I get the feeling he wants to be alone for a while. Placing my half-drunk glass of Scotch on the table, I get to my feet.
"Will you come to bed later?" I ask.
"In a little while."
Leaving him there, I head out into the hallway. It's chillier out here, a draft creeping from the front door. The marble is cold beneath my bare feet. I make my way upstairs and go throughmy nightly routine. When my face is cleansed of makeup and my hair is brushed out, I put on my favorite pink pajamas and get into bed. I douse the lights, lie back against the pillow, and find myself waiting for Damiano to come to me. Again.
NINETEEN
Violetta
Flying on cramped,overcrowded planes with budget airlines has been my only experience of aviation up until now. Nothing about those stressful experiences prepared me for the thrill of traveling by private jet. We didn't have to set foot in the terminal building at the airport. We were driven straight onto the tarmac and ushered onto the plane, which is like nothing I've ever seen before. It's more opulent and far more spacious than I could have imagined.
There's so much space you could easily ignore everyone else around you if you wanted to. Eight sumptuous cream leather seats are dotted around the cabin. The trim is walnut and the controls are made of gold. There's plush carpeting on the floor and a sweet, attentive flight attendant called Sabrina served us champagne and canapés before we even took off. It’s strange. A month ago I was the one bringing people champagne.
"This is nothing," Damiano had said as he registered the awe on my face. "Piotr Reznov's plane has a bedroom."
Trying to wrap my mind around the idea that this is my life now, I stare out of the window as Florence slowly disappears from view. We're on our way to visit Damiano's mother and I'm not sure what to expect. He warned me in the car as we drove to the private airfield that his mother is fragile, that she has good days and bad. He didn't go into detail and I didn't want to pry. Now I wish I'd asked more questions because I'm incredibly nervous.
It took me ages to decide what to wear to meet my new mother-in-law. I must have changed half a dozen times before settling on a demure blue floral dress and ballet flats. I kept my makeup to a minimum and left my hair loose. Damiano hasn't commented on my appearance but I earned an approving nod from Lina, which I found more reassuring than his opinion would have been anyway.
I watch as he works on his laptop. Something is clearly troubling him. He's frowning slightly and he's held his cup of espresso for ten minutes now without taking a single sip. It will be stone cold soon.
I reach for my book but can't concentrate with the tense energy radiating from Damiano in the seat across the table from me. His phone rings and he answers immediately.
As much as I'd prefer not to know the details of his business in case they involve something illegal, I can't help but listen to his call. There's no missing the sheer delight in his voice when he asks whether the Makris problem has been solved and receives confirmation that it has. He talks for a few minutes more, addressing the person he's speaking to as Timofey, a name I recall hearing before. He asks about dates, types something, then ends the call and shuts his laptop.
"Good news?" I ask.
Damiano nods. "A project I'm undertaking with a group of..." he casts around for the right phrasing, "...like-minded people is making progress."
I assume by that he means fellow mobsters but I don't ask. The sense I've gotten since being in Damiano's world is that it's better not to know too much.
"Does your mother know what you do?" I ask.
His eyes gleam with amusement.
"It's been our family business for more than a century, Violetta. I inherited it from my father, who inherited it from his, and so forth."
My eyes widen. I had no idea this stretched back that far but I suppose it makes sense. The Volantes control vast swathes of territory, command armies of men and have a legitimate business empire as well.
"So where do the Americans come in?"
"My cousins?" Damiano asks and I nod. "Our grandfather sent him to the States when he was twelve so our great-uncle could train him to rule in New York."
"He sent him away when he was twelve?" It seems so young. "Do all men become involved at that age?"
"No, I was inducted when I was fourteen, as were my brothers after me."
"So you started, uh, I mean, you didn't..." I can't form the words to ask what I want to know.
"I killed my first man at fourteen, Violetta. He was a rat who needed to be put down."
I go completely rigid with shock. When I was fourteen, I was dancing around my bedroom with my friends, dreaming of marrying one of the members of whatever American boy band we were into that week. The distance between those two childhoods is so vast I can barely fathom it.
"But it goes without saying, you are not to mention any of this in front of my mother."
"No, of course not." What does Damiano take me for? "I would never discuss this with anyone but you."
