Dominic pauses. “You know how I feel about your world, but everyone can see you’re doing the best you can. You’ve taken control of a mess that should’ve buried you. You’re hunting down the truth yourself when other people would have shied away from it. Not to mention you’re one of the most badass females I’ve ever seen in my life. To lead a mafia family as a woman with all the other male leaders looking down on you and showing them up is some of the baddest shit I’ve ever seen.”
A chuckle escapes my lips. “I only wish it didn’t feel like I was always two steps behind.”
“You’re not. Little by little you’re uncovering everything and tracking down the killer. Very soon you’ll be the one on top.”
I turn my head to look at him. There’s fire in his eyes. It mirrors the burning desire for revenge that I feel inside of me. “You really believe that?”
His fingers press deeper into my thigh. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Dominic turns the wheel into a quiet suburban neighborhood.
I glance out the window at the modest homes with neatly trimmed hedges, emerald green grass, and American flags hanging from the porches.
Dominic slows the car as we look for the address.
I squint to read the numbers on the mailbox.
“Twenty-four Bell Lane, this is it.”
Turning the wheel, Dominic pulls into the driveway of a small yellow ranch with a front porch. The tires crunch softly over the gravel as we park next to a beat-up old car.
Getting out, I survey the house. The house is covered in faded siding. White trim peels near the gutter. The porch sags slightly and the hanging flower baskets sway in the breeze. The property is small, about a quarter acre and is covered with towering maple trees.
“May I help you?” a voice calls.
Startled, I look up to see an old woman sitting in a chair on the front porch. Her figure hidden in the shadows.
“Good morning.” My boots clunk against the aging wood as we walk up the steps to the porch.
“Good morning.” The elderly woman sits in a wicker chair. A burgundy heap of yarn is in her lap and knitting needles click between her fingers. Her silver hair is pulled into a low bun and a cardigan hangs off one shoulder. Next to her is a table where a paperback novel has been placed. I glance at the title. It’s a dark mafia romance. How ironic.
“How may I help you?” The woman repeats. Curiosity lines her face. “Do you need directions?” She glances at the Illinois license plate.
I take a step closer to her. “We’re looking for Rosa Marconi? Are you her?”
Her knitting needles freeze mid-motion. A flicker of fear flashes across her face.
“No,” she whispers. “You must have the wrong person. I’m Mary. Mary Carmichael.”
I look at her eyes. They tell the truth.
“Are you sure?” I fold my arms.
“Of course, I’m sure. I don’t know anyone with that last name. I’ve lived here for years and have no relations to anyone in Illinois. Now if there’s nothing else I can help you with, I have a lot of knitting to catch up on.”
I settle down in the chair next to her. “I’m Cipriani Capuano, Rosa.” I place a hand on her arm.
She freezes when she hears my last name. Lowering her knitting needles she looks at me. “You’re…”
“Yes, I’m part of the Capuano Family. I’m Vincenzo Capuano’s daughter. And you’re Rosa Marconi. One of the last living Marconis in the family. We are not here to hurt you. I promise. We just want to talk. That’s all. There’s a lot of chaos going on back in Chicago and your family seems to be behind it somehow. I know you moved out of the state for safety and peace. I promise you that if you help us out, your location will never be revealed, and you can continue to live life as you have for the last thirty years.”
Hesitation crosses her face.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out one of the raven feathers that has been an unwanted birthday gift for me this entire month.
Fear appears in her eyes as she looks at it.
I place it in her lap.
