1
EVI
“And what happens if the Chiaroscuros find out?” My brother Cassio’s voice rises, his words suddenly distinguishable through the door as his tone approaches anger now.
I know I shouldn’t linger, but I can’t help the looming sense of expectation that glues my ear to the solid wood. With bated breath, I hover outside the sitting room of our family home, straining to catch the muffled tenor of my father’s voice.
“They won’t,” he says flatly, his gruff voice from years of smoking cigars easy to distinguish. “We will ensure that Evi knows exactly how much is at stake if they do.”
The rest of my family has been in there for nearly an hour, all talking about the one Lombardi they failed to invite into the room.
Me.
My parents never gather all six of my brothers for a meeting like this, especially when most of them are old enough to have moved out and are running their own houses by now.
But after seeing them burst through the front door in a flurry of tense expectation this afternoon, it feels as if the entire house is holding its breath.
The staff certainly have made themselves scarce in the wake of yet another meeting my parents attended with the Chiaroscuro brothers.
It’s all my parents can seem to think about lately—the fact that the once proud family that has looked down on mine for generations might just be in dire need of our help, and right in time for my eighteenth birthday.
For years, the Chiaroscuros have scoffed at my father’s attempts to unite our families.
Not that I can blame them. Even if I set aside the fact that the youngest of the Chiaroscuro brothers must be a decade older than I am, I’m sure their reasons for disregarding me as a potential bride are far more foundational than a difference in age.
My family is what the old-world Italian patriarchs would consider bottom feeders.
For generations, we have made our fortune by producing soldiers—lots of soldiers—and willingly sacrificing them to prove our loyalty to the great families who run Chicago, all in the name of climbing that impossible ladder that might someday make us great.
It’s why my mother was only allowed a break from pregnancy after she bore my father six strong, healthy sons before me—and it’s why each of my brothers is already knee-deep in children, all sons, of their own.
But my father has bigger plans than breeding soldiers.
Because I’m the first Lombardi daughter born in decades. And if he can convince the new Don to marry me, suddenly, our family won’t be cannon fodder anymore.
An alliance like that could guarantee my brothers positions as captains and save them from the more menial, more dangerous tasks of a common soldier.
It’s an ambitious plan, one I’ve been hearing about since I first learned that my purpose in life would be to forge an alliance, become someone’s wife and provide him with sons of his own.
Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind the prospect—especially if it would help protect my brothers.
But even from my sheltered position cloistered deep in our family home, I know the reality.
I’ll never be good enough to marry a Chiaroscuro.
They can accept us as their vassals, take our money, our support, our men, but not the prospect of marriage to a family as far down the ranks as ours.
At least, that’s what my father says when he’s had one too many glasses of wine. It’s the only time he speaks the truth.
But from what I’ve gathered with my ear against the door, perhaps the tideshaveshifted.
The Chiaroscuros’ efforts to reclaim their territory from the Yakuza have been growing more desperate.
And it’s clear from the numerous shifts in power within their family since Don Augusta died that they have no strong leader to bring their territory back into the fold.
So, against all odds, my parents’ persistence might finally have paid off.
“Evi, come in here,” my father commands, making my heart skip a beat as I jerk my cheek away from the door. I take a slow step back, easing my palms from the polished wood as I hold my breath so as not to make a sound.
