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For the first time in what feels like forever, a garden is blooming in the Sahara of my soul.
It started slowly—a single, fragile shoot rising through the parched earth of days spent avoiding Mother and bending to Father. With every furtive glance Damon sends my way, every shock of sensation created by the accidental brush of our skin, it gathered momentum, and now it’s planted firmly even as it reaches for the light.
Damon.
Damon is the light.
There’s no way, though, that anything between us would ever work. He’s so much older—older than Angel, even. More significantly, he’s my father’s man. Any kind of dalliance with the don’s daughter would be death to a man in the employ ofla famiglia—not because Father loves me, particularly, but because hevaluesme.
My lips thin and twist, and I pound a fist once, twice into the sticky dough I’m working with. He values what I can bring him.
I’ve long since moved past the point of being angry about my father. I am Valachi, the eldest daughter. As such, I will eventually be married to someone who brings my family something they need, something that will make them stronger. That’s simply the way of things in our world.
I managed to get Father to hold off on any such arrangement, making myself indispensable to him and playing on his need for me. Until Damon, Father relied on me to keep things even keel with the family and serve as a kind of partner, as Mother is less than useless. She’s a liability.
I pinch off a tiny piece of dough and bring it to my mouth, closing my eyes and humming a bit at the tart, slightly sour flavor.
God, I love bread.
This is not the existence I fantasized about as a child. I wanted to be a pastry chef and maybe something fun, like an event coordinator. Father didn’t allow me to go to culinary school, despite years of pleas.
It was too dangerous, he said.
I would be a target, he said
Someone might steal me to get to him, he said.
No… best I stay home like a good girl and let Father keep me safe. And so here I remain at the ripe old age of twenty-two, performing tasks a wife should be, taking care of a father and family who don’t deserve my affection. Although… it’s not like I don’t have the time, I suppose.
I have nothing but time, stretching out before me, dull minute after dull minute, confined as I am to my golden cage.
Poor little mafia princess, I sneer at myself. I don’t think I’ll ever be free.
Still, I can’t help wishing on the star I cannot reach. Can’t help dreaming of having a life I create for myself, of days I walk through with autonomy, doing things I choose for myself.
With a snort, I move to the next loaf. From my spot at the marble counter beneath the wall of steel-framed windows, I watch Damon with my sister. My hands stay busy, kneading and folding the wet mixture that will become several fresh loaves of ciabatta. The automatic nature of the task gives me the excuse I need to focus on the man beyond the glass.
He would catch any woman’s eye. It’s certainly no hardship to allow myself space to moon a little over his strongly formed, handsome features, using the cover of watching Vivi. He’s not conventionally good-looking. His face doesn’t possess pretty-boy perfection, but that’s what I like about it. It has character, shaped by things like the faintly cruel set of his mouth and the way it’s at odds with the emotion I see constantly roiling in those dark blue eyes.
His face—no, scratch that—the manfascinates me. It’s a dangerous allure, one I know I should ignore with every ounce of will within me.
What really captivates me, more than his looks or the sensual masculine grace he moves with, is the way he interacts with my sister when he thinks no one’s looking.
This is why he’s the light.
My hands pause their task, resting motionless on the dough, as the housekeeper enters. “Miss?”
“Yes, Gina?”
The round woman wrings her hands before her. “I… I’m not sure I should say anything—”
“Speak freely, please.”
Her face is creased with worry. “It’s your brother, Miss. He’s just come home and is throwing things around in your father’s office…”
I sigh. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you for letting me know, Gina.”
She leaves, and I return to my task, shaking my head a little. It’s not the first time Angel’s come home and thrown a tantrum over something, and it won’t be the last. I’ll tend to it in a while. After I finish the bread… and finish watching Damon from the window. I’m always watching him from a distance. He might give Vivi some of his time, but he doesn’t share the same space with me. I think he does his best to avoid me, really. It’s been this way ever since the night my mother hit me in front of him. Those were the most words we have shared.
