“Not you as Russo’s daughter.Or your family’s consigliere.Tell me about you.”
“Beyond that, there’s nothing.”
Not pushing, he waits.
His damn patience is more irritating than his bossiness.
Stalling, I trace the rim of my glass.
“I’m curious.”
I shake my head.What would I tell him?About my life before everything changed?
Afternoons spent in the sunroom at the back of our Dallas mansion where light poured through tall windows onto drop cloths and half-finished canvases.
I’d loved watching my mother paint, and I recall the way the sound of her laughter filled the space when she was happy.And the intensity when she was focused on nothing but the canvas, her brush moving in sure strokes while I sat cross-legged on the floor near her.
Eventually I’d been allowed to mix colors for her.
But then…
She was gone.
The illness was swift and merciless, leaving my father broken.
But after the funeral, he’d been visited by his head of security.
And when the office closed and his man left, everything was different.
My father was harder, harsher.
I’d been expected to take my mother’s place as his hostess, and my brother had been made underboss, removing the then second-in-command.
From my mingling, I learned thing that were useful.As time went on, my father and brother both counted on me for my opinions.
But somewhere inside, there’s a pang that never quite goes away.
“I paint,” I say quietly, the admission slipping out before I can weigh it.Why did I admit that?
“Do you?”
Surprising me, he sounds more interested than bored.
And since the topic is less loaded than some, I expand a little.And if his eyes roll back in his head because of too much information, it will be his own fault for asking.“Watercolors mostly.I haven’t had any formal training.But that doesn’t stop me from creating.”
I remember the way she’d hum old Italian songs while she worked, and I’d try to capture the light on her cheekbones or the way the bougainvillea spilled over the trellis outside.
But the memories are surprisingly hard to deal with, and I shake my head and focus on the roses on the table instead of him.
“Where did the interest come from?”
I could say something believable.Like a school art class.Instead, I admit the truth.“My mother was passionate about painting.”
“She’s gone.”
It’s a statement more than a question.I have no doubt he’s studied my family.Not only did he plan the kidnapping, but as Matteo Moretti’s underboss, knowledge of rival families is his job.
Since he probably knows as much as I do, I don’t reply.
