Page 17 of Cursebound
He hates the fact that I don’t live here with them and regularly tries to bully me into moving in. He cites the loss of my parents and siblings as a good reason to be under his protection—and for protection, read “thumb.”
“Your mama and papa wanted to be independent too, Rosa,” he’ll say. “And look where that got them—dead, and your poor sisters gone as well.” Yeah, he’s a real sensitive guy, my grandfather.
Some Makers are creative, others analytical and practical, but as the name implies, they are all hyper-productive. Only instead of art or inventions, Tomasso has made one thing: money. Which tells you everything you need to know about him.
Truth is I’d have to be dead myself to live anywhere close to him. I would prefer a different city, but Chicago is my home, and he will not take that from me. The house where my family burned is long gone, destroyed in the same blaze, but at least I get to visit the street. To remember them. To look at the family who lives in the home that was rebuilt there and enjoy the sight of their children playing in the front yard the same way Serena and I used to.
I stay in Chicago for that and many other reasons, and I avoid Tomasso whenever possible. He is the only man who has ever hit me—not counting vamps in a fight, of course.
My parents were both Healers, gentle souls full of compassion. It’s a miracle they managed to stay that way living in his orbit.
Tomasso is the opposite. He is stern and domineering, and he thinks everyone should dance to his tune and no other. The first time he caught me trying to scale these walls, he dragged me by my hair into his office, bent me over his chair, and whipped me with his belt.
I screamed and cried and bled, but it made no difference to him. He said I had to learn a lesson. I was seven at the time, and the experience left me traumatized. My parents only ever gave me love—he only ever gave me discipline.
My mama was furious, and we didn’t see him for weeks afterward. Then, something shifted. I don’t know what happened, but soon enough we were back there in our Sunday best, all frilly frocks and shiny shoes, playing the happy family.
It never stopped, the discipline—but I did stop whining to my parents about it. It was clear they weren’t going to be able to cut him out of our lives, maybe didn’t even want to. Families are complicated as fuck. But every time I broke one of his rules—stole chocolate, snuck out, watered down his whiskey; whatever, the sins changed as I got older—he would do the same. The belt or his hand or, on one occasion when I really pushed his buttons, his fists.
It got so that I started to push his buttons on purpose, some kind of grim death wish urging me to see how far I could stretch his patience. It might have been attention-seeking behavior. He was indifferent to Angela once it was clear she was a Healer like our parents, but he adored my twin sister. Serena could do no wrong in his eyes. And I could do no right.
I pull up directly outside the house instead of driving around to the small parking lot at the back because it seems I still haven’t matured—and if it hasn’t happened by now, it probably never will.
Pietro opens the door himself as I approach, and that at least makes me crack a smile. My brother arrived in the family ten years after Serena and me, and although he is now into his second century, he doesn’t look a day over twenty-one. His hair is a sandy brown, his eyes a shade darker, and his smile is the only extraordinary thing about his usefully ordinary face.
“Hey sis.” He pulls me in for a hug. “Long time no see. You okay?”
“Fine and dandy. Is the old goat home?”
Pietro tenses at my tone. For him, our grandfather is mother and father rolled into one. This is where we moved after the fire, and Tomasso was largely responsible for raising my baby brother.
I don’t remember much about that time in our lives other than pain, sorrow, and loneliness. I shut myself off physically and emotionally, and when my grandfather forced me out of my room and into the world, I never quite stepped out of my own mental cage.
I let Pietro down, pure and simple, and while I wasn’t there for him, Tomasso was. That earns the old goat a few points in my book, no matter how much he winds me up.
“Sorry,” I add, stroking his arm and giving him an aw-shucks smile. “It’s been a wild few days. I’m all out of whack and forgot my manners.”
“Yeah,” he says, laughing. “Because you’re normally such a lady. And yes, the old goat is home. We’ve just been talking about what happened to Paola. Come join us.”
I follow my brother through to Tomasso’s office, the first place he ever beat me. I am a grown-ass woman now, and he hasn’t laid a hand on me since the day I told him I’d kill him if he did. He laughed and sounded genuinely amused as he told me it was about time I fought back. Like it had all been some kind of test, a sick game between us, played purely to toughen me up.
I fight down a shudder as I walk into the room. The old-fashioned drinks tray sits stocked with cut crystal decanters. No matter the time of day, it’s always gloomy in here thanks to the dark wood paneling and heavy velvet drapes hanging red and dense over the windows. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was the kind of room an Old World Cosca vamp would run his evil crime empire from.
Except, of course, having recently been up close and personal with one of those, I realize the only thing I know about them is that I know nothing. I close down the image of Luca that comes unbidden and ignore the strangest of feelings—missing him.
My grandfather is situated behind his desk, and as is traditional—as is demanded—I walk behind it and drop a perfunctory kiss on his papery cheek. He’s starting to look old now, his once-olive skin tinged with yellow and deep furrows and wrinkles marring his strong features. His hair is still thick and full but completely white. In the normal world, he’d be pegged as a fit and active senior in his eighties. In ours, he’s into his fourth century and reaching the natural end of his life.
“Hey Nonno.” I move back around the mahogany monstrosity he works at and settle into the window seat.
“Rosa. You are well?”
“Better than Paola Bianchi,” I say simply. The sooner we get down to business, the sooner I can leave.
He nods and taps his fingernails on the surface of his desk. “Yes. It is a terrible thing. Did you know she was pregnant?”
My stomach lurches. Donatella didn’t mention anything about that. Maybe Donna didn’t know. Or maybe she didn’t trust me enough to tell me—which is fair, given how much distance I’ve kept between us. Between me and everyone.
“That’s… God, that’s so sad. Is the baby…?”