Not that I suspect the Grasso de Ferro has had much use of them these last few years. The Italian mafia tends to do such business in the city of Modena.
Evelina has always liked to keep a healthy work-life balance.
TheCastello de Ferrois, first and foremost, our family home.
“Come,amore mio,” the matriarch summons me to her side with a graceful waft of her hand. “We have food prepared.”
My mother walks slightly ahead of me, her heels tapping an unrelenting rhythm against the stone floor. She doesn’t really need to escort me. I know this place like the back of my hand.
Yet, the air inside the castle feels heavier than I remember. It’s warm, sure, but it clings to me, wrapping around my neck like a collar.
Nine years. It feels like nothing has changed.
The high, vaulted ceilings still echo every sound, amplifying even the softest shuffle of footsteps. Sunlight streams through the tall, arched windows, gilding the polished floors with streaks of gold.
I used to think this place was beautiful—majestic, even—but now it feels suffocating.
Tapestries hang on the walls, their rich colors muted by age. I used to trace my fingers over them as a kid, pretending I was one of the knights embroidered there, sword raised, charging into battle.
Now they just look like ghosts of the past, threadbare and sagging.
We turn a corner, and the familiar scent of waxed wood and lavender polish hits me. It’s so specific to this place that it pulls me back before I can stop it.
Suddenly, I’m twelve again, sprinting down this hallway with my cousins just to see who could reach the library doors first.
The hallway widens as we approach the sunroom. Glass panes stretch from floor to ceiling, framing views of the gardens below. It’s still as stunning as I remember, I’ll admit that much.
The light is softer here, and the air smells faintly of rosemary from the pots arranged in neat rows by the window. My mother has always been proud of this room—of its elegance and order, the underlying domesticity that hangs in the corners.
She pushes open the glass doors, and the sound of her voice pulls me back to the present.
“Sit,” she says, gesturing to the small table set for two. The china is pristine, the silverware gleaming.
Everything is perfect, and I absolutely hate it.
“Welcome home, Dante,” she says, pouring us both a cup of tea.
Home. The word tastes bitter.
“Welcome indeed.” And suddenly, the half day of travel feels heavy in my bones. I swipe up my cup and sit back in my chair, taking an indulgent gulp.
My mother watches me through narrowed eyes. “I have many things to discuss with you.”
“Can they perhaps wait until I have recovered from my jetlag?”
“No.”
“Right then,” I concede with an exacerbated sigh. It was worth a try. “By all means, proceed.”
Evelina nods once. “We begin your transition to the position of don as of tomorrow morning. You will be accompanying me as I meet with the Ferraros and the De Lucas to discuss the current constructions in Modena...”
I take another long drink of tea as she continues to list her itinerary for the week. Names and places I only vaguely remember or can only pick up from contextual clues. She speaks as if I’ve never left, as if these people are universally known.
It’s infuriating, and I can already feel the headache forming from all the awkward conversations I’m going to have tomorrow. Talking with all these people who likely know exactly who I am and what my family represents.
“Can you write some of these names down?” I grumble as I pour myself another glass.
“No.”
