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Eleven Years Old
One Year Later
I wascertain I wasn’t supposed to feel this way. Wearing a dress that I already knew I hated with a passion, I walked in between the tables that had been set up on our terrace underneath the large cream umbrellas. They looked more like sails from a boat and offered very welcome shade as we handed out the hors d’oevres our cook had prepared earlier in the day. We had staff to do the job, of course we did, but my papa always felt the need to parade his children amongst the people we called aunt and uncle out of politeness, none of which were family by blood. He loved to hear how we were a credit to him and our mum. So, all dressed up in our finery, we dutifully went around smiling and talking to all of those who wanted to spend a little time with us. I loved the strong sense of family within the Italian culture, but I hated being on parade for everyone to watch and remark over. My little sister, Mia, at six years old had no such hang-ups, so I put it down to my age.
It has to be my hormones.
A few of my so-called aunts and uncles were kind towards me, as if they could sense my embarrassment. They took something to eat, told me how much I’d grown since they’d seen me last time and allowed me to move on. Others squeezed my cheeks until they felt painful and offered me their faces to kiss whether I wanted to or not.
And then there were the few that expected me to still want to be held by them and even worse, expected to hold me for a while. So, here I was, after making it difficult for one such uncle to pick me up and place me on his lap, leaning the smallest possible part of my bottom against the overly fat thigh of my Uncle Enzo, while I stared at my parents and older brothers with a silent plea for help. In the hotter than expected September heatwave, his body odour was creeping out of the expensive suit jacket he seemed determined to keep on. My papa had recognised my look of discomfort and he’d shook his head slightly and frowned at me for a few seconds in reprimand. The only look of sympathy and understanding had come from my nine-year-old brother Dante, who was making his way as quickly as he could to my side without, I hoped, making it obvious to everyone else around us. I wasn’t sure when the smell of the cigarette he had hanging from his dry lips had become so repulsive. It was so revolting, I only inhaled when my body was in pain and my brain was screaming out that it couldn’t allow me to hold my breath any longer.
All I knew was over the past couple of years I had begun to dread the times when my Uncle Enzo would turn up at our holiday home, when previously, along with the rest of my siblings, I’d love to hear he was coming to visit. He had been my favourite uncle until without warning he wasn’t. He still brought sweets and gifts out to us on every visit, but even the sound of his Italian leather shoes connecting with the flagstones on our terrace made my stomach turn over. Uncle Enzo had taught us all to swim in our large kidney shaped pool and read us stories in the early evenings before we were banished away to bed so the adults could have many childfree dinners.
Once, I had jumped up and down with excitement at being told he was due to visit, but not anymore. The excitement had faded. For no proven reason, other than his presence made my skin itch and my stomach revolt. In the past two years, he had only really spent time with my older brother Zeno and me. For some reason, we were now the only ones he deemed of any importance and I couldn’t work out why. My other brothers and sister had still received the sweets and presents he brought over for us, but he no longer sought them out to spend any time with them.
Lucky them.
I tried to stand and his hold on me tightened. It made the whole situation worse, as once again my body collided with his and every single muscle in my body flinched at the connection, while he carried on talking to the rest of the people seated at his table, seemingly completely oblivious. Reluctantly, I rested against his leg again and made myself freeze. I had my hands clasped together in front of me over the pretty blue dress he had gifted me earlier that day, which my parents had made me wear to the gathering they were hosting that afternoon, despite my protests.
‘Serafina.’ Dante arrived at my side and his matching aqua coloured eyes found mine. Like me, he was an old head on young shoulders and out of my three brothers, he was the one I was closest to.
‘Yes,’ I replied hopefully.
‘Gaia has another tray for you.’
I smiled my thanks to him as I felt my captor release his hold over me and as soon as I could I moved quickly away, making a mental note to make sure I didn’t get close to him again for the rest of the day, or hopefully for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER FIVE
SALVATORE
Twenty Years Old
One Year Later
‘Enter.’The voice barked out its command.
I took in a deep breath, lifted my head from staring at the immaculately polished shoes on my feet and stood as tall as I could pull myself up to be. I wasn’t sure I’d yet reached my full height, as I seemed to remember reading somewhere that men didn’t stop growing until they were between twenty-one and twenty-five, so for now my six foot five inches would have to be enough.
At least I was tall enough to look the man in the eye, and I’d wanted to look upon him and have his eyes focus on me for longer than I could remember.
Taking hold of the brushed silver handle, I pushed it down with force and strode into the room.
‘Leave us.’ I watched as the two younger men in the room picked up their jackets and made to move past me. The one known as Ricco tapped his holstered Beretta and barged his shoulder into mine as he moved past me, in warning. At eighteen stone, I managed to keep my footing in the pissing contest he’d created. I understood just what Ricco was trying to do. I’d been made to leave my Black Ice semi auto and my maternal grandfather’s knife by the door and had been strip searched, so it was laughable that he felt the need to try to intimidate me. I was convinced that my grandfather, the under boss, would also have a gun in position and pointed at my balls in case I became an unwelcome intruder.
Seemingly, still completely oblivious to my presence, the older man seated at the large mahogany desk in front of me continued to clip the ends off his cigars, sniff each one and place them into what looked like a hand decorated box placed in front of him.
But I knew that with every second that passed between us in silence, he was testing me.
Did I flinch?
Did I fidget?
Was I breaking out into a sweat?
I stood still, controlling my breathing, with my eyes ready to meet his, the minute he felt he’d figured out enough about me to bestow me with a look.
I’d seen the under boss many times before from a distance, but never up close, and as a common foot soldier, I couldn’t remember ever feeling his eyes rest on me. But over the past two years, I’d worked hard on achieving a better position. My capo had commanded, and I’d effectively responded. Like many before me in history who were due to rise to the top, my notoriety went before me. I was known as a hard, unrelenting bastard, who took no prisoners and more importantly for the Ndrangheta, left no witnesses. In the two years since my grandmother’s death, I’d proven myself time after time and had risen in the ranks, until I had over forty of my own men as soldiers underneath me.
