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Francesca
(Francesca, age 15)
“Young lady, do not take those shoes off again," Mom scolds while I sullenly slip the toe-pinching high heels back on.
“If I’m a lady, why am I drinking ginger ale instead of champagne like you?”
My father turns, overhearing us, and his eyes narrow. I need to harness this big mouth of mine if I don't want to get slapped later.
The high society of Boston’s criminal underbelly has invaded our home for this wedding, forcing me to stand around in uncomfortable shoes. The line I’m in waits to pay their respects to my second cousin and the stranger she just married. Civil war within the Italian Trio has forced them to seek allies elsewhere, Boston’s Irish Black Rose Gang in this case, through an arranged marriage. My parents formed a similar bond years ago, a bid to keep peace between what many would say are natural-born enemies.
Moving out of my father's immediate reach, my ankle turns, and I stagger into a solid wall of muscle.“OH!I’m-”
My apology falters as a hand wraps my wrist, preventing me from falling. Dark eyes glare back at me, set in the stern but handsome face of a tall young man. I stepped on his heel, didn’t I? I hate it when that happens to me.
“Watch it, kid,” the man warns.
Kid?“I apologize if I injured you,” I snap, not disguising my sarcastic tone.
He smirks as he releases me. “A little girl like you could never hurt me.”
Before I can think up a suitable comeback, I catch my mother’s horrified expression and remember who was standing in front of us - Don Daniele Vicini and his family. This must be Carlo, his oldest son and heir, the future head of the Trio.
My father roughly grips my elbow, yanking me aside. “She's a silly, clumsy girl. Please, excuse her.” The old Don gives him a wintry nod as my father whispers menacingly in my ear, “You’re lucky we have guests.”
I hurriedly put distance between me and Da again, wondering why Carlo Vicini glares at my father now instead of me with my big mouth and clumsy feet.
***
An hour later, I sneak away from watchful eyes with Maeve. She’s my favorite maid; seventeen, super cool, and the closest thing to a friend I have in Boston. “You should've asked Carlo to dance with you after stepping on his heel.”
I stare at Maeve like she’s lost her marbles. “Dance with him? He called me a kid.”
“So? He's super-hot.” I giggle at her summation, and she pulls a bottle out from under her apron. “Here… some good Irish whiskey to drown our sorrows. Can I try them on?” she asks, pointing to my heels.
I hand them over as we take a seat on the bench near the kitchen’s backdoor. “Keep them forever if you like.” We’re the same size, so she slips them on to admire while I inspect the red mark on my arm where Da grabbed me.
Passing the bottle back and forth, my head starts to bob as the unfamiliar effects of alcohol course through my blood. “I don’t like the taste of this, but I'll be punished later anyway.”
“Does your father beat you often?” Maeve asks.
"Not as much now." I shift uneasily and redirect. “If Ronan had offended the Don’s son at my age, Da would’ve beaten him bloody.”
“Your brother might've fought the Don’s son at fifteen and probably died.”
“Not Ronan,” I say, loyally. “He would’ve killed that pompous ass.”
My older brother works in Reno for my Uncle Enzo, the Underboss there. Everyone said it was a big deal when he swore an oath to the Trio, though Da wasn’t happy. I miss when we still lived in Nevada, too, nearer my De Luca cousins, particularly the girls. I hate that the Trio’s in-fighting means it’s not safe for me to visit them.
But my Irish father didn’t like answering to my Italian mother’s brothers, especially Uncle Silvio, who is the Capo of Las Vegas, the Trio’s most powerful man in the West. We moved here six months ago before the war started.
“Did they let you perform during the ceremony as you hoped?” Maeve asks next.
I frown, twisting my lucky silver hair tie around my wrist. “No. Mom said it wouldn’t be proper.”
I love to sing and play the piano more than anything. Someday, I might see my name up in lights on Broadway –Frankie!– and no one will tell me what’s proper and what’s not.
