But rebellion against what my parents want me to be, like a perfectly normal almost nineteen-year-old, makes me hide that.
I don’t want to be told what to do; I don’t want to keep silent and look pretty like I’m arm-candy or a trophy, anornamenton some man’s arm. I have a brain and thoughts. Opinions. I’m not some mafia trophy wife who loves flashing her husband’s blood money around.
I don’t actually know what the Santoro family is into, either in Italy or here, but I’ve overheard the other mafia princesses talking. Drugs, mostly, and a few of them were involved in trafficking. They hadn’t even batted their perfectly mascaraed eyelashes when talking about how their families made their money.
I shudder, hoping that my father’s work doesn’t involve that, but I know I’m being naïve—not that I’ll ever ask him, though. Partly because I want to bury my head in the sand, but mostly because when he’s looked at me the last few times I’ve come home, it’s like he’s plotting how to use me to climb the food chain.
My father never used to be this way. When I was younger, I affectionately called himBabbo,and he’d walk, holding my hand or carrying me on his shoulder to get ice cream. Thinking of the days when I called himBabbobrings me peace and a wistful longing for the man and family we were back then. I was myparents’ world, and we were close. I felt treasured and safe. But then two things happened that I attributed to the change in my father. First, he had a mild stroke, and he was never quite the same afterward. Every now and then, though, I’ll get a glimpse of the man he used to be. But the other big contributing factor was his climb up the mafia food chain. The more he got a taste of power and money, the more he craved it.
My mom changed along with him—maybe to keep her husband happy, or maybe because the wealth and power went to her head as well.
It didn’t matter, because neither of them were the parents I dearly missed.
Sighing and pushing away the nostalgic sorrow for the family we once were, I notice we’re approaching the address I gave the cab driver. My parents have recently moved, and I haven’t been here yet. A house comes into view, and it’s gaudy, over-the-top, and bigger than I expected.
Guess my father is really rolling in the dough now.
I push that thought away, not wanting to think about what he’s been doing to afford this grandiose house as the cab stops outside the wrought-iron gate.
That has armed guards.
“Cristo,” I murmur quietly. What the actual hell has my father been doing to afford this?
The cab driver looks nervously at the armed guards and grips the steering wheel. “Ah, is this the right place, lady?”
One of the guards approaches, his hand resting on his automatic weapon strapped across his shoulder, and the cab driver’s swallow is audible. The guard taps the glass with the butt of his gun, and the driver jumps.
“Here is fine.” I quickly pull American money out of my bag and toss it into the front seat. “Thanks for your trouble.”
I open the door, grab my small suitcase, and quickly get out. More guards step closer, and I gulp. “I’m Gina, Franco’s—”
Before I can say anything further, a different guard pushes through the group, his brow furrowed. “Gina?”
“Davide.” I sag in relief as I recognize someone.
“What are you doing here?”
He grabs my suitcase and knocks on the roof of the cab. The driver needs no further encouragement as he backs away from the gate, his tires squealing as he races away.
I face Davide, lifting my chin and setting my shoulders. “I took a commercial flight like a normal person. It was stupid for Father to send a private plane for me.”
I refer to my dad as Father because that’s what he prefers, even though the little girl in me cries and wishes for herBabbo.
Davide curses in Italian and grips my elbow. “Your father is going to be pissed.”
The guard who had first approached the cab blocks our way. He’s huge and scary-looking. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demands in a heavy Italian accent.
“This is Franco Caruso’s daughter,” Davide says tightly. “I’m escorting her to the house. Your boss and his heir will be just fine for a few minutes while I leave my post. There’s more than enough men here at the gate.”
The big man’s jaw clenches. “This isn’t how things are done. Sloppy fucking Americans,” he sneers, looking down his nose at Davide.
“I’m Italian, you fuck,” he seethes, then shakes his head and points at the man trotting over from the house. “Leandro can replace me.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” I say hesitantly, looking between Davide and the scary guard. “I can see myself to the house.”
“Open the gates,” Davide orders.
Once they’re open, and he pulls me toward the house, his fingers tight on my elbow over my jacket, and his other hand clenching the handle of my suitcase.
