One of my brothers, Cesare, had emailed me.
I opened it immediately.
Cesare had always been the softest, most caring of my brothers. Our mother had always said that Cesare would marry first, become a parent first, and that it would fulfill his heart rather than work like me and Brenno. That was why his coldnesstoward me at the wedding had caused a severe malfunction, because it was not supposed to behim.
This hatred was not supposed to be any of us, but it was.
Cesare had emailed to speak of our contract, the one that had put the final nail in the coffin of our relationship, the one that haunted my dreams. He stated that the anniversary of the contract was approaching and that we were required to set a date to discuss its terms.
My eyes squeezed shut.
It had been ten years,ten years, and they did not know the truth.
They could not.
I opened a draft to respond, not knowing what I was supposed to say other than that I was still as bound to silence as they were, even past my father’s death, and that I could not relieve them of the burdens I placed upon them.
My phone buzzing was a saving grace.
I snatched it into my hand immediately, and my brow rose at the notification.
Adriano Sansone has arrived in Manhattan
Adriano Sansone was pretending to work right beside me.
I opened the tracker, noting that the car in Manhattan, at the Gioffres’ penthouse,wasAdriano’s unacceptably expensive pink one. I had almost chosen not to fit a tracker in that one because he never used it.
Cars were my passion, and the Lucca car business wasmine. It had been the only idea I had kept separate from my father when he was Don. Made Men who required specialized, tailored vehicles would request them from my business, and my men would locate that car, steal it, or auction it for pennies, and thenwe would customize it in the workshops around Brooklyn and sell it to them for millions.
At first, when I had been required to do the tailoring myself, I had customized all of Adriano’s dream cars but had fitted most of them with trackers; his presence was non-negotiable, and it was necessary to know where to find him at all times.
“You are in Manhattan,” I said.
Adriano looked up from his laptop. “I am?”
“Your Bugatti is visiting the Gioffres.” I turned the screen to show him.
Adriano leaped from his chair, snatching my phone from my hand. “Why is she there with thosecrazies? Wait…why are you stalking me?”
“I am not stalking you; you are right here,” I said, already pushing through the room, down the corridor, and running up the two flights of stairs to Sicily’s bathroom.
I tore open the door to the first bathroom, my chest beginning to ache from the assumption I had been forced to make.
It was empty, as I had predicted.
My heart was beating so loudly that I was conscious of it against my shirt.
The second bathroom was empty too.
Her bedroom was also empty, her wet towel strewn over her bed.
“Sicily!” I called sharply, aware that my tone was unfriendly.
It got no response.
“Adriano, call her from my phone.”He did as I asked, and I heard it go to voicemail. Twice.“Call her from yours.”
When his went to voicemail too, I concluded that my wife had driven Adriano’s Bugatti to Manhattan, and the ache traveled to every limb in my body. My mind replayed every second of theday, trying to identify where she had frowned, or moved away, or quieted herself, but I could not find what I had done wrong.
