PROLOGUE
Love, Mama
CHIARA
Six years ago
To my darling daughter,
If you’re reading this, it means we’re gone. I asked your cousin AJ to pass this onto you if the day ever came that Mafia ties finally choked us out of this life. So, I guess time and fate caught up to us. Luck never felt like it was on our side except for the day you came into our world. You were hard fought for. Our perfect little angel. A head full of dark hair. Soft, creamy skin with the cutest chubby cheeks, flushed the color of pretty roses to match your little rosebud lips defined with a Cupid’s bow. Its missing arrow firmly pierced in my heart from that day. Imprinting a love so fierce. Yet not enough to save usfrom whatever or whoever has hunted us down and taken us to the afterlife.
My heart breaks knowing that I didn’t get to hug you one final time. That I won’t be there to comfort you through this. That I won’t see you get married and have children of your own. The list of regrets too many but not enough to stave off what I fear is the inevitable.
I wish I could say I should have made different choices, loved another man. One from a safer family, a normal family. But that would be a lie. It would be foolish of me to let you believe you can tell your heart who to love, because as you will see one day, the heart wants what the heart wants. Mine demanded I love your papa, and when we said ’til death do us part, I meant it. We meant it. If he went, I must go too. Whether by another’s hand or my own. I cannot survive without him. But you, my darling, you are strong enough to survive without us. Maybe it will be better this way. Create a life that’s just yours. Once you are old enough, get away from Sicily. Discover yourself. Excel in a career you love. Maybe something creative or artistic. Something that brings beauty into your life to cover the ugly. Find a man who treats you like you’re the oxygen he needs to breathe and carries you on your good and bad days. That’s the true meaning of finding your soulmate. I would know, becauseyour papa was always my anchor. May yours be the type of love you die for, even though I pray this sacrifice we’ve made spares you the same fate.
Until you can stand on your own, lean on your uncle Gino and your cousins. He loves you like his own, but when the time comes, spread your wings and don’t let anyone clip them. Fly far away from where the family curse can find you and claim you like it did your papa. Like it did me. Like it did papa’s twin. It’s the only way.
Know that whenever you think of me, I’ll be watching you. Loving you from the heavens. Sending you the strength I never had to be the woman in the life you choose for yourself.
Until we meet again,
Ti amo, cara mia.
Love, Mama
I thoughtI had cried all the tears I could possibly cry, but rereading my mama’s letter for what feels like the millionth time in the last week since they were brutally taken from me, it seems I’ve developed a never-ending supply. I can’t believe that while I was screwing around, my parents got screwed over in the worst way possible and handed a death sentence—literally.
The cold squeeze of guilt clutched me the moment I heard the news and wouldn’t let go. If I could turn back time, I’d go back to the day I met Mia Damiano, six months ago. We met at my creative arts college. I had just turned eighteen, but I felt older. She was studying design and styling while I was doing a visualarts degree majoring in photography. We were paired up for a task and the rest is history. She had a twinkle in her eye and a wicked sense of humor. She made me feel unstoppable just being in her company and the way she recklessly did whatever the fuck she wanted. She was the first person I talked to about wanting to move to New York. We made a blood pact to go together. She’s the one who introduced me to my love of Amaretto sours, and him—Alessandro. He had piercing blue eyes that popped against his olive skin, dark blond hair perfectly tousled, and a manly body. He was almost thirty, but I knew that whenever we were in the same room, his eyes never left me. My skin would prickle with awareness. I felt alive. The allure of the forbidden called to me like a siren’s song.
When I think back on it, I can see that he was careful. He didn’t pursue me, but his unwavering attentiveness lured me straight to him. And once I made the first move, Alessandro made his. I was enthralled. He had me, hook, line, and sinker. All he had to do was send one word—come—and I’d go to him. I’d lie to my parents without any remorse so I could be with him.I’m working late. I fell asleep studying at my friend’s place. I had a few drinks, not safe for me to ride my Vespa home.Eventually they saw straight through my lies, and we’d fight every time I went out or when I came home after curfew and they’d be waiting up for me. I knew my relationship with my parents was on a slippery slope and it was breaking their heart, but I didn’t care—where Alessandro was concerned, I was obsessed beyond reason.
Over the six months of meeting in secret, he gained my trust. He was the first person in my life who didn’t treat me like a child. He was possessive, but it didn’t feel like he was trying to stop me from having fun. He gained my trust, and I fell hard. I didn’t think anything of the fact there were always other girls around at his private space in the entertainment district; they were alwayshooking up with other people. I had Alessandro’s full attention, and I fucking loved it. He made me feel desired, protected in a way I’ve never felt before, and he indulged my dark fantasies.
On the day that would be my parents last on earth, he asked me for my phone, wanting to check ifFind My Locationwas disabled now I was with him. I laughed at him, because of course it was. We’d been doing this for six months; we had a routine. When I wasn’t with him, I’d have my location setting enabled so he could see where I was, but when I was with him, it would be disabled. I didn’t see he activatedDo Not Disturb. We didn’t come up for air for hours. He treated me like a queen, and I preened under his dirty talk and sweet compliments equally.
Over the next few hours, over 100 phone calls from my parents collectively went unanswered. Unseen text messages littered my screen, each stating our pre-determined word, SAFE, to indicate we were in danger and to get to our meeting spot so we could escape to our family’s safe house. When I finally saw them, I raced out of there, not even bothering to tell Alessandro what was going on. By the time I got to the little coffee shop that served as the pre-identified location, Uncle Gino and AJ were there, waiting to break the news to me. They were gone. And as I was soon to find out, so too was Alessandro. And Mia. Phone numbers disconnected. Our rendezvous spot cleared out. His job was done, and poof, he disappeared like we never existed at all. That cut almost as deep. I’d never been in love before, but the way my heart physically ached made me question if that’s what love feels like. It clearly wasn’t love for him.
It would be easy to see myself as the victim in all this, the prey that was hunted. The truth is, I chased the rebellion and the thrill of the forbidden against my parents’ best advice.Like the people who took them from me, my hands are covered in their blood. Now, like Mama, my list of regrets is too many. But unlikeher, I don’t have the welcoming arms of death to run into to shield me from them.
Instead, I’ll play another part in a production I have no desire to be part of, this time cast as the grieving daughter when really, murderer is more fitting. A big Italian funeral, and especially one for a mob family, is the stuff of a Shakespearean tragedy. Even when they were alive, the bodies lain in the caskets lived with the inevitability of their death. To quote the man himself,“Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay; The worst is death, and death will have his day.”
Tears prickle as I look at myself in the mirror in my new room at my uncle’s house. It’s white and black with touches of red, an ominous reminder of the permanent color stain on my hands. It’s sleek but sterile in comparison to my family home, which Mama had decorated with warm apricots, cream, and bronze. Textured throws and art added character and charm. A memory of a beautiful life that feels completely out of reach now. Everyone will be crying tears for the poor orphan today, but I don’t deserve their pity. If they knew the part I’ve played in their death, they wouldn’t be able to look me in the eye. I can barely stand my own reflection—dull eyes, pale skin, sunken cheekbones. Reminders of my grief and my crimes. I take in my outfit, a new-season Dior skirt suit with accessories to match. The exaggerated shoulders and cinched-in waist of the buttoned-up blazer make me look more statuesque than my five-foot-nothing. The silver buttons lining the front are monogrammed with the famous branding, and the simple skirt which should hug my body hangs off my once curvaceous hips, falling at just the right demure length below the knee. Bag and shoes and the velvet bow holding my hair in a low, sleek ponytail also sport the brand’s logo and complete the look. I hoped it would feel like armor. Instead, I feel like a fraud in an expensive designer disguise. Even so, it screams wealth and power. Theultimate goal of any mob family. And the very same reason there are as many funerals as weddings in Sicily.
I chose the same suit in white for Mama and a black and white pinstripe suit with a red tie and pocket square for Papa. Their deaths may have been undignified, but I made sure they were going out in style.
I toy with my papa’s medallion engraved with the family crest that now sits on a gold chain around my neck. My uncle insisted we bury my father with it, seeing as he didn’t have a male heir to pass it onto. One withering look between my hysterical sobs and Uncle Gino knew better than to push the issue. So what, just because I have a vagina, I don’t have the right to the family heirloom all the Gigioliotti men were given at birth? Not on my fucking watch. Named my legal guardian until I get my degree, dear Uncle Gino was about to get a one-way ticket into the twenty-first century. He might hold Godfather power in the Mafia circles, but as I learned quickly, hysterical women are his kryptonite. A little nugget of information I have stored to use for a rainy day. And you bet that day is coming. As soon as I finish my studies, I’m getting out of here. I want to go to New York where my cousin AJ lives. I know he heads up the family business there, and to be honest, he’s probably more of a hard-ass than my uncle, but he’s less than ten years older than me so he understands the allure of having some sort of freedom that being across the world offers. His twin brothers, Christian and Matteo, are only a few years older than me and are wealthy entrepreneurs. They’re never in one place long, travelling around to the clubs they own in Europe, their appearances as much a drawcard as the establishments themselves. From a practical sense though, what better way to run the trade and clean money for the family business. Not that any one of them has ever admitted it to me, what they do. But I’m not dumb. Working in the Mafia means you accept you’re either the huntedor the hunter. Likely both. I just know that’s not how I want to make my living. Nor do I want to be with a man who makes his money in a business where life or death situations are the norm not the exception.
Like my thoughts summonsed him, AJ’s gruff voice calls out to me. “Chiara, the cars are here. It’s time to go to the church.”
I open the door to find my cousin leaning against the wall beside it, furiously tapping away on his phone, brow furrowed. Mob business never stops. Not even to bury the dead. I want to berate him for being disrespectful. But the truth is, it’s not his fault either. This is the life he was born into, one it seems you only escape through death, and I don’t wish that upon him.
Tall, dark, and brooding, with skin darkened by the sun and rugged good looks, it’s easy to see why women and men alike fall to their knees for AJ. His dark hair, which is a little longer on top and shaved underneath, is combed back, showing off his high cheekbones and strong, straight Italian nose. A collection of intricate tattoos line his knuckles, and that omnipresent air ofdon’t fuck with merolls off him in waves. Today he’s dressed in an impeccable all-black suit and shirt buttoned all the way up, his gold medallion with our family crest sitting atop it. A surge of defiance fires through me at the memory of my argument with my uncle about keeping my father’s.It’s not a daughter’s place to wear that crest,he’d fumed.When you marry you will take your husband’s name. It’s tradition—only sons take on the responsibility of keeping the family name and legacy alive.Yeah, fuck that. We’re in the fucking twenty-first century, yet in my hometown, those with dicks are still considered superior.And dear uncle, I have plans to forge a legacy of my own. Just you wait.
“Chiara. Chi.” My cousin’s deep voice and hand at my elbow break me from my spiraling thoughts. I turn to face him and look down at where his hand wraps around the crook of my elbow. I must have momentarily zoned out completely because I don’t even recall seeing him move over to me.
“You doing okay? Have you had something to drink or eat today? You need to keep your energy and sugar levels up,” he tells me, concern etching his face.
“No, I don’t have an appetite.”
