Of course, if mamma found the place, she would have made sure papà had a pool. He’d been in the US Coast Guard years ago and loved the water.
No matter how bright the place, a dark cloud seemed to linger. It was at odds with the picture-perfect colors of this area of Paris. It became even heavier when we entered the house.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Except for the tension. It was loud. The house was anticipating my arrival and what we had to discuss. As soon as we entered the office, every man sitting stood.
It must have been dire if papà,nonno, my uncles (Rocco, Dario, Romeo), my brothers, a few male cousins, and Saverio were all in the same room. Mamma sat across fromnonnoat the desk, her face turned toward his. Her back was straight and her posture rigid.
After each male family member greeted me, every one of them noticing the ring on my right hand, even Saverio, I touched her on the shoulder, and she visibly relaxed. I felt the tension against my palm. A cold that burned.
Taking a seat next to mamma, I stared at my grandfather expectantly. Even though his hair was entirely silver, he was still a handsome man. He could probably still outdo any man in the room. He was what legends were made of.
“Mia,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “I am sure you have an idea of why you are here.”
He was speaking to me like I was two and he had to tell me my pet bunny had been killed by a predator.
“I know,” I said. “Someone wants me dead.”
A bunch of pissed-off grumbles went around the room. Papà rolled his shoulders, ran a hand through his hair, and pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against. I met Saverio’s eyes, but only for a brief second. They communicated too much just by a look.
Mamma reached out and took my hand. “Mia,” she said, her voice soft, but the pressure on my hand communicated something else.
She wanted me to tone down the bluntness due to the male sensitivity factor in the room. But they should have realized. I was acting this way because they taught me to. None of them took death threats too seriously, unless it was aimed at a woman they loved. Besides, I had anticipated this. It had only been a matter of time. History doesn’t lie.
“We all knew this was coming,” I said. “I’m taking this seriously, but I’m not surprised.”
Nonnonodded, a grave look on his face. “Anticipation or not, it still does not change the situation, or how we proceed forward with this threat.”
“Livia?” I asked.
Livia and I had a long history. Her father—Livio—was a distant cousin of mine. Her mother—Cerise—was a French ballerina my mamma had trained years ago when she was the star of the Paris ballet. Livio’s first wife had been killed in a storm of bullets somewhere along the Amalfi Coast when a family member double-crossed them. Livio had never recovered from her death. Not even when Cerise fell in love with him. Then he was killed in another battle between factions of the Fausti family. Naturally, Cerise blamed them.
She double-crossed us and almost got mamma killed.
After Cerise decided to be in cahoots with her uncle, the madman Olivier Nemours,nonnospared Livia and hid her. Cerise was never found. But mamma warned me that one day they would probably reunite, and Livia might come back for revenge. There was no telling what Cerise would tell her. The woman was mad.
It was a long, sordid tale, and I knew it well.
Nonnonodded. “We believe so.” He pushed away from the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a box. It resembled a coffin whittled from what looked like chestnut.
The air in the room grew thicker when he slid it closer to me. It was like the men were sucking it all up.
Even though my hands trembled, I sat forward some, studying it. When I went to touch it, mamma moved my hand. Papà made a noise between a growl and a whimper when she touched it.
Similar ones had been sent to her before.
I leaned in even closer when she opened it. Tucked away, against black velvet, was a purple rose that had clearly been robbed of air and sunlight. It was wilted and smelled of decay—death. A note was tied to the bottom of the stem. It was actually a toe tag.
Mia Bellarosa Faustiwas written in elegant script where a name would go. Below it had the cause of death written by a blunt, angry hand.
Bled to death.
Chapter6
Saverio
She sat quietly, hands in her lap, like a stone figure. Her eyes gazed out of the car window, and the warm light created a halo around her. I was bringing her to practice before she had another show. She’d have them for days.
Her face was determined, but something about her body language told me she was more tired than she let on.
