The wind hums against my window, carrying a whistling note I swear I’ve heard before. And I just know, deep in my rattling bones, that this isn’t over.
3
Cecilia
The next evening, I eat in silence at the long, lonely table where my father and I usually dine. It’s an effort to swallow, the tang of anxiety replacing all other flavors. Too much has happened since yesterday. Instead of giving me peace of mind, seeing my stalker, confirming he wasn’t just a product of my imagination, has somehow made things worse.
He’s a real threat now, a predator who could be pacing the basement underneath my feet as we speak. Or not—I still don’t know if the man I saw at the recital is the same one who broke into our backyard.
Either way, I’m about to find out.
“I’ll be out in ten,” Cesare’s commanding voice rips through the silence as he appears in the arched doorway. We were supposed to have dinner together, like we always do when Father is away. He says a girl my age shouldn’t be spending most of her time alone, cooped up in her room with no one to talk to.
Don’t I know it…
“Cazzo! Please, forgive me for being so late. Had a bunch of shit to take care of.” Cesare unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat next to me, unwrapping a napkin and placing it in his lap. “How are you? Feeling any better?” He throws me a kind, familiar smile that melts a little tension from my shoulders.
The cutlery clinks softly against my porcelain plate as I put it down. “I’ve been looking for you all day. A text would’ve been nice.”
He throws me an apologetic look as a second plate of food arrives. “I know, I’m sorry. But I’m here now. Talk to me—how has your day been? Heard Giuseppina made tiramisu.”
I blink, watching him pick up the knife and fork. “What are you doing?”
“What am I doing?” he asks.
“You’re making small talk when you know very well I need answers about last night.”
Silence floats between us. His jaw tightens before he cuts into his steak—hurriedly, like he’s either nervous about something or he’s needed somewhere else.
“Have you told Father about what happened?” I insist.
This time, he nods, chewing. “Yes. He was relieved to know you were safe.”
I refrain from rolling my eyes.My father’s tight leash around my throat isn’t meant to protect me. It’s all about control, about making sure I don’t step out of line, like I’m some dog he’s worried will chew up the furniture. I think, in part, Cesare knows that, but even so, you’ll never hear him say a bad word about his Don. He’s a well-groomedconsigliere, after all.
“So, is he coming back from Rome then?” I ask.
“He will be. Soon.”
Each word from him feels like pulling teeth. Frustration squeezes my throat, making my feet restless. I uncross my legsand then cross them again, pausing to gather myself. Impatience is never in my best interest, Ms. Donatello taught me.
“The prisoner,” I drawl, pinning him down with my gaze, leaning slightly forward in my seat. “Has he talked? Did he say who he is or what he wants?”
Cesare’s hands pause cutting the meat, turning to the side as he looks out into the hallway, as if to check for anyone who might hear us. Then, he resumes eating. “We’re still working on it. You know these things take time.”
I frown. “Still, you must have discoveredsomething.”
His lips form a thin, regretful line. “You want answers, I know…but your father said?—”
“My father said…? Is that why you’re not telling me anything? He forbade you?”
He looks away pensively, discomfort swarming in those blue eyes. It’s always between me and his Don. In our world, dark, twisted loyalty to the man who holds all the cards trumps everything else, so I should expect it. But when it comes to Cesare, sometimes, I just want to close my eyes and pretend he isn’t working for the Cosa Nostra.
“I’m very sorry,” he sighs. “Can we please drop it and talk about something else?”
I can’t believe him…
For a split second, my nostrils flare, and then I remember the walls have ears before I shout something I might regret. I’ve been playing this role for too many years to let my mask slip. So, I swallow the hurt, like always.
