Nestore Romano was destined to rule over his kingdom. It was his birthright. His indisputable fate until my father betrayed his oath and locked him in a cage to torture and humiliate. It was the end of Nestore. It was his rebirth too. I witnessed both. My heart splintered into a million pieces each time.
The first time I met Nestore, he was fifteen, and I was twelve. My father, his third wife, Flavia, and I had been invited to the Romano estate to celebrate Nestore’s birthday. The Romano mansion was a sprawling estate on Mount Hollywood, in the midst of Griffith Park, with a jaw-dropping view over downtown LA, Hollywood, and the Pacific Ocean.
If my father hadn’t given me a scowl that sent ice through my veins, I would have gawked at the elegant foyer with its sweeping staircase leading up to a grand entry hall with a sixteen-foot-high ceiling forever. The crystal chandelier dangling overour heads alone probably cost more than the average person earned in a year, or ten. Not that anyone invited today knew anything about the worries of ordinary people. The royalty of the Camorra, the Italian mafia family ruling over the West Coast, had come together to celebrate Nestore’s birthday.
The maid, dressed in a long black dress with a white lace apron, motioned for us to wait as she rushed off to get the master of the house. Laughter and soft music drifted down from the upper floor. Several minutes passed in which Father’s face reflected his rage over being forced to wait on someone. His ash-brown brows grooved, and his jaw clenched while his mustache gave that impatient twitch that made my heart race.
Romano Senior, as his boss, was one of the very few people who dared to do so, and even that was a thorn in his side. Father thrived on power, and the lack thereof in the presence of Romano Senior would dampen his mood all evening. Flavia’s face twisted with anxiety as she glanced my way. She twisted her gold wedding ring around her finger. Her makeup was immaculate as always, except for one tiny spot at her throat, where it revealed the hint of a bruise. I tried to catch her gaze to warn her, but her worry-filled brown eyes kept darting between Father and the space where Romano Senior needed to appear before Father lost it.
I smoothed my fingers down my ball gown, the softness of the silk soothing my nerves. The crimson of the fabric clashed with my strawberry-blond hair, but Father had insisted I wear it, and there was no arguing with him. Not that I’d ever dare to try, even if I favored darker shades of red.
Flavia too was dressed in a sweeping red gown that matched Father’s scarlet tie. It was Father’s favorite color. Maybe that was why he enjoyed spilling blood so much.
The maid appeared on the winding staircase. “Please follow me upstairs. Master will welcome you in the grand entry hall.”
Father stalked ahead as if we were ballast he was glad to leave behind. Flavia and I rushed to follow him, but our long gowns made it difficult.
To my surprise, Father looked moderately calm when Romano Senior and his son Nestore Romano finally stalked into the grand entry hall through huge double doors only seconds after we’d reached this floor. Even at just fifteen, Nestore was almost as tall as his father, who towered over my father at an impressive six feet four. This was the first social gathering I was allowed to attend, and given that it was not only the Romano heir’s birthday but also his induction to the Camorra, it was a major honor.
Romano Senior and his son stopped in front of us. My father shook both their hands, wearing a smile I recognized as fake from a mile away. I inconspicuously scanned Nestore. His dark hair was loosely swept away from his face. It looked as soft as silk, a contrast to the sharp angles of his face. His pronounced cheekbones and strong jaw made him look older than fifteen. When his gaze hit me, my belly flipped at the mesmerizing color of his eyes. They were green with flecks of amber brown and impossibly stunning.
“That’s my daughter, Amelia.” My father’s sharp voice tore through my staring, and I ripped my gaze away with heated cheeks. With a charming smile, I shook Romano Senior’s hand, wincing at the force of his grip. I braced myself when I held out my hand for Nestore. While his grip was firm, it didn’t hurt like that of his father’s. He gave me the hint of a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The bell rang, and a moment later, the maid rushed up the stairs, announcing, “Benedetto Falcone!”
I tensed. Romano Senior and my father sprang to action, rushing down the staircase to greet the Capo of the Camorra in the foyer. Falcone wasn’t a man you let wait or make comeup into the entry hall. Flavia hovered near the gallery, which allowed a view down into the foyer, uncertainty filling her gorgeous face. She sent me a quick smile in reassurance before worry clouded her face once more. Nobody liked the prospect of meeting Benedetto Falcone.
Nestore touched my upper arm, drawing my attention to him, and leaned down. “Falcone enjoys breaking beautiful things. I would recommend you stay out of his sight.”
My lips parted, my heart jolting. “My father will be furious if I’m not here to greet the Capo.”
“Your father’s wrath will be worth it,” he said, his eyes straying to the staircase where male voices were coming closer. “Tell him I told you to give this to my cousin Niccolo. You can’t refuse an order from me.” He pushed a gold coin into my hand. I pursed my lips, but he gently pushed me away.
Flavia gave me a confirming nod and mouthed, “Go. Let your father be my worry.”
Despite my fear over my father’s reaction, I turned around and rushed away, my ball gown swishing over the marble floor as I followed the sounds of laughter and music into a grand ballroom. Several chandeliers cast their warm light on the gathered guests. Servers carried trays of exquisite canapés, including blinis with caviar, tuna tartar, wagyu tartar, and quail eggs. The Romanos meant to impress.
My gaze scanned the crowd, my pulse whipping in my veins with anxiety. I didn’t even know what Niccolo looked like. I had met his father once when he’d visited our home. Eventually, I spotted the man, and next to him was a younger version of him with curly chestnut-brown hair. I made a beeline toward them, even as my belly tightened with apprehension. Niccolo’s gaze zeroed in on me, his brows furrowing. I opened my palm with the coin. He said something to his father, who gave a brief nod,then moved away and motioned for me to follow him to a corner of the room.
The moment I reached him, I held out my hand with the coin. “Nestore told me to give this to you.”
Niccolo shared his cousin’s green eyes minus the amber flecks, but he wasn’t quite as tall as Nestore. The lack of a tattoo on his forearm told me he was shy of turning fifteen. I knew they had been born close to each other. Studying family trees was one of the few things I could do in my spare time that my father approved of.
Niccolo narrowed his eyes a fraction, considering me. “It was supposed to bring him luck.”
The atmosphere in the ballroom changed, a sudden erratic air taking hold of the guests. My eyes sought the source of the shift until I spotted Benedetto Falcone in the doorway, flanked by my father and Romano Senior, looking like a benevolent king. People greeted him by bowing their heads, their expressions submissive. Falcone’s wife hovered a few steps behind him. She looked like she was drugged. His sadistic eyes latched onto woman after woman as if he were looking for a conquest for tonight. He wore a tuxedo, a white shirt with a standing collar, a black fly, and shiny wingtip shoes. His slicked-back black hair rounded off his mobster look.
Nestore appeared beside his father and gestured at his cousin, who grabbed my arm and tugged me away. He shoved me into an alcove, hidden behind a crowd of several men. I wanted to tell him that my father wouldn’t let Falcone hurt me, but I knew better. “Wait here,” Niccolo said, then disappeared. What was I supposed to wait for?
Time dragged on. People danced and ate, laughed and whispered, and I grew bored. Eventually, I ventured out, hungry and thirsty.
After I had filled up on lemonade and appetizers, the sheer volume of laughter and conversations grew too much, so I sought solitude on the expansive balcony overlooking two tennis courts, the vast pool house, and the adjoining pool of a size I’d never seen before. The meticulously kept garden was illuminated by hundreds of spotlights, showcasing the rose garden, fountains, and labyrinth. I gripped the banister, stood on my tiptoes, and leaned forward to catch a better look. What was the maze made of?
“Rare English rambler roses,” said a quiet voice from the dark.
A shriek ripped from my lips, and I lost my balance, tipping forward. An arm slung around my waist, dragging me back from a fall that would have resulted in certain death. I looked up at my savior’s face: Nestore Romano. Mortification heated my cheeks. Even the brisk air chasing up Mount Hollywood couldn’t cool them off.
“You wouldn’t be the first woman to fall to her death from this balcony.” Nestore released me and stepped back, his elbows coming to rest on the banister as he regarded me with mild interest.
