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CHAPTER ONE
DAMON (SIX YEARS AGO, Palermo, Sicily)
“Figlio.” My mother takes my face in her hands and kisses both of my cheeks. Although an Irishwoman by birth, she always calls me by the Italian word for son in a nod to her Italian husband. It’s a bit of respect that pisses me off, as I hold no affection for the man. But in the Mafia world, respect is drilled into us from an early age…beaten into us, in some cases…so I keep my mouth shut and play my part.
“Madre. You look younger than ever.” I accept her kisses and offer one of my own.
My mother’s ruby lips rise into a smile. “Always the charmer,mio figlio,” she says playfully, and releases my face to take her seat beside my grandmother.
“Nonna,” I greet my grandmother—my father’s mother—who smiles up at me. She’s a kind woman, always bearing a smile and a soft word. There was nothing of her in my father, a volatile, angry man. He’s gone now, though, so it doesn’t matter anymore.
“Damon, you are getting even taller! How is that possible?” Her Italian accent is heavy around the English words.
I walk to her and place a kiss on both of her cheeks. “You say that every time you see me.” At twenty-five, I haven’t stretched much. My growing days are mostly over with, but my nonna always sees the little changes in me.
“It’s the beard,” my mother says as I sit down. The blue of her shirtdress matches perfectly with the midday sky.
The view from the restaurant’s veranda is picture perfect. With rolling mountains and winding roads that are carved deep, the red caps of the hills make the gray pavements resemble the veins of mountain gods.
The warm Sicily breeze brushes my skin, and I relax in my chair, more at ease than I’ve been in a while. Maybe it’s because my brother, Marcus, isn’t joining us today. A mean drunk, he walks in my father’s footsteps, so I’m glad I don’t have to look at him.
My zia, looks like my mother, with her dark blue eyes and striking black hair. That’s where I get my features from—my mother’s side. My height and build come from mypadre. A knot tightens in my chest, and I’m tempted to rub the spot but place my focus somewhere else.
I push a small white box, wrapped tightly with a blue ribbon, toward my Nonna. “A tiny gift,” I say.
Her old fingers, coated in rings that weigh her down, reach for the delicate box. Concentration pinches her gray brows as she peels open the ribbon.
“More jewelry?” Myziaasks before my grandmother has even opened her gift.
“Let her open it,sorella. Patience is not a virtue you possess.” Madreraises both eyebrows at me and waggles them with good humor.
I hide a smirk. The two sisters are so different—my mother is sweet and gentle, and her sister possesses a wicked tongue and sharp wit. It makes them unforgettable as a duo, and I adore them both. They are women who married hard men, women who gave up their power when they became wives ofla famiglia.
That’s something I learned quickly, when my mother would nurse our wounds or do the best she could by bringing us here forgelatoafter something had happened. But the regret in her eyes was always there, and sometimes, even to this day, I see it peeking out from beneath her lashes.
Nonna struggles with taking the lid off the box, dragging my attention from my thoughts. The anticipation has everyone watching her. I’m hungry, so I reach across the set table and open the lid, revealing the butterfly brooch with a blue stone in the center. The same blue as the ribbon I handpicked only this morning.
Her fingers shake as she brings them to her mouth. “Damon.” She hisses my name as she lifts the brooch and brings it closer to her gaze for inspection.
“I had it restored, Nonna.”
Her dark blue eyes light as she stares at the gift.
A few years ago, her home, an aging brownstone in the city, had burned to the ground. In it was a brooch passed down from her mother’s mother, a family heirloom I knew had to be restored. Finding a man with the talent to bring the jewelry back to life had been a feat in itself, but I had managed to find someone—a man who was close to retirement and happy to take on the task of restoring the object.
“Figlio.” My mother is close to tears and reaches across the table to clutch my arm. “I thought it was lost in the fire.”
I remember after the fire, when her pain at that loss and others was nearly as great as Nonna’s. My grandmother was always more mother to mymadrethan her own kin; my mother was like her own blood daughter. They shared everything as mother and daughter—pain and suffering, joy and pride.
I nod, the gratitude in my mother’s gaze almost as rewarding as the awe in Nonna’s watery eyes. “It took some time, but it was worth the wait. I’m glad it arrived just in time for Nonna’s birthday.”
My nonna rises on shaky legs and makes her way around to me. I get up, meeting her halfway. Walking takes a lot out of her, and to have her outside enjoying a meal with us isn’t something we thought would even be possible at this stage in her life.
She opens her arms, the brooch held tightly in her clasp. “Nipote. My favoritenipote.”
I laugh and accept her embrace, squeezing her carefully in return. “Don’t let Marcus hear you say that.”
“I do not care. The world can hear it. He is also my favorite.” Nonna looks down at the brooch for a final time, and I don’t think she wants me to see the lie in her gaze. She knows what Marcus is; we all know. A carbon copy of our father.
