My Dark Fairy Tale (My Dark Mafia Romance)

Chapter One Guinevere

Chapter One

Guinevere

The Tuscan hills rolled in endless gold-and-green waves into the horizon, where the setting sun glowed as orange as an egg yolk, split and spilling tangerine light into the bowls of the valley.

There were the sharp tang of cypress and musk of hay on the sticky breeze wafting through the open window of the little Fiat I’d rented for my trip and the sound of some random Italian pop song playing through the radio.

My belly was full of the cacio e pepe pasta I’d devoured in a small corner restaurant in Rome I’d had bookmarked in my browser for years before I’d departed for the apartment I was renting in Florence, but I had a few fresh plums in the cup holders in case I needed a snack.

It was the first day of my long-anticipated, desperately needed trip to Italy.

And it was paradise .

I didn’t take a moment for granted, because this trip had been a lifetime in the making.

I thought every child grew up idolizing something. A film star, a book series, an older sibling’s best friend. It wasn’t that strange to obsess over the idea of something until it became a part of you, a dream stitched into your soul, a fantasy carved into your psyche.

Mine was the vision of Italy.

My father had emigrated before I was born from some small town in the Tuscan hills.

He didn’t speak about his history or ancestry much at all, no tall tales or shared customs. It was as if he’d stripped himself of all cultural identity the minute he stepped foot on American soil.

I often wondered if it was because he had a traumatic past there he didn’t want to share or notions about his native land he didn’t want to pass on to his children.

Maybe it said strange things about how much I admired and adored him that I wanted to get to the heart of his magic, and my childish mind had latched on to Italy as its source.

Maybe it was because I’d spent so much time in the hospital staring at the same walls for hours on hours, wishing for escape.

Imagining a fantasy world with goblins and unicorns had seemed too intangible for comfort, but a real country across the world, filled with history and cultural richness, was the perfect vehicle for escapism.

For whatever reason, I started my Italian-trip fund when I was seven years old.

At first, it was selling lemonade at our plastic kids’ table on the side of the road at our lake house, but it morphed into making babysitting money and busking during the summers, then working at the local movie theater when I was a teen.

I also interned for my dad’s wealth management firm during my summer breaks between college semesters at the University of Michigan, but it didn’t pay much, and I supplemented with evenings working at Mancini’s restaurant.

I didn’t have time for boyfriends or parties when I was on a mission to spend the entire summer after college graduation in the land of my dreams.

My parents didn’t know I was going to Italy because I wouldn’t have put it past them to lock me in the basement for the duration of the summer.

The way John Stone hated his home country was almost biblical.

The only things he let slip over the years were a handful of expressions he’d mutter that couldn’t be properly translated and the general area his family had originated in.

When I expressed interest in anything to do with Italy, he shut me down and told me that we were American and that I should be satisfied with calling such a great country my own.

And I was, but whether or not it was because I was a child, his hatred and refusal to indulge my curiosity only stoked the flames of my intrigue even higher.

I was desperate to visit his homeland and determined to discover if we had any remaining family there, despite having very little information to begin my search with when I arrived.

In the way of most parental disapproval, my father’s aversion to Italy only made me lust after it more.

So when I declared I was going away for an entire summer as a graduation present to myself, I told them I was backpacking through Europe. England, France, Spain, the Balkans. Anywhere but Italy.

My father had gone so far as to make me promise on his ancient leather-bound family Bible.

It was stamped on the inside of the cover with a lion holding a shield embossed with a fleur-de-lis.

The symbol of Florence and the principal reason I’d decided to spend my summer in that particular Tuscan city.

I’d hidden my wince, crossed my fingers, and thanked my lucky stars I was an atheist.

My parents had made it clear to me all along that they wouldn’t financially support my trip, and even though they could well afford it, I didn’t argue.

They were happy for Gemma to go on a trip to Denmark with her friends after high school and to Aspen for ski trips every year, and the summer she’d passed away, she had been doing a year abroad in Albania.

They didn’t treat me the same way they treated Gemma, because I’d been born with a serious health defect that meant I’d spent most of my childhood in and out of the hospital.

They cared about us both, but they never got over their fear for my safety.

They didn’t want me gallivanting around the world or going out with boys.

They wanted me wrapped up at home on a path they set out for me so they could have some sense of control in a situation where they’d felt hopeless one too many times.

I got it, I did.

But it didn’t stop me from making my own plans.

By the time I walked across the stage at Michigan to get my diploma from the Ross School of Business, I had $10,000 saved for my trip.

Ten thousand.

Which was nothing to sniff at, especially considering I also had a normal savings account to set myself up for my future.

Because Italy wasn’t my future.

It was a beautiful blip in time where I could explore the country of my dreams and my true self at the same time.

My future had been set for me a long time ago by my father.

And it was only solidified when we lost Gemma last year. Only twenty-six, healthy and beautiful, and suddenly gone thanks to a spontaneous coronary artery dissection.

I would spend the summer in Italy on my own dime and return to start working for my father so eventually I could take over his wealth management firm.

Thrilling stuff.

But that was for future Guinevere to worry about.

Now I was literally living my dream.

I sang along to the song on the radio in my passable Italian and tapped my hands on the hot steering wheel as I enjoyed the open road leading me through the scenic route to Florence.

As if offended by my lack of singing talents, the car let out a sudden, ferocious growl followed by an ominous bang. Black smoke belched out of the hood and curled through my open window.

“Dammit,” I cursed, pulling over to the side of the road as the engine sputtered and made a series of tumbling noises.

The music cut off as soon as I turned off the car, leaving only a quietness that existed in every countryside the world over: crickets, birdsong, and the shush of the breeze through long grass. No sounds of cars.

And no sight of them either.

I could see most of the road in either direction, losing sight in sections as the hills dipped and swelled.

But there was nothing.

I was alone in the Tuscan countryside, where I knew absolutely no one, and with only a textbook understanding of the Italian language.

“Why?” I whispered, closing my eyes to beat back the sorrow that seemed to shadow every waking moment of my life since Gemma died. “ Why? ”

The first day of my dream trip had already devolved into a nightmare.

I sucked in a deep breath to brace myself, then coughed as the noxious fumes from the car scorched down my throat.

There was nothing for it, though.

I couldn’t just wallow there as the sun set and night threatened. Even though Italy was fairly safe for tourists, camping out on the side of the road was not safe for anyone, let alone a twenty-three-year-old foreigner.

So I rubbed the tears lurking in my ducts with a fist and then marched to the trunk for the tool kit the rental representative had assured me was inside. I wasn’t sure if there was anything my meager knowledge of cars could do with a smoking Fiat, but my only recourse was to try.

Twenty minutes later, I threw the oil-coated rag to the asphalt and dropped to the gravel with my sweaty forehead in my hands.

My skin was tight across my face, a sure sign I was getting a burn from the hot sun even though it was dipping low over the horizon and casting long, slightly sinister shadows now.

I’d checked the coolant system, as my trusty internet search had suggested, and the oil, but it was hard to tell which might be the problem.

The car wasn’t smoking anymore, but I wasn’t confident I should drive any longer.

Still, if someone didn’t come along soon, it was either drive a hazardous car or sleep in it in the middle of the countryside, a plum prize for any human traffickers that might be lurking in the night.

I told myself to stop being so paranoid, but it was my father’s voice in my head, and it was hard to quell.

Italy isn’t safe, he always said whenever I spoke of my trip. Go to England or France, Spain even, if you want some heat. Italy isn’t a good place for a young woman. Promise me you won’t set foot on that godforsaken land.

I winced as I thought about him seeing me then, half smeared in grease, with a burn on my forearm from the overheated engine.

My phone battery was at 18 percent, and I cursed myself for not charging it on the plane ride over. I looked up my location on the map and nearly threw the phone into the golden grass field in frustration when the page wouldn’t load.

“Okay,” I said slowly, leaning my head back against the warm car to stare at the cerulean blue sky, its beauty mocking me. “Don’t freak out.”