SORA
As our limo follows the winding drive past the front gates of the Chiaroscuro estate, I can’t help but peer out at the open beauty of their land.
Like a small kingdom on the outskirts of Chicago, it has enough space to get lost in, and the mansion standing at the end of the long driveway looks more like a castle than a home.
I suppose they would need that much room if all five adult brothers and their father share the same location.
Each could have a separate floor of the house—maybe even an entire wing.
And while my family home is lavish by ordinary standards, it’s nothing compared to the opulence of the Chiaroscuro home.
The façade is made up of cream-colored stone with wide-paned windows stretching across the upper floors to let in the light.
And amid the steep eaves of the towering roof are bay windows fashioned into turrets that make it look even more castle-esque.
The tall, circular fountain at the end of the drive shoots water from the center point into the air before cascading down into the crystal-clear pool below, finishing off the lavish look.
It’s a perfect blend of modern style and a classic European display of power.
“Gaudy, isn’t it?” Kenji asks, leaning across the middle seat between us to look out my window as the driver pulls around.
“Yes, gaudy,” I say, but the breathless sound of my voice fails to hide my true opinion. It’s awe inspiring.
“Let’s get this over with,” my father says as the car rolls to a stop at the foot of the stairs and one of the Chiaroscuros’ black-suited staff opens the door.
He offers a gloved hand, and since my white satin mock neck dress has a snug hem around the knees, which could make getting out of the car tricky, I accept it, unfolding from the limo as I keep my eyes fixed on the Chiaroscuro home.
Soft music filters from the house and the distant sound of chatter that would indicate the party has already started.
Cringing internally, I try not to think about the insult of our showing up “fashionably” late, as my brother calls it.
“Signor Tanaka, Signora Tanaka, welcome,” the Chiaroscuro butler greets my parents with a subtle bend of the hips as we reach the top of the sandstone steps, then he acknowledges me and my brother with a glance and tilt of the head. “If you’ll follow me…”
Several uniformed staff members occupy the main floor of the house, practically fading into the scenery as they blend with the lavish decor while they go about their business.
Suspended from the ceiling of the vaulted entryway is a chandelier dripping with crystals that cast colorful rainbows across the cream-colored walls.
The open archway at the far end of the foyer leads into a great room with glass doors that would enclose the space, but today, they’ve been folded back to join the expansive terrace overlooking the far side of the Chiaroscuro estate.
Guests in garden party attire mingle about the space.
It’s not hard to find the host of the party as Don Augusta converses with the patriarch of the Caprinelli family, who must have traveled all the way from New York for the occasion.
Behind him, his five towering sons loom like silent shadows.
It would appear that all the Chiaroscuro brothers are present for today’s festivities, and for the first time, I get a glimpse of them together.
It’s easy to see the resemblance. All look polished and quite civilized in their fine Italian suits, despite the impressive amounts of muscle that make the fabric strain and the tattoos that peek out above their collars and beneath their sleeve cuffs.
They take after their father with their dark hair and distinct facial features—all except Michelangelo, who still seems to resemble his adopted brothers despite his lighter eyes and pale complexion.
The two brothers to Michelangelo’s left must be the twins. Aside from a small nautical star tattoo adorning the cheek of one twin just beneath the outside corner of his eye, they’re identical.
And they both have the roguish smirk of someone capable of stirring up trouble with the Irish, which they’re infamous for.
The fifth brother, who I can only assume is the middle child I’ve heard almost nothing about, stands back slightly from the pack, his expression vague as he stares off into the distance, like his mind is miles away.
When my eyes finally land on Leonardo, my heart somersaults anxiously.
