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I had a hundred questions but refused to ask Marco. I wouldn’t let them know I felt unsure, uncertain. Instead, I sat in the backseat of the car and watched the small Italian villages roll by on the hour-long drive to Lamezia Terme International Airport. I would connect through Rome, and the combined flights would take over fifteen hours to get back to the US. Getting to Calabria was a pain in the ass. I remembered hating the flights when we’d come here as kids, and that hadn’t change. I still hated the long trip. At least Salvatore wouldn’t be on the flight with me. Although would Marco then accompany me?
At the airport, Marco opened my door, and I climbed out, the heat coming off the asphalt stifling after the air-conditioned car. The driver unloaded my suitcase. Marco gestured for me to go ahead, guiding me toward the check-in counter. The man seemed to know Marco. I noticed their small exchange when he handed over my passport and ticket, neither of which I’d been allowed to hold on to, as if I’d skip out on my own father’s funeral and fly home. The desk agent took my bag and handed my passport and ticket back to Marco.
“This way,” Marco said.
“You didn’t check-in. You won’t be allowed past security,” I said.
Marco smiled. “I will hand you over to one of my…colleagues in a few moments.”
Marco’s Italian accent was distinct. Raised in the US, although I spoke fluent Italian, I had no accent. Neither did Salvatore.
“He will travel with you.”
I would have been surprised if they let me go alone, honestly.
Used to having guards nearby since I was a little girl, I went along, ignoring Marco and the other man, whom Marco introduced me to and whose name I instantly forgot. We boarded our flight within the next half hour, and I settled in. I read the coverage of my father’s funeral in the newspaper reports, saw my face in the photos along with Salvatore’s and numerous others plastered across page after page of both local newspapers I’d picked up. We made big news here. The reining Mafia family, coming to bury their biggest rival. The daughter of the fallen man, now on the arm of the opposing family’s son. Most of the articles actually told the story of how we’d met and fallen in love. That would be Franco Benedetti’s work. It wouldn’t look good to tell the public the truth.
I folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of the seat in front of me. I closed my eyes. I felt my bodyguard’s gaze on me, but I ignored him as best as I could.
With a three-hour delay in Rome, by the time we arrived in New Jersey and then drove the hour and a half to Salvatore’s home in Saddle River, I was exhausted. Evening fell, and it took an effort to keep my eyes open, to take in the surroundings of my new home. I was grateful it was Salvatore’s house and not the Benedetti family home.
Salvatore’s estate was large and very private. Tall iron gates opened upon our arrival. Only moonlight illuminated most of the grounds, until we drew closer to the house, and I got my first glimpse of the mansion with its huge garage, outbuildings, and extensive and various types of landscaping lights. The grounds, from what I could make out, were expansive, with woods circling most of the property. It seemed to me that the driveway was at least a mile long before it finally circled at the main entrance to the residence. A woman came outside and waited for us. As soon as the car stopped, I climbed out on my own, needing to stretch my legs after so many hours of sitting. I’d grown up surrounded by wealth, but I’d never lived in a house this grand. It seemed pretentious of Salvatore, maybe another weakness. I walked toward the woman.
“Ma’am.”
“Just Lucia,” I answered, attempting to give her a warm smile. I’d need allies. I didn’t want to be hated.
The woman smiled back and nodded. I turned to the guard who’d flown with me. He looked as tired as I felt.
“When will Salvatore arrive?” I asked, wanting information.
“I’m not sure.”
“Come inside,” the woman said.
I followed her in, looking around the house—my new home—for the first time. The large circular foyer led off in several directions, one of which had to be the kitchen, considering the delicious smell coming from that direction. I could see the living room through a large archway. At the far end stood a wall of glass, and large doors led to a patio. Dim, colorful lights shone off the glass-like surface of the swimming pool, inviting even now. The rest of the interior doors stood closed. I turned my attention to the large marble staircase leading to the upper floor.
