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Chapter 1
MICOLA
Boom.Boom.Boom.
As expected, Mateo and Ciro, my brothers, dressed in gray and black, are banging on my art studio’s door. They’re wearing sunglasses when the sun set about an hour ago. Ugh, they think they’re so cool.
I pull open the heavy glass door.
“Good ol Brooklyn!” Ciro hollers out.
They slide right in like a couple snakes or as if they own the place.
My big brother, Mateo, sent me another generous payment I had to return. This time I asked the bank to refuse any deposits from him. He’s absolutely relentless with this excessive need to be my security. Especially since my art studio isn’t booming at the moment or in his words. ¨up to par”, he wants to smother me with money.
Most people wouldn’t complain, but this is blood money, and I reject it by bodily impulse. If you want to know how serious it is, then you have to understand that when I was a kid, I couldn’t stomach being around my Costa family. Without a doubt, I was an anxious, paranoid child who’d lose herself in painting to cope with the energy of a family tied up in corrupt dealings.
Between bottles of expensive wine, the husky chuckles of my uncles, and the trembling voices of Sicilian folk singers, it was utterly overwhelming for a sensitive person like myself. I knew what was behind all that was something murky. Sometimes artists are birthed out of circumstance. I expressed the cheerful corruption of my environment by making art.
“Honestly, is the goal to be poor?” Mateo shakes his head as he scans my studio’s colorful walls.
With the exception of my mural of Plumeria, the yellow and vanilla colored flower of Sicily, my studio’s walls are filled with framed artwork from children of various New York boroughs. Unfortunately, I’m unable to offer the summer programs I was hoping for because I don’t have enough money to pay artists to teach. Even with this fact, I won’t touch my family’s money.
“No…she just wants to be cool to all these neighborhood kids.” Ciro adds, snickering.
“Um, excuse me? You guys are the ones giving yourselves away as tough mafia kids with those sunglasses after dusk.”
I place my hands on my hips, which they hate. They always tell me how I channel Mom when I do this.
“Look, you keep refusing our contributions while desperately needing new tables.”
Mateo frowns at the large wooden tables meant to be stained and reek of artist’s play.
“You two never knew how to clean your ears. Idon’t want Costa money.”
“So you don’t want a studio?”
“I have enough to pay for rent. That’s not the problem.”
“Paying rent isn’t a successful business. You’re in your thirties now, Micola. What is it you can’t afford?” Mateo folds his arms against his chest.
Mateo, the oldest of us, is a lawyer for the most corrupt human beings outside of Sicily. He’s also a lover of “putting women in their place.” He literally tried to persuade me to open up a salon because, in his words, “All women are vain. You’re better off getting profit from facts than playing in paint.” What makes him dangerous is how many women fall for his bullshit. He’s a good-looking man with the typical olive, dark skin, overly cologned, and a pair of slanted brown eyes that cut. Too many of my friends than I’d like to admit have shared a night with my brother. Ugh, fucking gross.
“I have to take the summer off. I can no longer see it as a problem. I need to save enough to pay my after-school teachers this fall.” I mumble.
“You can’t pay Teresa?”
Ciro’s green eyes light up. Ciro’s the baby, the babyboy, so his duty is to be the fool. Also, there isn’t anything he wouldn’t do for money. He’s pretty much the opposite of me.
“Teresa will be fine. She has another job planned for this summer.”
Teresa is my Venezuelan ride-or-die assistant. I met her in art school here in New York, and Ciro often brings her up.
¨Let her know I can always use an assistant, too.¨ Ciro slides his sunglasses off his face.
¨Just stop.” I roll my eyes, grabbing my purse from behind my corner desk.
“Micola, this is our responsibility. To help provide for you. You’re not married, and after Dad died, it is our duty to—”
