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But I cut her off before she finishes her train of thought. “We can’t go to the cops, Kaye. Gio as good as admitted to me that this thing of his follows its own laws, not the ones made up by our society. If I go to the cops, something bad will happen. I just know it.”
“We’ll get you into witness protection,” Kaye decides. “He can’t threaten you, Chris. What aren’t you understanding about this?”
What isn’tsheunderstanding about this? I’m not turning down her notion because I’m being difficult; I’m turning it down because there’s no other way. “You know how Malcolm said he’d ruin your career before it ever got started? Why did you believe him?”
Caught off guard by the change in direction, Kaye stammers her response. “He’s rich. He’s got the money and connections to blackball me in the law industry before I even finish my undergrad.”
“That’s precisely it,” I explain, the weight of the situation evident in my tone. “Giovanni may not have Malcolm’s wealth, but hehas powerful connections. That’s why I can’t go to the police. I might find myself in an even worse situation than I am already.”
Kaye opens her mouth to argue but quickly closes it. We sit in silence for a few minutes, the echo of laughter from the hallways occasionally breaking the tension.
“I reached out to Dante Terlizzi for help,” I confess softly.
“Niccolo’s brother?” she asks, her brow furrowing. “What can he do?”
I shrug my shoulders because, truly, I don’t know. Maybe he can change Giovanni’s mind. Maybe he has more power than Nic does. I don’t understand the structure of everything; I just know that if anyone can protect me, it’ll be him.
“God, this sucks,” Kaye groans. “I thought finally being adults and getting away from Manhattan was going to be fun.”
“The grass is always greener or something.” For a moment, we laugh, and everything seems like it’s going to be alright.
Chapter 37
Niccolo
Ihaven’t decorated for Christmas since Caterina passed away.
I remember the first year I married her. Cat and Christine spent an entire weekend bringing boxes downstairs from the attic. Every time I thought they were finished, a new box appeared. In a matter of hours, the house transformed into a winter wonderland.
Layers of shimmering fake snow covered every surface while the scent of freshly cut pine filled each room. Sparkling lights twinkled from the trees they set up on every floor, casting a warm glow throughout the house. Even the staircase was adorned with elegant tinsel and delicate ornaments, adding to the festive ambiance.
My parents weren’t really into the holidays when we were growing up. We put up precisely one tree in the living room the Sunday after Thanksgiving. Each of us kids took turns hanging an ornament on the tree until we ran out of space. And that was it. There was no Christmas music playing through the house or decorations strewn across the cabinets in the kitchen. We gotour single Christmas tree and gifts on Christmas Day; then, the holidays were over.
But I tried to recreate the Christmas spirit this year. My heart ached from loss and longing, and I needed something to occupy my mind.
I started by hanging a wreath on the front door. Vibrant red berries and lush greenery instantly added a touch of holiday cheer. Then, I carefully draped fragrant strands of garland along the railing of the porch.
Slowly but surely, I brought down a box of decorations and dispersed them throughout the house. A miniature 3-foot tree adorned with sparkling lights in the kitchen. Lights framing the windows on the outside of the house. A framed photo above the mantle of the one happy Christmas I had with Caterina and Christine before my wife got sick.
It isn’t much, but it lightens my mood as I crawl through December. Between hours spent studying the family dynamics to better understand my role within the Terlizzi dynasty and holing up with Dante to figure out a solution to Christine’s impending arranged marriage, I feel like I’m suffocating. The weight of it all feels like an anchor on my chest, threatening to drown me before I can get a handle on what’s expected of me and what I want to accomplish.
I’m thankful that Christmas is a reprieve from it all. Dante is spending the day with his wife, and my single siblings are taking the week off to go on a booze cruise.
I texted Christine last night, and she said she’d be here bright and early. I wake up at the crack of dawn in anticipation of her arrival. There’s nothing for me to do in the early hours of the dayexcept turn on a Christmas movie in the living room and put a ham in the oven. I’m not making a large feast for Christine and me. Though I’m sure my family would be more than happy to eat the leftovers, I don’t want to spend the next three days trying to figure out how to repurpose ham into sandwiches and soups.
When 9:00 am rolls around, Christine texts that she’s on her way. I pace the living room for a few minutes while waiting for her to arrive, but I feel like I’m going to crawl out of my skin. I’m anxious, and I don’t know why.
I move to the parlor where the grand piano Caterina used to play sits in the corner. The ghost of our memories flees from the room as I near the bench.
Once upon a time, the two of us would sit here at the end of a long day and play together. Back when I thought I could grow to love her, back when life was simpler.
I blow a thin layer of dust off the cover and settle onto the bench. As I stretch my fingers, I’m transported back to when I was ten years old, and my parents forced me to learn an instrument. Dante was a musical prodigy, and our piano teacher praised him every chance she got. It took me longer to figure out how to play, and I resented the constant comparison to my older brother.
But I am no longer ten years old. When I press my fingers to the keys, it takes a minute for it all to come rushing back. The first few musical notes sound tentative and unsure, but grow more confident with each passing stroke. I recall the first composition I ever managed to perfect,Für Elise, and let muscle memory lead me through it.
I stopped playing the piano when I was fifteen, much to the disappointment of my father, even though he only ever liked itwhen Dante played for him. At our wedding, Caterina played a flawless rendition ofCan’t Help Falling In Love With You, and it inspired me to take the instrument back up. Only long enough to make a few memories side-by-side before she was too ill to get out of bed.
Somewhere in the middle of theMoonlight Sonata, the front door slowly creaks open. My fingers falter on the keys as I glance up to see Christine standing in the doorway, illuminated by the sun’s mid-morning rays—the smile on her face tugs at the strings of my heart.
