Page 137 of Rosetti Family New York

We reach the first floor. I pull her toward a side entrance, through more empty rooms, more empty hallways, until I’m sure she’s free. Until I’m sure she’s safe.

“Domenico,” she says again. Her voice cracks this time.

I push her through the door. Cold wind hits me, but the mansion holds firm.

“Go,” I say again. It’s not even a word anymore. It’s a plea.

And then she’s gone.

28

Besiana

Afuneral procession of pigeons bobs after scattered crumbs. The bakery is empty. The window’s display is cracked, the awning sun-bleached to pale pink. I shouldn’t have come here, but regret is the air I breathe. The past has a way of pulling you back. I shove my hands deeper into my pockets. People on the street pass without looking, without caring who I am or what I’ve done.

I pass a cafe where the name is new, but I recognize the peeling paint and the strong coffee scent. Men are inside playing cards. Old men with white hair and heavy eyes. In the park, old women sit and talk, always with something to say about the world. It’s quieter here, but I’ve forgotten the rhythm of it all. A taxi blares its horn, and a man yells something back. Albanian curses and threats. It sounds like home. I keep moving.

The echoes are loud in my mind. If he knew I was here, Baba would remind me. Would break something. The bones are the quickest to heal. Instead, I think of Dom and the words he said. Traitor. Liar. Enemy. It hurts as much as anything Baba ever said.

I cross another street, and the wind stings my cheeks. I haven’t slept in two days, not since leaving the Rosetti mansion and deciding I’m better off without love. They think I’m with Baba now, back with my family and happy. But what kind of family is that? It doesn’t matter. My father’s voice in my head is stronger than ever. Don’t ask questions, Besiana. Questions are for people who have something to hide. Do you have something to hide, Besiana?

I don’t even know.

I duck my head to avoid looking at the old laundromat, but my eyes find it anyway. Dom sent Matteo to watch me once when I ate at the cafe next door. I look again. No one is watching me now.

A voice I don’t recognize calls my name. I flinch and turn to see a boy running towards me. He’s wearing a jacket with a frayed cuff, and a scarf wrapped tight around his neck. His breath fogs the air in front of him.

“Besa!” he yells again, and this time I see who he is.

A kid who used to follow me around. He and a friend of his were always trying to one-up each other, proving who was tougher. He’s taller now, almost my height, but his nose is still crooked from the time I punched him for kicking my dog. I forgot his name years ago.

“Thought you were gone,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He’s got a cheeky grin that makes me think he hasn’t changed as much as he wants me to believe.

“I am gone,” I say. “This isn’t—” I want to tell him he should pretend he never saw me. It’s what I should have done.

He shrugs. “Good to see you, anyway.”

I feel like a ghost. My own past not recognizing me. “Good to see you, too,” I lie.

He pulls a USB from his coat and thrusts it towards me. I don’t take it, so he grabs my hand and wraps my fingers around it.“You know what to do.” He vanishes before I can say anything, slipping between people like water through cracks.

I stand in the cold, staring at the USB. Does he think I’m someone else? Or is he playing games like when he was a kid, seeing if I’ll play along? It doesn’t matter. He’s wrong. I’m out. My fingers grip the plastic tighter. I should throw it away. I don’t.

The library is just how I remember. Big and gray, its door covered in peeling notices. My foot hesitates on the step, and I look behind me. Did the kid really leave me alone? Is he following me? Maybe Baba sent him. I feel dizzy. Dom would know what to do, but I don’t have him anymore. I only have myself.

The inside smells like dust. I walk through aisles and rows, past faces bent over books, to a computer at the back. I slide into the chair, shove the USB in, and watch. My breath catches.

I see the names first. Raffaele Rosetti. Domenico Rosetti. Leonardo. Emilio. Matteo. Salvatore. They flash at me like I’m being shot, like I’m the one on the list. There are times and locations, maps, and blurry photos. They have a meeting scheduled. I squint at the screen, forcing myself to look, to see. All of them together.

This can’t be right. My father promised to keep them out of it. It was just business. Nothing personal. He wanted to destroy their Iride operation, perhaps steal it for himself. But these words are much more—he wants to destroy them. Not their business, them.

The chair crashes to the floor as I stand. I fumble for my phone, dialing with fingers that won’t stay still. A man looks up from a desk and glares. I don’t care. The ringing echoes, each tone loud and empty. I know it will go to voicemail before I even hear his voice. I know he’s blocked me. Dom.

Fine, I deserve that, but they don’t. The Rosettis don’t.

I’m shaking as I try Carmela next. It’s their only chance. My only chance. Please.

She answers, a laugh in her voice. “Besiana? Oh my god, I thought—”