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“Yes,Madre.” I can’t bear to be angry with her. Not when I’m losing her forever.
“Dethrone him.”
“Yes,Madre.”
1
Milana
Istare at my reflection in the mirror while my mother hums the familiar tune of “Que Sera, Sera.” There was a time I believed the lyrics to that song?believed the future wasn’t all mapped out. That was a long time ago. I’m no longer that naive girl who thought she could make her own decisions.
I’m a Genovese. A female Genovese. My future was planned the moment I was born and didn’t have a penis between my legs. I may have escaped from here, but my future was never mine. I’ve been silly thinking it was.
My mother puts the brush down and surveys her work. I didn’t get her dark locks or blue eyes. I look like my father?wavy, blonde hair. Green eyes. My mother always says I have his ambition too, only I don’t believe she means it as a compliment.
That ambition drove me away from Birmingham toward bigger and better things. A college degree. Independence. Life experience.
Who am I kidding? That same ambition also drove me right back to my childhood home as if I’d never left.
I’m going to take over, Milana. I need your help.
Growing up, I always knew my family wasn’t typical. Yes, we had summer vacations and trips to the Galleria. But those were accompanied by men with guns. We aren’t celebrities, not in the usual sense. We’re the Genoveses. Fifth-generation Italian mafia family. Might as well be celebrities.
When I left Birmingham, part of me knew I would always end up back here. My father had been under Stefano Moretti’s command my entire life. As a child, I didn’t comprehend what that meant. All I knew was my best friend was the son of my father’s boss. The Moretti home is the only place I was allowed to go without my parents. I always thought it meant it was safer than my own. It simply meant they had more men with more guns.
Sal and I would do our best to sneak around the massive rooms in the house and outside on the grounds, see if we could escape the watchful eye of the guards. We would pretend we had these amazing adventures together, a life outside the family.
Sometimes, we were shipwrecked on a lost island. Occasionally, we would pretend we’d gone back to Italy, left all this behind. Other days, we were pirates, searching for treasure, hoping one day we’d get into his mother’s treasure chest. That never happened.
Before I knew it, Salvatore was thirteen and different. Our fun little games no longer amused him. His mother had died, and he was heartbroken. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to fix it. One thing is for damn sure, his father never even attempted to.
So, when my father called and asked for my help, I didn’t hesitate to return. I left behind my apartment, the man I was dating, and the few friends I’d made. If my father had a chance to take the throne, I wanted to help him do it. Men like Stefano Moretti didn’t deserve such power. Then again, did any man?
“You look beautiful,mio piccolo tesoro,” my mother assures me, calling me her little darling like when I was a girl.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask her what my father has planned. I came back like he asked and have been patiently waiting for him to clue me in on how he’s actually going to take over. Was this all a ploy to get me back home? How am I supposed to help him?
“Thank you,Madre.”
A knock on the door ends our short conversation. “The guests have arrived,signora.”
She gives the butler a slight nod, and he waits at the door to escort us downstairs. Resting her hands on my shoulders, she sighs. I expect her to give me some advice, tell me to enjoy myself. Something. Anything. Instead, that heavy sigh fills me with dread as I stand.
I came home to be by my father’s side, prove to him our family deserves to take the throne. That we deserve respect, the same as Stefano Moretti. The more time goes by, the more I’m left with this desperate desire to leave again. Leave before it’s too late.
More than that, I’m left with this crippling fear it’s already too late.
2
Salvatore
My father puffs on his cigar, the stench from the smoke filling the car. My throat tickles, aching to cough, but I fight it. I’ve never understood his addiction to those things, especially when his wife died from lung cancer.
“He’s planning a move,” I warn.
My father shrugs off my concern. “He’s been planning for years. It’ll never come to fruition. Riccardo Genovese is acazzo di codardo.”
“Perhaps. I don’t see him as a coward. Besides, he has the respect of the families, the guards, the workers.”
