PROLOGUE
Savina Cipriano
Then
(Savina, age 13; Dimitri, age 15)
IT’SLATE AT night when I’m awoken by the sound of car doors closing outside of my bedroom window, which overlooks the grounds of my father’s sprawling property. Two unfamiliar black SUVs are sitting in the circular driveway. Several men suddenly pile out of the vehicles, and I know instantly that they are made men. How do I know that? Well, when you grow up with a father who is the biggest mafia boss in all of New York, you just know these things. I can usually tell if someone is good or evil at first glance. Maybe it’s pure instinct. Having been around bad men my entire life, perhaps it’s my body’s natural way of warning me and attemptingto keep me safe.
I stare at each man individually. There is a certain air surrounding one of the taller men, and I know that he must be the boss or leader of the group. Then there is a younger boy, who appears around my age, followed by perhaps his brother or a cousin, who looks to be a few years older.
My eyes zone in on the older boy, unable to look away from him. His raven-black hair falls over his forehead as he walks towards the front door. Then, abruptly, he stops and looks up at the mansion looming over him. And even though it’s impossible, I swear his eyes lock with mine.
Startled, I step back from the window, the curtain swaying in the place I was just standing. A shiver runs down my spine as I wrap my arms around myself. The room was a comfortable temperature just moments ago, but now I suddenly feel cold.
Wrapping a white robe around my pink, silk nightgown, I sit on the edge of my mattress. I should probably go back to bed, but how can I possibly sleep when these men are here in our home? I can’t help but wonder what they’re here for since Papà usually doesn’t conduct business so late.
Just then, there’s a knock on my door.
“C-c-come in,” I call, expecting to see my father or stepmother. Instead, it’s one of Papà’s guards.
“Your father wants to see you in his office,” Edoardo says. He’s one of the newer guards that my father has hired. He’s in his twenties, handsome and has always been nice to me. But I know, in time, he’ll grow distant and mean, just like all the other guards here.
“Okay. S-s-should I c-change first?” I ask.
“No time. He said it was urgent, so you better hurry.”
Urgent?Panic has me cinching the robe around my waist and foregoing shoes as I rush after Edoardo, who leads me downstairs. The hem of my nightgown brushes against my ankles as I pad barefoot along the cold tiled floor. A chill runs up my legs and settles into my bones, and I suddenly wish I would have taken the time to at least put on a pair of slippers before I followed the guard.
When we finally reach the grand hallway that leads to my father’s office, Edoardo says, “Wait here.” Then, he walks away, leaving me alone.
A giant olive wood door looms at the end of the hall like a gate to a secret sanctuary; one that was built on blood and violence. Papà had the door proudly imported years ago from Italy, his birthplace. I stare at the hand-carved old-world details as I patiently wait at my father’s beck and call, like usual. It’s way past my bedtime, but Papà summoned me here for a reason. I just don’t know why.
We celebrated my thirteenth birthday a few days ago, so I doubt if it has anything to do with that. And I’ve been doing well in school despite getting bullied a lot. But I really don’t think that could be it either.
My mind is racing with ideas and speculation of what it could possibly be when my father’s deep, unforgiving voice calls from inside his office. “Savina, come in here!”
I tentatively walk towards the door, a shiver racing up my spine with each step. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve actually been inside my father’s office. And every single one of those times had been for reprimand or punishment, whichever he deemed fit in the moment.
My brain is on overdrive as I try to think of what indiscretion I could have possibly committed. For him to call me into his office so late at night, it must be bad. I can’t help but wonder if my evil stepmother made something up just to relish in my tears and anguish again. She’s always trying to get between my father and me; and more often than not, she succeeds.
Taking a deep, somewhat calming breath, I turn the brass knob and slowly push the door open. The air inside is cooler, murkier, and stagnant with the overwhelming scent of leather and cigars. The curtains are drawn, leaving only the harsh glow from a few lamps scattered throughout the room. The low lighting drops shadows on everything and everyone in the room as smoke coils in the air like ghosts whispering secrets. My father is sitting behind his heavy, oakdesk, surrounded by numerous shelves containing old, dusty books. Maps of New York and New Jersey hang on the walls, with several of my father’s territories circled in red Sharpie, and several decanters of half-drunk, expensive bourbon rest on the nearby minibar.
All eyes are on me as I approach my father, but I keep my eyes forward, afraid to meet anyone’s gaze in the room. Papers are sprawled out on top of his desk; so unlike him and his perfectionist ways. Everything in Papà’s life must maintain a certain level of order and control. Including his own daughter.
Donato Cipriano is not a man who wears fatherhood easily. He’s always been sharp edges with an even sharper tongue, and hotheaded. His expensive, tailored suits fit him like armor; and his eyes, black as oil, give nothing away. Not warmth. And definitely never approval, especially in this moment.
“Savina,” my father acknowledges me before eyeing my attire with a scowl on his face.
I want to tell him I asked Edoardo about changing clothes and that he didn’t give me time to do so, but I choose to keep my mouth shut. If I’ve learned anything from my father, it’s that you make your own choices in life, no matter what; and that you bear the consequences of those choices.
My fingers tie themselves into knots behind my back as I hang my head in shame. I’ve already disappointed him. And when I disappoint Papà, there is always hell to pay.
Clearing his throat, my father points to the man standing to the right of him. “I’d like you to meet the Sokolov family. This is the head of the family, Anton Sokolov.”
The man looks like he’s just come from war with numerous scars littering his face and forearms. He’s tall, much taller than my father, and he carries an aura around him that warns of danger. His gray eyes lock onto mine, and he doesn’t so much as smile or nod in my direction. In fact, I feel like a fragile insect caught under his intense scrutiny, unsure if he’s about to let me live or end me with a single, crushing step.
“N-n-nice to m-m-meet you,” I manage to squeak out. I’ve had a stutter since I was a small child. The doctors always blamed it on the trauma surrounding my biological mother’s suicide, and I’ve been in speech therapy ever since I can remember. It’s gotten a little better over the years; but in stressful situations like this one, I can’t help my speech pattern. If anything, it’s much worse.
