Heritage of Fire: An Arranged Marriage, Mafia Romance

1. Luna

The best thing to happen to our family was the murder of my uncle. When Luka Morozov ended Uncle Antonio’s life three months ago, it was a purging for the Cosa Nostra. His death was like a forest fire cleansing the wood and paving the way for new blood to thrive and grow. That new blood happened to be my father.

Salvatore Buscetta.

Despite being next in line to the boss, many in the Cosa Nostra already look to him as their leader. They require it. Because, let’s face it, my grandfather takes a rather passive role—content to hide in his secure castle and direct others to do his bidding.

“Luna,” Giulia, our housekeeper beckons, “lunch is served.”

The bookmark tucked into the last few pages of my book taunts me. I was hoping to finish this one today.

I remove my dangling foot from the pool and wait for it to dry before hopping up. Unfortunately, it’s not warm enough to swim yet, so for now I’ve been settling on dipping my toes while I sort out my newest thriller.

Spring is right around the corner. The lush gardens surrounding the estate endeavor to come alive, blossoms decorating the once-bare branches of winter. I tilt my face to the sun, inhaling the balmy air, sweet with florals and—is that carbonara?

A stone pathway leads back to the outdoor kitchen where most of my family’s meals take place. My mother claims to favor eating outside because she loves the “harmonious blend” of natural textures and fine dining, but I suspect she prefers my father’s guests to be outdoors with their cigars and overflowing wine.

I scoot past the large wood-fired oven, then the raised garden bed of herbs and spices; the plants tickle my calves as I shimmy by. Rough-hewn granite stones form a large fireplace with cutouts on each side for chopped wood. The cutouts make great hiding places when they’re empty.

Burgundy brick sides our house, with lush greenery crawling up the sides. It stretches into a retaining wall back toward the inground pool. A white oak table is sheltered beneath a weathered pergola that’s choked with climbing vines and spring blossoms, its wooden beams extending over the entrance that leads into our indoor kitchen.

My mother is already seated. Her long, dark brown hair, a few shades darker than mine, is pulled into a sleek ponytail. Large hoops grace her ears—the yellow gold pair she wears most days. Her nails tap out a clicking rhythm on her phone; she’s no doubt texting my father for lunch.

My chair groans as I slide it out, drawing her attention. Her disapproving eyes scan my two-piece bathing suit and towel-wrapped legs.

“Go change, Luna. You know your father doesn’t like you to come to the table without proper attire.”

How could I forget? There’s usually something wrong with my appearance. Little looks from my mother and blatant commands to go change from my father. My overindulgent wardrobe is full of clothes to make me look ten years older than my actual twenty—all crafted to create the perfect principessa.

I tried to push back once. It didn’t end well.

“Yes, Mamma,” I say, pushing out of my chair and almost bumping Giulia as she sets my plate on the table. “I’ll be right back.”

I dart between the French doors that lead into the kitchen, then practically jog though the parlor and down the hallway to the main staircase. My stomach growls, prodding me to take the steps two at a time. At the top, my sister rounds the corner and plows right into me.

“Watch it, Luna!” Bella flings a nasty curse at me.

“Sorry,” I mutter before she gives me an eye roll and rushes off down the stairs.

I take in her outfit—a mini denim skirt and crop top, with large bangles wrapped around her left wrist—and wonder how my seventeen-year-old sister can get away with wearing these clothes when I cannot.

Not that her particular outfit is my style. I’m more of a sneakers and jeans kind of girl. Well, at least I wish I could be. But those clothing choices don’t speak highly of the well-mannered eldest daughter my parents seek to portray on my behalf. And so, knee-length skirts and heels pack the closet in my room because of it.

It’s only in the small box, shoved back and out of sight behind my red Prada luggage, that I keep my favorite pair of cream sneakers and two pairs of jeans.

The hallway I turn down is long, my bedroom buried at the end. But I prefer it that way; away from everyone else. There is solace here—in my room—that I don’t find on the rest of the estate. My father’s men roam the grounds at every hour of the day and night, sometimes for business, other times for the pleasure of the underboss’s company. Either way, I learned a long time ago to be seen and not heard—except for here. Except in my room.

I swing open the door. It’s not much. A queen bed with a cream duvet, and dark oak furnishings my mother picked out, claiming my room needed to appear more adult. There was never an opportunity for stuffed animals or frilly pillows—not for the oldest daughter.

No. I’m required to have the personality of a doorknob. All so I can be presented as obedient and docile.

Despite my mother’s attempts to control the space, I’ve found ways to add small touches to make it mine. The stack of books in the corner by the window, the tiny glass jar filled with candy coated chocolates hidden in my sock drawer, and the mason jar of flowers picked from our gardens, adding the only true, natural color.

My mother reprimanded me once for picking a few. I was twelve and loved the smell of freshly cut flowers in my room, and after watching our hired gardener trim and prune our raised beds, I figured I could do the same.

When my mother caught me, she ripped the flowers out of my hand, demanding I tell my father what I’d done. Fortunately, my father didn’t seem to care, and he told my mother that if it made me happy then she should let me pick them.

In that moment, I thought the world of my father. His defense of me solidified a bond I’d thought would never break.

I was wrong.

My dresser drawers are overstuffed, but I manage to dig out a pair of acceptable white dress shorts. Then I fumble through my closet for a long-sleeve black turtleneck. My hair, which has half fallen out of its bun anyway, tumbles the rest of the way down my back when I slide my shirt over my head. Leaning over, I let my hair hang, then snap it back up for some quick volume.

I pad into the ensuite bathroom and reach for my makeup bag. As I dab a few dots of concealer underneath my eyes, a red, sun-kissed nose reflects back at me in the mirror, clashing with my olive skin.

I must’ve been out longer than I thought.

After adding a few more smudges of makeup and a swipe of lip balm across my lips, I step back and cringe, a hollow feeling seeping into my stomach—I look like my mom.

The rumble in my belly nags at me to quickly return to the table.

Giulia’s cooking has always called to me. That woman can make it all. She tries to teach me a little bit here and there, but I’m a lost cause, burning everything to a crisp.

I bolt back down the stairs and through the kitchen, but stop in my tracks when I notice my dad conversing with a man I’ve never seen before. He’s probably around the same age as my father and has a fair complexion, his features striking and sharp. I watch as he leans against the brick retaining wall surrounding the pool area, his hands animated as he speaks.

As if sensing my presence, the stranger glances over his shoulder and offers me an eerily calm smirk. A prickle of curiosity causes me to pause, and I realize I’ve lingered longer than I should.

Set on ignoring the glimmer in the man’s eye and the swelling sensation of dread, I march back to the table where my mom and sister are engaged in a game of Who Can Be Silent the Longest. It’s a shame I’m not playing; I usually win.

I sit down to my plate of spaghetti carbonara, a favorite of mine, and reach for my water. It’s customary to wait on my father before we eat, so I stare at the twisted noodles mixed with bacon and chicken willing him to hurry up.

To pass the time, I trace the table”s rough wood grain with my finger; the lines riddled with pockmarks and knife damage. Overly emotional family dinners and drunk Cosa Nostra men have quite literally left their mark.

“Isabella, put the phone away. Here comes your father.”

It’s a shock we can even understand my mother when she talks through her clenched teeth. She doesn’t like being caught having to correct her daughters in front of my father—it would imply she isn’t doing her job.

My sister rolls her eyes and tosses her phone in her lap before picking up her fork to twirl her pasta.

“Forgive me, love, that conversation couldn’t wait,” my father says as he sits at the end of the table opposite my mother. I glance back toward the pool, but the stranger is gone. My mother doesn’t say anything, only offers a polite smile.

My father picks up his fork and dives into his meal, signaling we can as well. I dig in.

“So …” My mother nods toward him.

“It’s done. I go to speak with him the day after tomorrow.”

Intrigue has my ears perking up, all while trying to appear solely interested in my food.

“I can’t believe he agreed to meet with you. This is good news, yeah?” My mother is beaming.

Who is she talking about?

My father raises a finger as his phone buzzes on the table. He answers, “Sí.”

I know better than to listen to his phone call, so I busy myself with my carbonara, savoring the perfection until my plate is empty.

By that point, there’s one roll left in the breadbasket, and when I lift my eyes to glance around the table, I’m met with my sisters. Her gaze snaps from the lone roll then back to mine. We both plunge our hands into the basket, me finding a grip on the buttery goodness first.

“Luna,” my mother’s voice cuts through the carb-driven madness, “another roll will go straight to your hips. Leave it.”

Humiliation heats my cheeks as I release the roll, and my sister promptly grabs it from the basket with a smirk. I poke my tongue out at her, pulling it back before my mother sees and blames me for being improper.

“Miss Buscetta, are you finished?” Giulia’s question snaps me out of my brooding.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, handing her my plate.

“Antonio continues to burn us even from the grave,” my father says, setting his phone down. “In deep with some senator who’s also in with the Bratva. Well, at least was in with the Bratva. I’m sure Luka Morozov would love to get his hands on the senator after his and Antonio’s stunt.” He chuckles to himself.

A shiver races down my spine. Luka Morozov is a name you never forget.

One of the youngest pakhans in Bratva history, he’s a legend within our organization—even despite our feuding history. His name alone makes the strongest Cosa Nostra soldier’s knees shake. The fact that Uncle Antonio tried to take down the pakhan and kidnap his fiancée—well, like I said, the best thing to happen for our family was his murder.

“Be careful when you meet with him, Sal. I don’t want to have to plan a funeral for you as well.” My dad levels a glare at her, and my mother”s eyes widen—like she got caught saying something she shouldn’t have. I meet my father’s gaze, and it’s like he’s daring me to ask.

Yeah, I’m going to ask.

“You’re meeting with Luka Morozov?”

“Yes. And that will be all on the Morozov family at this table for today,” he says, digging back into his lunch.

My mother pours herself a generous second glass of wine as a myriad of thoughts carousel on an endless loop in my mind. This meeting must be important. What could my father possibly have to speak with the Bratva about?

Giulia sets a plate of tiramisu in front of me, and within its distinct layers of utter perfection, I can smell the sweet scent of coffee-soaked cakes and mascarpone. I snatch the accompanying dessert fork.

Out of habit, I glance up and find my mother’s eyes on me. A thickness clogs my throat and I shrink back, pushing the plate away.

I’m full anyway.

I wait the few riveting minutes of silence while my father eats and answers emails on his phone before asking, “May I be excused?”

My sister patiently waits for the answer as well.

My father inclines his head, and a beat passes before I realize that’s all the approval I’m going to get.

Excusing myself, I head to the gardens for the rest of the afternoon. I’ve made big plans to finish my book until I’m recalled back to the table for dinner.

Later, after another dessertless meal, I tuck myself away in my room for the night and open my dresser drawer to count out several chocolate candies. Once I’ve separated them by color and organized them into different repetitive patterns, I eat one and put the rest back.

Instead of savoring it, when the sweet chocolate hits my tongue, guilt knots in my belly. I sigh and shove my drawer shut.

Crawling onto my bed, I face the bolted window. It takes a few adjustments to get comfortable on my lumpy pillow, but once I do, I stare out at the velvet night sky, the perfect backdrop for the incandescent stars and luminous moon. I wish I could open the window and experience the stillness of the night, or feel the cool air kiss my skin.

Eventually, I find the Big Dipper. I trace it with my eyes until they grow heavy, as I mumble the same words over and over while I drift to sleep.

I wish for more.