“Eat,” my father urges, although his own lunch remains untouched. He’s swirling the wine in his glass, studying me intently.
I take a tentative bite, wary of the temperature, humming as the flavors of savory meat, garlic, and fresh tomato explode on my tongue. The food is always a highlight of these visits. I would never tell Isabella so, but Luca is a better chef than her.
I swallow the bite. Sip more wine, relaxing some. This is … nice. Normal.
“I was selected as first chair,” I share impulsively, although he didn’t bother to ask about the symphony.
“That’s wonderful,” Salvatore replies. “They are fortunate to have your expertise.”
It’s not entirely accurate. Generally speaking, there are more talented musicians than there are prestigious positions. But it’s a nice sentiment and more of a response than I was expecting, so I smile rather than argue.
“I hope so.”
My father has never disparaged my choice of career, but he’s never expressed much interest in it either. I’m not sure any employment, short of building my own illegal empire, would have impressed Salvatore, but a job playing music certainly didn’t achieve any admiration.
“Sienna is going to bring you shopping in Milan tomorrow.”
The rich food in my stomach sours at the mention of my stepmother. I carefully chew another bite, then reach for my wine. Take a larger sip this time, steeling myself for what’s likely to become an argument.
“There’s nothing I need.”
Especially if purchasing it requires spending time with Sienna, who is only five years older than me. Salvatore married her twelve years ago, the same summer I met Lev, making itobvious he was willing to welcome more family members—just not me.
“I am hosting a party this weekend. You’ll need a new dress for that.”
“I packed dresses. I don’t need a new one.”
Salvatore runs a hand through his full head of graying hair. His warmth is dimming, replaced by impatience. “This party is important.”
“And I’ll go. But I don’t need a new dress to stand in a corner all evening.”
He sighs, picking up his wine and continuing to ignore his pasta.
I set down the fork, appetite absent yet again. My sense of foreboding is increasing, not receding, yet I’m unsure why. Parties are common during these visits. I attend at least one, often more.
“Do you remember Nico Morello?”
“No.”
“He was at Leo’s wedding.”
Salvatore seems to be waiting for a response, so I say, “Okay.”
Leo’s wedding was nine years ago and attended by several hundred people. The suggestion I’d recall one guest is ridiculous.
“He is looking for a bride. He wants to marry you.”
I huff an incredulous laugh.
Salvatore remains sober. Serious.
“No. You’re—what—no.” The concept is too ludicrous to comprehend. “I’m—there’s not—I don’t exist.”
“He knows you’re my daughter. Everyone will soon. That is the point of this party. To announce you as a Caruso and to share the news of your engagement. So, yes, you need a new dress.”
I can’t breathe. This room is filled with trees, yet any oxygen is absent.
Acknowledgment used to be what I wanted most from my father. I begrudged my brothers for being his recognized children while I was dismissed as a distant relative whenever anyone asked who I was. I rescinded that wish the day I walked in on Leo washing blood off his hands in the kitchen sink. I realized, as crimson-tinted water swirled the drain, that I didn’twantto be a Caruso. I wanted a normal family. I wasn’t excluded from mine—it didn’t exist at all.
