Chapter 2 #2
I push myself off the floor and walk over to the vanity, staring at my reflection in the light of a single lamp.
Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. I am not ugly.
I know I’m not. But I lack the softness that men crave.
I lack the delicate, fragile submission that makes my sister, Lucia, the golden child.
I have too many edges. I have too much fire.
My gaze drifts to the small, silver-framed photograph tucked into the corner of the mirror. It’s a picture from the last summer gala. I am standing with Dario Lombardi, the only man I can call a friend. We are bathed in the soft glow of the patio lights.
Just thinking of him makes a pathetic, desperate warmth flutter in my chest. He is the son of the Don of the Lombardi family, the fourth and weakest of the Italian syndicates.
But Dario doesn't look like a monster. He has sandy blond hair, a devastatingly charming smile, and eyes that actually seem to see people, not just targets.
He smiled at me for the first time two years ago, at a Christmas dinner.
I had been hiding in the library, trying to escape the stifling cigar smoke and the suffocating pressure of being paraded in front of old men.
He had walked in, caught me reading, and instead of mocking me, he had asked what the book was about.
We spoke for exactly seven minutes before my father found us and dragged me away.
That seven-minute conversation sparked a deep friendship that I have come to cherish, and I hope it will develop into something more. The truth is, he has tried to make it more, but I want a clearer commitment than just a casual fling.
I reach out and trace the edge of the frame with a trembling finger. I used to let myself imagine a life where Dario would ask my father for my hand. But I’m not an idiot, and I’m not blind.
Lately, when the Lombardi family visits, Dario doesn't seek me out in the library anymore. He looks for Lucia.
He looks at my sister with the same interest and calculating appreciation that every other man in our world has.
He seeks her out in crowded rooms, bringing her glasses of champagne and leaning in close to whisper in her ear.
And Lucia, with her perfect, obedient smile, blushes and bats her eyelashes, playing the game exactly as we were taught.
It makes me sick to my stomach. Not just the jealousy, though God knows that burns like battery acid, but the realization that Dario isn't different.
He isn't my savior. He only wanted to use me and discard me. He’s just another mafia prince looking for a beautiful, quiet doll to put on a shelf. He wants the prize, not the problem.
You will die a maiden in this house.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at my own pathetic, lovelorn reflection anymore. I walk over to the massive bay windows, pulling the heavy velvet drapes aside to look out into the night.
The rain is coming down in sheets, washing the manicured grounds of the estate in darkness. Beyond the high stone walls and the wrought-iron gates, the city of San Marco stretches out, a glittering grid of neon and shadows.
Out there, men are bleeding for my father’s pride. Out there, the Russians and the Irish are circling like vultures, waiting for the Italians to finally gut each other.
And out there is the current hot-headed Cassio Vellutini.
I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself as a chill seeps through the windowpane. The man single-handedly bringing the Genovese family to its knees. I’ve only met him a handful of times, mostly at funerals and tense sit-downs. But I remember the last time vividly.
It was a year ago, right before the war turned bloody. A neutral gala hosted by the Capo dei Capi. I had accidentally bumped into him near the terrace doors, spilling a drop of red wine on the cuff of his immaculate tuxedo. I had apologized.
He had looked at me. Really looked at me. His eyes were black, bottomless pits, completely devoid of anything resembling humanity. There was no warmth, no charm, no soul. Just a cold, calculating violence that made all the air leave my lungs.
"Careful, little Genovese," he had whispered, his voice held a velvet threat that stroked across my skin like a blade. "You're much too fragile to be playing in the dark."
I had snapped back, calling him an arrogant bastard, telling him to choke on his own ego. He hadn't gotten angry. He had just smirked, a cruel, mocking curve of his lips, before turning and walking away, leaving me trembling with rage and an inexplicable, terrified adrenaline.
I hate him. I hate what he stands for, I hate what he’s doing to my family, and I hate the way he looked at me like I was nothing but an insect to be crushed beneath his expensive shoes.
Tomorrow is the summit. The Capo dei Capi has summoned all the heads of the families to demand an end to the internal War. My father thinks he can outsmart Cassio. He thinks he can force the younger Don to bow to tradition and seniority.
But looking out into the rain-slicked darkness, I know the truth. My father is an old man fighting a ghost from the past. Cassio Vellutini is a nightmare forged in the present.
And nightmares consume.
I let the velvet drape fall shut, plunging the room back into shadows. I crawl into my large, empty bed, pulling the silk sheets up to my chin. I close my eyes, trying to block out the sound of the rain and the muffled shouts of the guards downstairs.
I tell myself I don't care. Let the men kill each other. Let the empire burn. I am just the unwanted daughter, the spinster in the attic. The war has nothing to do with me.
But as sleep finally drags me under, a primal instinct curls in my gut, whispering a terrifying truth I can’t ignore.
The fire is coming. And it’s going to burn us all to ash.