the open, one of my father’s most trusted aides, Carlo, appears, his face grim.
“Serafina, your father wants you.”
I nod. “Thank you, Carlo.” I turn to Aida. “Study the notes and correspond with Luis and the team. I want to know if my plan is being carried out immediately. I want no time wasted.”
Aida nods. “Yes, Serafina.” She turns and walks away.
I head for the only place I know my father will be. The orchard. It’s at the back, rows of lemon trees heavy with fruit, their scent pungent in the air. I push a stray curl behind my ear.
True to my prediction, my father’s there. He's walking slowly, his gait lopsided as he leans on a carved ebony cane. His wheelchair is beside him. He'd rather brave a few walks than stay cooped in that wheelchair all day long.
I watch him.
Papa to me, Domenico to his associates, and the patriarch of the Rossi family to outsiders and his rivals. He is sixty-six, gray hair thinning, face lined deep. His suit’s a tailored navy blue. In the past , it'd be form-fitted. Now, it just hangs loose. It's a no-brainer that his sickness is eating him away. I remember him in his prime—fearless, gunning down rivals, his laugh booming. His eyes, though, still burn fierce. He's still that man, just caged in a weaker body.
My chest tightens seeing him like this, but I shove it down, striding over. He abhors pity anyway.
“Fina, mia cara,” he says when his gaze lands on me. His voice is warm, a bit shaky—a telltale sign of his cancer—and thick with his Italian accent. That's the first give away. My father's English is usually smooth. It only gets pronounced when something is eating away at him.
He cups my face, kissing my forehead. “Bella ragazza.” I smile, leaning into his touch. I want to rebuke him for ignoring his wheelchair, but he'll just shrug it off, so I keep quiet.
Although my father and I don't always see eye to eye on major issues, he loves me in his own quiet way. He shows it by trying to control every aspect of my life. Of course, I don't let him.
“How're you, Papa?” I ask, entwining his wrinkled hand in mine.
“Oh, fine,” he says shortly, but I catch a nerve twitching in his neck. Something is definitely wrong.
“Papa, what is it?” I ask, stepping back.
He chuckles, shaking his head. “You always know, don’t you, tesoro?” I shrug. I always know, because he has a tell.
His face turns serious, and he gestures to a bench under a tree. I herd him to it slowly. Carlo is hovering, but he doesn't interrupt us. We get to the bench and he lowers himself gently on it. I take a seat beside him. The wood creaks as he adjusts himself on it to face me.
“What is it, Papa?” I ask again. He sighs, gripping his cane.
“Fina, we got in trouble. It's your brother.” His voice is low, solemn.
I roll my eyes. Of course it's my brother at it again. “What did he do this time?”
He grimaces. “Riccardo hit a Mancini operation on the docks. It’s war now.”