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I went to his home. I don’t know what I expected. It was all very Romeo and Juliet of me, I suppose. I thought maybe we could run away and be together.
He took me out on the balcony of his suite of rooms, made love to me, and then drove me to the fucking bus station.
Once more, for old times’ sake.
Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
I expected more.
I guess I know better now than to put my faith in faithless men.
It’sadrearyfuckingday.
I stand in the long, narrow sun terrace that makes up a hefty portion of the back side of the Scarpetta family estate, taking in the view spread out before me. Baccio is curled on the stone-tiled floor at my feet, snoozing in a splash of weak sunlight. The rear gardens front valuable riverside acreage, and past their sloping, perfectly landscaped lawns, the Hudson flows, cold and gray on this morning. On its opposite bank, the Manhattan skyline rises to a cloud-heavy sky.
Before all of that, though, Celeste the Flower Fairy adorns the garden front and center. Celeste was my best friend as a child—even if she was made of marble. A statue of a woman carrying a basket of flowers, one leg peeking through a slit of her dress, she perches as she always has on a pedestal at the center of a path that branches and leads to various precisely manicured gardens.
The Scarpetta estate is located at the top of the Palisades, grand and lofty cliffs that face New York on the New Jersey side. Below them, businesses and apartment buildings line the foot of the cliffs before meeting the river that separates Jersey from the city.
Back in my grandfather’s day, when the estate was constructed, he had wanted a spot on the cliffs where nothing came between them and the river, where the cliffs dropped straight into the water.
That part of the Palisades is protected by a national park, though. Even with attempts to bribe some people in the government in order to make his real estate dream happen, he was unsuccessful.
The men in my family have always wanted what they can’t have.
A barge floats down the Hudson, the vessel’s wake rippling the reflection of the skyline. I always thought it foolish for my grandfather to fight so hard for a spot on a cliff. It just means there’s further to fall, after all.
But that’s the way it’s always been—me unable to comprehend the priorities of the men in my world. Unable to fathom their choices. I’ve always known that I would do things differently if I were in charge. I’ve proven as much.
Bringing my hand up, I curl my fingers around the gold St. Francis medallion I’m rarely without. It was my twin brother’s, given to him by our mother for his namesake saint. I took it from his personal possessions after his death and find myself touching it constantly, especially when I feel stressed or anxious.
This is, without a doubt, such a moment.
This will be the first time I’m seeing my father since he sent me away—away from New York, away from Luca. Part of me, the part clutching my brother’s medallion, is nervous. The other part is steady, aware that I’m not the same timid girl Agostino Scarpetta sent across the country. I’ve learned to shape my own destiny, to chase what I want. What’s good for me.
Even when what I want may be the most dangerous thing in the world for me.
The air shifts, and I turn to see an unfamiliar man step into the room. Baccio’s ears prick, and he lifts his head, waiting for my command. I hold my hand palm down and level with the floor, a signal to stay. The gun in the newcomer’s waistband and the deferential, if cocky, look in his eye mark him as a soldier.
Wonder where Arturo went?
The thought is idle and lacks any real curiosity. There’s a high turnover rate in our business.
“Don Scarpetta is ready for you,” he says.
“Lovely.”
Striding out ahead of him, I walk down the hallway toward my father’s office, Baccio at my hip. Ceiling lamps hang above, positioned every few feet and forming a line down the hall. As a child, I used to love looking at them as I ran through the hallway with Enzo and Francis.
They’re different now, something about the curved globes almost clinical in style. Maybe it’s because now that I’m an adult, fully aware of what kind of people traverse this hall, I’m no longer able to view it as a home.
It’s a business.
Agostino Scarpetta waits behind his ornate mahogany desk when I finally reach his office. I enter, and at a look from him, the two men sitting with him rise and leave. Even here, in his mansion on a hill, my father requires around-the-clock guards.
I glance down at Baccio, sitting politely at my ankles. I suppose I can’t say too much about that.
Father apparently feels safe enough in my presence to dispense with his security. It kind of pisses me off.
