Chapter 8 – Leonora
Marco accompanied me up the stairs to Papa’s room silently. He was brooding, probably over the report I was going to give Papa. Nothing reached me until it passed through Marco, meaning he’d been adequately informed of the dinner I had with Rafayel last night.
“ Grazie.” I nodded and entered when he opened the door for me.
As usual, the room was tranquil and organized, with every item in its designated place. There was something always warm and cozy about Papa’s room, and whenever I stepped into it, for a minute, I forgot who we were and the life we led. He liked to keep his guns hidden, though I knew there was a spare under his pillows. A force of habit.
Sometimes, I thought he liked it too: the sobriety and peace of normalcy, without any pressure to keep watch behind your back twenty-four-seven.
His bed was neatly made, with a few pillows propped up against the headboard, but a somber atmosphere settled over it. The room was shrouded in darkness, the heavy curtains drawn shut to block out sunlight. The only light came from a small table lamp on the bedside table.
I moved to turn off the lamp, eliciting a tired groan from him. Then, I felt my way over to the curtains, my fingers brushing against the cool fabric as I grasped the cord to draw them open. The soft rustle of the curtains as they slid apart was the only sound in the room, and for a moment, I stood there, bathed in the brightness of dawn that filtered in from outside.
Marco stayed by the door like a statue while I marched back to Papa’s bed, nestling by the side.
Papa looked up from the newspaper, his eyes squinting slightly as he took in my presence. I wondered how he was even able to read that thing without a good source of light. But I’d gotten my stubbornness from somewhere. You could put the man down but not tell him to drop the darn newspapers.
“ Principessa.”
He attempted a weak smile, but it faltered. He winced, his face creasing in discomfort. Despite his efforts to hide it, I could see the pain etched on his features.
A pang of worry hit me.
He looked only slightly better than when I saw him a few days ago, but it was clear that he still had a long way to go. His skin was pale, and his eyes had lost their usual sparkle.
“Papa, how are you feeling?” I tried to keep my voice light and cheerful. If he knew how much his ailment was affecting me, it’d only worsen his condition.
Nodding slowly, his eyes returned to the newspaper. “A little better, amore .” His voice wavered. “Santiago says I need to rest and stay on schedule with the medication.”
“Skipping drugs, Papa?”
“Can’t blame me for getting tired, amore. But Marco does great putting up with my shit.” He tipped a finger salute at the soldier by the door.
“That’s good. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”
Papa’s smile this time was not as convincing. “How did it go with the Russian?”
Recollections of last night came back in a whirlwind. I had an answer for Papa on the tip of my tongue: Terrible. It was Terrible, with a capital T . A constant push and pull, a tug of war, and a disastrous ruffle of emotions.
When I’d walked into the restaurant, I wasn’t sure why I didn’t shield myself from that dastardly effect of his, and an upset of fireworks went off in my chest.
Before Rafayel Yezhov, I didn’t know it was possible for a man to look more expensive and tasteful by the minute. I wanted to pinch myself when I noticed his fresh haircut, a slicked back taper fade with a touch of the nineties wave, and the snug fit of his Tom Ford suit across his biceps and chest.
Let’s not even get started on the facials or the constant battle I fought to keep my eyes off his frigging lips.
God.
“Good.” I shifted away to avoid Papa’s direct stare. Now was not the time to have him drilling into my soul to discover the crazy reactions my body experienced whenever I was close to the Russian. “He tried to play hard to get, but we both knew I presented an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“He could.” Papa was grinning from ear to ear. “Rafayel is known as Zver. ” It was Russian for the Beast. The Italians recognized him as Il Macellaio (The Butcher).
“He doesn’t answer to anyone except the pahkan, his brother. Our offer might have contained all the succulent juices, but Rafayel could have shut it down if he wished.”
Papa dropped his papers and took my hand. A familiar surge of love and connection warmed my insides and strangely made me want to cry. “You did what you do best. You made me proud, my girl.”
Marco shifted by the door, and Papa shared a look with him over my shoulders. A message only both of them understood. I frowned. “Is there something I’m missing?”
“Nothing, principessa .” Papa shook his head, but the light in his eyes had dimmed considerably. “Nothing you might not already have guessed. I am sick and unable to work for a while.”
I knew where this was heading, and I didn’t like it. “And soon, you’ll be back and better, as lofty as always, and nobody will remember there was such a time as this.”
“Leonora.”
There was a sadness in his voice when he called my name, and it shredded my heart to bits.
He wanted me to understand, but I vehemently refused. Admitting that he was currently incapable of leading his empire had to be killing him inside, and I’d been too blinded by my selfish desire for him to recover to notice.
“You have to run things, lead our family until….” He wasn’t going to finish it because of the uncertainty plaguing us all. “I’m leaving it up to you to keep our family name out of the mouths of the pigs and bloody scoffers.”
“And Matteo? Wouldn’t the others talk? Questions will be asked, Papa. Your male heir is still alive.”
A scowl settled on Papa’s face. “We both know your brother wants nothing to do with this life. He prefers his arts and doesn’t have the balls to handle what I’m giving you. It’s best he stays overseas, doing whatever keeps him happy.”
Matteo realized he wasn’t cut out to handle blood, initiation rituals, and guns. The action and adrenaline rush were all fun and games, till after he turned nineteen.
One time, he attempted to flee the country using the guise of a trip to South America with friends. Marco found him in Dublin, Ireland, and dragged him back to plead his case before Papa.
He'd developed a strong liking for arts and wanted to continue his studies in Europe. He wanted to be extricated from the mafia.
Letting him go was one of the toughest decisions Papa had made in his life, but he did it, and the weight of preparing for the seat of leadership rested on my shoulders.
“Papa, we haven’t told him.”
“And we won’t.” End of discussion. Papa didn’t want anyone else to know about his condition, not even his son. A great number of his men were also intentionally left in the dark. The fewer the number of people that knew, the less chances we’d have that information reaching the wrong ears.
“I know you can do it, Leo. Every bone in that body of yours was trained for this. Marco will support you with whatever you need. Keep your head held high. I know I’ve taught you that much.”
“You have.”
“Good,” he coughed. “You’re smart, beautiful, and more daring than I count myself to be sometimes. Make right this deal with the Russians. The benefits are endless. Keep an eye open for prospective contacts. Ride on their backs until we can stand on our own two feet and then…crush them to dust.”
That part, I was absolutely not prepared to hear, and it hit me like a frigging bulldozer crashing against steel and concrete.
The honest look in Rafayel’s eyes when he’d accepted the proposal resurfaced to haunt me, and my chest did a weird dip, sinking into a pit of conscience I never thought I had. It propelled me to make a defense on their behalf, even if, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.
“Papa, we’re promising transparency to the Russians. That’s the cleanest cut we have in getting their defense against the Rossis. He thinks we’re lousy and not respecters of honor. I thought we’d be proving them wrong.”
Papa’s eyes grew hard. “And for as long as we need them, we’ll prove them wrong. After we regain our grounds, the Yezhovs must be eliminated.”
This was how it was done in this life: Stab first before you got stabbed. We’d had our fair share of them in the past. There was no guarantee that the Russians weren’t plotting the exact same thing against us, and for that, we had to act smarter and faster.
It would require a long stretch of patience and keeping my cool, though. Any slip-up would arouse their suspicions, and if they caught onto the plan, it would start a war. So, I’d have to wait, biding my time, gathering my strength.
Again, Papa’s wish didn’t align with me for an unfathomable reason. But it was final.
He’d made it clear: The Russians were nothing but temporary allies. I would take care of the Yezhovs and anyone else who crossed us. This was my family, our business, and I would do whatever it took to protect it