1
Cecilia
When I jolt awake, I expect the warm, sticky feel of blood on my hands.
My eyes burst open, glancing at my fingers but finding them clean. The only thing crumpled in my fist is the music sheet I was studying. I must have fallen asleep at some point—of course I did. Since my nightmares have returned to torment me, I haven’t been resting.
I sit up on the sofa in my study and hug my knees, images from the awful dream that woke me flashing before my eyes.
My mother’s chest throbs with a wound so deep and ugly, I know no doctor can salvage it. The knife digs deeper, her screams grow louder, and life drains out of her into my small hands. Tears drown my face as the shadow across the room inches closer, my knees shaking, threatening to give out.
I exhale slowly, a whimper crawling up my throat. “It’s not real.”
Most of it isn’t, at least, and I don’t know why I’m even dreaming of this. My mother died of a heart attack when I was six, a tragedy that left both me and my father in shambles. Yes, even him, the most dangerous man on the West Coast, who wouldn’t so much as flinch at seeing death. Maybe it’s because he inflicts it so often, he’s immune now.
But the shadow…the ominous figure lurking behind everywhere I go, that feels real.
Not just in my recurring nightmare, but now, in this very room, despite the guard posted outside my door and the men with guns surveying thepalazzofrom every corner. It’s an impenetrable fortress, yet I can’t shake the feeling that, even here, someone is watching me.
It started four weeks ago.
At first, I convinced myself it was my lack of sleep making me see things that weren’t there. But every time I went out into the city, there was always something that put me off—a shadow in my peripheral vision, a tattooed hand in the corner of a building, a low whistle threading through the sound of passing cars.
It was only recently I began to suspect I was being stalked. By whom, I have no idea. And neither do my guards. They search everywhere but never find anyone.
My trembling fingers stretch out as I seek my phone in the creases of the sofa. On the screen waits the number I often contact when I need someone to talk to. It’s Ms. Donatello—the only maternal figure I’ve had for the past seventeen years. My piano mentor.
I’ve been calling her a lot lately, so I already know exactly what she’d say. Things like moving my body to quiet my mind so I can focus on what’s important. Because many things are important right now: securing my future, for one, and getting through tonight’s recital without embarrassing myself.
Piano is the only time no one tells me who I am. When I play, I get to exist without permission, to dream of a life outside this cage. I was born into the Cosa Nostra, where there’s no tolerance for women who think this way. So, I play the good girl like they want me to, when in reality, I’m simply biding my time.
It’s my first public performance—a small recital in the town’s gallery. It’s not flashy, and likely no one cares about it as much as I do, but it’s mine, even if I was offered the slot last minute to fill in for someone more established.
Reluctantly, I let the phone fall from my hand. It’s almost six, and I should be getting ready. I stand and gather my crumpled music sheet, heading for the piano in the corner where the other sheets sit. Except…they’re no longer where I left them.
I stop cold. Why are all the papers scattered across the floor?
Has the wind blown them around? Impossible—the windows are closed. I crouch quickly, stacking them back together, refusing to look toward the glass until the last sheet is in place. When I do, only my reflection stares back. No one else is here with me.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
I skitter into the adjoining bedroom, pulling my sundress from my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. A mirror against the wall waits for me, giving me a glimpse of my mental state. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my eyes. My face looks pale, sickly—like someone who hasn’t been sleeping.
Is this what my supposed stalker sees?
The idea is ludicrous. In our world, leverage is all that matters, leaving your enemy empty-handed after taking everything they have. If I am being stalked, it has to be because of that.
And yet, a quiet, twisted thought slips in before I can stop it. Maybe he watches because he wants this. Me—fragileand vulnerable. Heat flickers low in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome. I tear my face away from the mirror, snatching the princess gown waiting on the hanger as if it can protect me from my own thoughts. Shame and a little sadness fuel each movement that gets me dressed until I’m staring at the image of the perfect daughter in the mirror.
I hate it. The outfit makes me look like a doll, not like a professional pianist—my father’s orders, because God forbid I choose anything for myself at all. In the end, though, it doesn’t even matter. At least I get to perform.
A knock sounds at my door before Giuseppina enters.
“Madonna Santa!You look beautiful,” the housekeeper says, forcing me to feign a smile for her. “Is that how you’re wearing your hair? Your father said we should put it up in a bun…”
Later, at the San Maleno Gallery, the car pulls into a rounded driveway, where my father’sconsigliere—Cesare Cammarano—is waiting to escort me inside.
He wears an impeccable black tuxedo, a sharp contrast to his observant blue eyes. No wonder the few women lingering by the entrance keep ogling him. I always think that if he wasn’t like an older brother to me, there’s a chance I might have fallen for him.
