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Chapter One

Nora

I scoop a dollop of batter onto my finger and close my eyes as the rich, sweet flavor melts on my tongue. Chocolate and coconut—heavenly!

Baking is my escape, a small piece of joy in a world where happiness is a rare commodity.

Opening the cabinet, I pull out the endless spice rack. It’s a shame our chef only uses them for her traditional Italian dishes, but she loves me enough to let me experiment with my cakes.

I tap my finger on the marble countertop as I read the names of the spices. “Ah! Cardamom will do.” I add a pinch and begin transferring the batter into two molds, tensing as I hear my mother’s familiar heels clicking down the corridor.

She strolls in, dressed in her red silk robe, a dry martini in her hand. She sighs and takes a sip, her eyes glassy from the pills and alcohol. I glance at the clock; it’s barely ten a.m. She’s starting early, as always, on my birthday.

She notices my gaze and purses her lips. “It’s twelve somewhere, darling. What are you doing?”

“Baking my birthday cake. I’m making my new creation, the Tropical Delight Cake,” I say with a hint of pride. “It’s a coconut and chocolate base with a hint of cardamom.” I open the oven and slide in the cake pans. “I’ll layer it with mango puree and passion fruit curd and finish with a light coconut frosting and toasted coconut flakes.” I smile at her. “What do you think?”

She looks at the ingredients on the counter, then back at me and sighs. “You’re a mess.”

I shrug. “It’s half the fun.”

“Nora, darling, why do you keep baking cakes that no one else eats?”

I shrug again and start on the filling. It’s not true—my father and the house staff always enjoy my cakes. My mother never eats them, but that’s probably because she drinks too much and takes too many pills to be hungry.

“You’re twenty-two now. Why not call Gervais? It’s the best patisserie in town, and they can bake you a diet cake.” She looks pointedly at my waist. “You need to ease off on the baking, sweetheart. There’s a fine line between being curvy and fat, and well… You’re walking it.”

Her words sting, as they always do when she mentions my weight “for my own good,” but I’ve learned to brush it off. She’s on the other end of the spectrum—stick thin, likely due to her vices.

“Oh, don’t look so annoyed. I’m saying this because I love you. You’re loving cake too much, and it shows.”

"You know, maybe you should lay off the alcohol. It's starting to show on your skin." I know vanity is all that matters to her now.

She narrows her eyes, finishes her glass in one go, and walks away without another word. Probably to make another drink.

I sigh, looking at the kitchen door. No matter what she tells me, I’m never angry. I don’t even dislike her. Mostly, I pity her because I know she hasn't always been like this. I've seen photos of her when she was young, before she married my dad or even on her wedding day.

My mother used to be full of life and dreams—scarily like me, without the limitations I suffer from. We look a lot alike—we both have blonde hair and blue eyes, and we’re both vertically challenged, as my father always says, since she’s five-two and I’m five-one. She is lithe, though, like a gymnast, something she was back in high school before the reality of our world, the mafia world, forced her to choose marriage and family.

It wasn't the marriage that broke her. No, her smile was genuine in her wedding photos, her eyes shining with so much hope that it makes my heart squeeze.

The issue is my father.

Well, not him as a person. Even given his lifestyle, he's not a monster. He’s loving to me and respectful to her. Despite all her antics, he’s never hit her or even raised his voice to her. No, the problem is that my mother loved him—desperately so—when they got married, but he never loved her back.

I shake my head. No, I will not let any darkness spoil my day.

I am finishing my filling when my father enters the kitchen.

“What is smelling so good?” he asks, patting his stomach, causing me to give him a genuine smile.

My father, Maurizio Falcone, is a striking man in his early fifties. His hair, once a deep black, is now generously streaked with gray, giving him a distinguished appearance. He’s tall and well-built, with a strong jawline and piercing green eyes. His charm and good looks have only improved with age, making him look like he stepped out of an old Hollywood movie. And though we share genetics, we don't look much alike.

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” he says, pulling me into a warm hug. The scent of his cologne mixes with the sweet aroma of the cake batter, creating a comforting blend of familiarity and love.

“Thanks, Dad,” I reply, hugging him tightly. “I’m making my Tropical Delight Cake. It’s a new recipe.”

He releases me, looking genuinely interested. “Sounds amazing. What’s in it?”

“It’s a coconut and chocolate base with a hint of cardamom, layered with mango puree and passion fruit curd, and finished with a light coconut frosting and toasted coconut flakes,” I explain, my excitement bubbling over.

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You always know how to make something special.” He ruffles my hair gently. “Well, I can’t wait to taste it. You know I’m your biggest fan.”

I beam at him. “I know, Dad. You’re home early.”

“I wanted to give you this.” He slides a jewelry box on the counter, his smile widening. “And I thought I could finish the day at home. I have amazing news for you.”

“Oh, you do?” I rest my hand on my chest, feeling a rush of excitement. “Tell me!”

He gives me a teasing smile. “No, I’ll tell you at dinner. I just have a few things to finalize first.”

I nod excitedly, my heart hammering in my chest as I try to figure out what it could be. My mind races with possibilities. I finished my degree in English literature a few months back, and my dad was reluctant to let me do a master’s. I stopped hoping it would be just a one-year break. I’m supposed to be married by now, or at least engaged. I’m getting on the “older” side, and frankly, I love my father for not forcing me. A couple of men approached him, but when I told him—quite bluntly—of my disinterest, he didn’t insist.

Yes, my father may be mafia, but he’s not a monster, not to me, at least. He’s always been particularly understanding, especially since… well, he knows I have to be careful with stress.

Maybe he convinced the capo to leave me be, and maybe his surprise is an agreement to continue my studies. I didn’t tell him, but I have a spot in the graduate program at NYU. I postponed acceptance for now, but maybe this is the chance. Maybe now I can go.

“I’ll see you at dinner, sweetheart,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

“Can’t wait,” I reply, giving him a warm smile, wishing it was dinner already.

After he leaves the room, I look down at the jewelry box, curiosity burning within me. I slowly open it and gasp. Inside is a delicate gold necklace with a small, intricate locket.

I lift it gently, my fingers tracing the fine details. I open it and find a tiny photo of my father holding me as a baby on one side. The other side is empty, but there is a small card inside the box. I unfold it and read: “The other side will be for your husband and own child.”

My heart sinks for so many reasons. He still believes I will marry and, even more, get pregnant despite all the challenges it represents for me. The fleeting pain in my back is a familiar warning, one that keeps me grounded in the reality that my body is not as strong as I wish it were. My father’s concern isn’t just about marriage; it’s about the unspoken understanding that I have limits—limits I must constantly navigate, and ones he doesn’t want me to face alone.

I take a deep breath and let it out, focusing on the moment rather than the worry that occasionally shadows my days.

This is why my father is so understanding, why he doesn't push me into the same mold as the other daughters in our world. He knows the importance of allowing me to live my life at my own pace.

I finish the cake with a smile on my lips. I don’t care what my mother says; for me, baking my cake is a tradition. One that started from a dark memory but turned out quite positive.

Make the best of a bad situation is my life motto.

I used to get these big fancy birthday parties every year. I hated them, but it was something for my father—a way to lavish me with fatherly love in the eyes of all. That is, until my fateful twelfth birthday when my mother popped one too many pills and destroyed the cake, making the rest of the party a completely awkward event.

Everyone left soon after. My father swore it would be the last big party, and I baked myself something simple. This is how the tradition started, and I’ve honed my skills a lot over the years.

With the cake now cooling off, I quickly clean the kitchen and head to my room to get ready for dinner. That’s another tradition—a catered dinner from La Traviata, my favorite restaurant. I don’t like going there; it’s too busy, too loud, just too much. So, once a year, my father treats me to dinner from there, making the evening extra special.

I pick out a dress, something simple yet elegant, and take my time getting ready. As I brush my hair and apply a touch of makeup, I can't help but wonder about the news my father has for me. My heart flutters with anticipation, a mix of hope and fear.

Once dressed, I sit at my vanity and carefully put on the necklace. The locket rests against my skin, a comforting weight that reminds me of my father's unwavering support and love. Tonight is going to be special, I think, looking at my reflection.

When Donna, our housekeeper, knocks at my door announcing dinner, I almost jump out of my seat.

“Your cake looks delicious,” she says, rubbing my back. I love Donna; she’s a little like a grandmother to me.

“I really outdid myself this time,” I say with pride. “I can’t wait for you to try it. Will you have a piece with us at the table?”

She grimaces. “I don’t think your mother will appreciate that, but we can have some in the kitchen together afterward. What do you say? Gino and Marco were ogling it, and we can have it with them.”

I beam at her. “That would be amazing!”

“Plus, we bought you a present.”

My heart bursts with affection and joy. I’m not used to much attention, and their kindness always touches me. “You didn’t have to.”

She hugs me. “I know, but we love you. Come on, dinner time!”

As I follow her down the hallway, I feel a warm sense of belonging. Donna has always been there for me, offering comfort and support in ways my mother never could. She’s part of the small circle of people who truly understand me.

We reach the dining room, and my father is already seated at the head of the table. The aroma of the catered food from La Traviata fills the room, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

I sit down and smile as my mother sips at her drink.

“So, what’s the big news?” I ask just as my father takes his seat again.

He chuckles. “Someone is eager.” He shakes his head. “Okay, fine. You’re going to marry a Lucchese!”

My smile stays frozen on my lips as my heart dips in my chest, and my mother chokes on her drink.

“Excuse me? I’m marrying who?”

“Lucchese.”

“Which one?” my mother asks, her voice sharper than usual.

“Dad…”

“I can’t protect you forever,” my father says, his tone softening slightly as if he knows how this news is affecting me. “You’re twenty-two. The day will come when the capo forces a choice on us. I dodged the suitors you didn’t want, but I can’t do it forever.”

I nod mutedly, my mind spinning. I know I’m luckier than a lot of the other girls in the famiglia. My first “suitor” turned up the day I turned eighteen—Giuseppe Marconi. A creepy old dude in his late fifties. I was horrified, and my father sent him away without hesitation. The second one was two years ago. Martino was not a bad match; he was respectable and well-mannered. But he wanted a wife now, and marrying him would have meant stopping my studies, something I wasn’t ready to do. My father refused him for me too.

“But I have a good deal for you.”

“Oh sure, Maurizio,” my mother snorts, rolling her eyes.

He ignores her and continues, “I spoke to the capo, and I’ve arranged for you to pick from one of his sons. You have a choice, Nora.”

I blink, trying to process the information. I didn’t see that coming. I thought he’d made his peace with my single status, and now he drops the bombshell—I’m marrying into the Lucchese bloodline.

“You could marry Leo Lucchese,” he says, his eyes fixed on me. “Many women would like to have him.”

“And most of them probably did. With him, there would not even be an illusion of faithfulness,” my mother adds, letting out a bitter laugh. My father glares at her, but she doesn’t back down.

“I can’t keep pushing away suitors, Nora,” my father continues, his tone more urgent. “You know what will happen if we don’t make a decision. We have dinner with the capo and his sons in two days. You have forty-eight hours to think about it.”

My mother laughs again, but it lacks any joy. “Oh, sure. A choice between the psychopath and the whore.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy and brutal.

Leo Lucchese—the playboy, the heartbreaker, the man who could never be faithful. And then there’s the alternative, Rafaele Lucchese, the future capo, who they nickname Il Mietitore and is rumored to have a much darker side. A psychopath, my mother called him.

“Don’t worry, Guilia, nobody expects you to attend. You will stay home and pop your pills like usual.” My father’s voice softens as he turns toward me. “I can’t protect you forever. You need to make a decision, and this is the best I can offer you. Leo is not perfect, but he’s powerful, and in our world, that matters.”

“Well, the decision is clear, sweetheart. Leo is the only choice,” my mother says, her voice oddly resigned. “I have to admit, I’m even a little jealous. At least that one is pretty to look at. It will help, trust me, when you need to get in bed with him. Just don’t be stupid enough to fall in love with his pretty face. Don’t be like me. It never lasts. Be pragmatic.”

Her statement is fully loaded, and the way my father hangs his head shows that, despite all these years, there’s still a hint of shame there.

My throat tightens, the words caught somewhere between my heart and my mouth. He’s right, of course—limbo is not an option. But the thought of binding my life to someone in the mafia, of losing the little autonomy I’ve carved out, terrifies me more than I care to admit.

“Think about it,” my father urges gently. “We’ll talk again in forty-eight hours.”

I nod again, barely able to keep my composure. The room feels too small, the walls closing in around me.

“Dinner is over,” my mother declares, standing abruptly. “I need a drink.”

“You already have one, Guilia,” my father points out, his tone weary.

“Well, I need a refill. Thanks to you, I am celebrating my only daughter's impending engagement to the most ruthless family in the US.”

She stalks out of the room, leaving me alone with my father. He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, his eyes full of concern.

“I’m sorry, Nora,” he says quietly. “You know how it works, and Giuseppe Marconi is asking about you again. He’s close to the capo, and if he asks him, you know what that means.”

I nod, but I can’t bring myself to speak. Yes, I do know. If the capo agrees to me marrying anyone, my father will have little to nothing to say.

“Do they know?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Know what?” my father asks, his tone casual as if we’re discussing something trivial.

“About me?”

“You’re fine,” he says, dismissing my concern with a wave of his hand. “I just… You are fine, Nora. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

His dismissal hits hard, as it always does, but I nod. It’s true—it could be worse.

My father rises from the table and presses a kiss to my forehead before leaving me to my thoughts.

Alone in the dining room, I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The choices before me are stark and frightening, but in this world, there’s no escaping the harsh realities of duty and obligation.

Forty-eight hours. Two days to decide my future, knowing that whatever choice I make, a part of me will be lost. In this world, happiness is a fleeting luxury, and love is a dangerous illusion.