1
Angela
“I’m going to lose two hundred thousand Euros today because of thatcazzo,” Papa curses.
Around me, everyone is standing and cheering. Their enthusiasm is infectious, and I can’t help but feel the excitement building inside me even though I don’t particularly care for horse racing. I should probably feel concerned about the considerable sum of money my father stands to lose, seeing as it’s partly mine as well, but paradoxically that only makes me cheer on the current leader all the more.
Papa lowers his horse racing binoculars, a fancy pair designed by Nikon, to glare at me. It’s a look I’m used to receiving from him. “Why are you clapping?”
I bite my lower lip and give him an innocent look. “I’m cheering on the second place horse?”
He snorts, then returns his attention to the race.
Seriously, I hope we lose. Serves him right for dragging me out here.
Since I don’t have binoculars, I squint to make out the current lead horse, a beautiful colt named Allegro who has dominated the race since the starting gates opened. The animal’s muscles flow so smoothly along its flanks as its head bobs up and down, while its tail is strung out behind it like a streamer as those powerful legs rise and fall.
Allegro’s rider perches in that half standing, half crouching position known as the Monkey. At least I think it’s called that.
My eye’s drift to the jockey’s face. Wish I could make it out, but without binoculars it’s useless.
Bet he’s hot.
Well, if he doesn’t lose this race, that won’t last for very long—not after Papa’s men are done with him.
“Damn it,” Papa exclaims as the race enters the second lap. “Someone give me a gun so I can shoot that horse.”
Leonardo, one of my older brothers, promptly offers my father the aforementioned gun. Papa looks at the pistol, then hits Leonardo in the back of the head. “Idiot! Put that away before you kill someone. I was speaking metaphorically, not literally. You’re supposed to be the smart one!” Papa passes me the binoculars. “I can’t watch. Tell me what happens.”
I eagerly accept the pair and train it on the lead horse. Specifically, the jockey. I’m disappointed when I see his face. Very ordinary looking. Then again, most jockeys are—definitely not the sort of people you’d see on the cover of magazines outside of International Racehorse. Still, he has balls for defying my family.
Growing bored now that I know what he looks like, I let the binoculars drift across the stands. People watching can be so much more fun. The Palermo Ippodromo is fairly packed today, with only a few empty sections.
As I’m shifting my view around, I spot a few members of the Rizzo family. A chill runs down my spine when I see The Cleaver among them. The most horrible man I’ve ever met. His binoculars are lowered, so that his face is readily visible. The grotesquely puckered scar running from forehead to cheek is unmistakable, as is that nose—the biggest I’ve seen, giving Pinocchio a run for the money. It’s twisted and bumpy like an enforcer’s, a testament to the number of times he’s broken it.
I can’t believe I’m supposed to marry him in a month’s time.
As if sensing my gaze, The Cleaver turns his head toward me. His face lights up with a lascivious smile, and his eyes regard me with a mixture of lust and cockiness.
How the hell can he even see me from this far away?
I inhale with a hiss and quickly lean back and out of sight, hiding behind my bodyguard Maurizio. I lower the binoculars and reach behind me, searching for Papa’s hand. When I find it I entwine my fingers through his, wanting the reassurance of his presence.
“What is it?” Papa asks.
“You never told mehewas going to be here!” I hiss.
“He?” Papa says. “He who?”
I glance at him. “The Cleaver.”
My father gives me a confused look.
I release his hand then give him the binoculars. I point past Maurizio. “Over there.”
Papa doesn’t bother to look. Instead he shrugs. “So?”
“Henevercomes to the races,” I tell him.
