Devious Touch

Chapter 1

Cecilia

When I jolt awake, I expect the warm, sticky feel of blood on my hands.

My eyes burst open, glancing at my fingers but finding them clean. The only thing crumpled in my fist is the music sheet I was studying. I must have fallen asleep at some point—of course I did. Since my nightmares have returned to torment me, I haven’t been resting.

I sit up on the sofa in my study and hug my knees, images from the awful dream that woke me flashing before my eyes.

My mother’s chest throbs with a wound so deep and ugly, I know no doctor can salvage it. The knife digs deeper, her screams grow louder, and life drains out of her into my small hands. Tears drown my face as the shadow across the room inches closer, my knees shaking, threatening to give out.

I exhale slowly, a whimper crawling up my throat. “It’s not real.”

Most of it isn’t, at least, and I don’t know why I’m even dreaming of this.

My mother died of a heart attack when I was six, a tragedy that left both me and my father in shambles.

Yes, even him, the most dangerous man on the West Coast, who wouldn’t so much as flinch at seeing death.

Maybe it’s because he inflicts it so often, he’s immune now.

But the shadow…the ominous figure lurking behind everywhere I go, that feels real.

Not just in my recurring nightmare, but now, in this very room, despite the guard posted outside my door and the men with guns surveying the palazzo from every corner. It’s an impenetrable fortress, yet I can’t shake the feeling that, even here, someone is watching me.

It started four weeks ago.

At first, I convinced myself it was my lack of sleep making me see things that weren’t there.

But every time I went out into the city, there was always something that put me off—a shadow in my peripheral vision, a tattooed hand in the corner of a building, a low whistle threading through the sound of passing cars.

It was only recently I began to suspect I was being stalked. By whom, I have no idea. And neither do my guards. They search everywhere but never find anyone.

My trembling fingers stretch out as I seek my phone in the creases of the sofa. On the screen waits the number I often contact when I need someone to talk to. It’s Ms. Donatello—the only maternal figure I’ve had for the past seventeen years. My piano mentor.

I’ve been calling her a lot lately, so I already know exactly what she’d say. Things like moving my body to quiet my mind so I can focus on what’s important. Because many things are important right now: securing my future, for one, and getting through tonight’s recital without embarrassing myself.

Piano is the only time no one tells me who I am.

When I play, I get to exist without permission, to dream of a life outside this cage.

I was born into the Cosa Nostra, where there’s no tolerance for women who think this way.

So, I play the good girl like they want me to, when in reality, I’m simply biding my time.

It’s my first public performance—a small recital in the town’s gallery. It’s not flashy, and likely no one cares about it as much as I do, but it’s mine, even if I was offered the slot last minute to fill in for someone more established.

Reluctantly, I let the phone fall from my hand. It’s almost six, and I should be getting ready. I stand and gather my crumpled music sheet, heading for the piano in the corner where the other sheets sit. Except…they’re no longer where I left them.

I stop cold. Why are all the papers scattered across the floor?

Has the wind blown them around? Impossible—the windows are closed. I crouch quickly, stacking them back together, refusing to look toward the glass until the last sheet is in place. When I do, only my reflection stares back. No one else is here with me.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath. I feel like I’m losing my mind.

I skitter into the adjoining bedroom, pulling my sundress from my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

A mirror against the wall waits for me, giving me a glimpse of my mental state.

Dark circles bruise the skin beneath my eyes.

My face looks pale, sickly—like someone who hasn’t been sleeping.

Is this what my supposed stalker sees?

The idea is ludicrous. In our world, leverage is all that matters, leaving your enemy empty-handed after taking everything they have. If I am being stalked, it has to be because of that.

And yet, a quiet, twisted thought slips in before I can stop it.

Maybe he watches because he wants this. Me—fragile and vulnerable.

Heat flickers low in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome.

I tear my face away from the mirror, snatching the princess gown waiting on the hanger as if it can protect me from my own thoughts.

Shame and a little sadness fuel each movement that gets me dressed until I’m staring at the image of the perfect daughter in the mirror.

I hate it. The outfit makes me look like a doll, not like a professional pianist—my father’s orders, because God forbid I choose anything for myself at all. In the end, though, it doesn’t even matter. At least I get to perform.

A knock sounds at my door before Giuseppina enters.

“Madonna Santa! You look beautiful,” the housekeeper says, forcing me to feign a smile for her. “Is that how you’re wearing your hair? Your father said we should put it up in a bun…”

Later, at the San Maleno Gallery, the car pulls into a rounded driveway, where my father’s consigliere—Cesare Cammarano—is waiting to escort me inside.

He wears an impeccable black tuxedo, a sharp contrast to his observant blue eyes. No wonder the few women lingering by the entrance keep ogling him. I always think that if he wasn’t like an older brother to me, there’s a chance I might have fallen for him.

“There you are,” he says, opening the door. For the first time today, I smile like I mean it, taking his hand outstretched toward me. “Woman of the evening. You look spectacular, Cecilia.”

“Well, you don’t get the chance to perform for Luca’s audience every day. Father wanted me to dress the part,” I tell him, stepping out of the car.

He dips his head in agreement, placing that warm hand on the small of my back. “You’ll make Don Ferrara proud.”

No, I won’t. He’s not even here tonight, the event too small for him to make the trip back from Rome until his business there is settled. Cesare, however, showed up.

Of all my father’s men, he is by far the kindest. He once found me crying on the stairs because I’d gotten a B on my math exam, and instead of dismissing me like everyone else, he sat with me, looked over my test, and called the teacher a moron.

She wasn’t one, but I appreciated that someone cared.

To this day, he’s the closest thing I have to an ally in the palazzo.

“You know, I’m really surprised Luca couldn’t perform tonight,” I say as he leads us up the stairs of the gallery.

Cesare’s eyes flicker with a thought I don’t have access to before he smiles. “Well, he does have a family. And a life.”

“You don’t think something happened to him, do you?”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

I don’t. He might be a great pianist, but he’s also a patronizing, womanizing imbecile.

“That doesn’t mean I want him harmed.”

“Of course not,” he says vaguely, never answering my question. Most likely, the man who was supposed to perform in my place is…gone.

But Cesare doesn’t tell me everything. He feeds me crumbs of information sometimes, only when he deems it worthy of my attention. I don’t mind it, though, because I don’t tell him everything either. His main loyalty will always be to my father.

“Is it happening again?” he asks me out of nowhere as we enter the gallery. The interior is tall and spacious, adorned with paintings. We walk the hallway together, smiling at people who pass us by.

“Hmm?” I turn my neck to him, my eyes constantly searching for something. Someone.

“Your paranoia. Your nightmares. You seem oddly distracted tonight.”

“Oh—I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Cecilia…”

His mouth opens to say something more, but the words never come. He thinks I’m crazy too, I’m sure. But unlike my father, he refrains from telling me to go see my shrink, knowing how much I despise her.

“I’m sorry Ms. Donatello couldn’t make it back from New York in time,” he resolves to saying. “I know she would’ve made things better. You know you’re safe with me, though, right?”

I suck in a breath and then expel it, spotting a guard at the end of the hallway. “Thank you for that.”

He takes his hand from behind my back and uses it to wrap my arm around his as we continue walking. “Good. I do, however, have some not so pleasant news. Thought you should know, though maybe now is not the best time…”

“What is it?”

“Well, if I tell you, it stays between us.”

“As always,” I say.

He sighs, his voice all smiles for public pretense, and then says the last thing I would’ve wanted to hear tonight—or ever. “Your father made a list.”

I halt. The words float between us, weightless at first, as if the world has stopped moving and time has ceased to exist. Then, everything resumes a second later, the information crashing down on me like a boulder.

“What…?”

“I found it in his office the other day,” he says. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

A heads up… No heads up could have prepared me for the disappointment that seeps into my chest.

A list.

No. He wouldn’t do that to me.

“Are you sure that’s what it was?”

Cesare’s tone is gentler than I’ve ever heard him. “I couldn’t think of another reason he’d write down the names of young heirs from families we need alliances with.”

But I can. I can think of many reasons, in fact—like having them killed, or…or…using them as leverage. What I cannot fathom is the idea that my father’s cruelty truly knows no bounds. Because he promised me.

The memory slams into me all at once, disarming me: my father kissing me goodnight when I was little, hovering in the doorway like he had something important to say.

“I’ll take care of you, stellina mia. You’ll shine bright for the world to see because you are extraordinary, and I will give you everything you need to succeed in this life. ”

It was the last promise he made before my mother died, the only thread of the father I once adored.

Now, that’s gone too.

Cesare’s pitying gaze makes it hard to look at him again. I don’t want his sympathy. I just want the father I used to have, or at least the lie that kept my head above the water.

“I can ask him when he gets back from Rome,” Cesare says carefully.

I nod, but the motion feels robotic, like I’m watching myself from somewhere far away. Voices from the stage room float toward me as we enter, murmurs and laughter. Life going on while mine collapses. Only the urgency to press my fingers to the piano keys manages to pull me forward.

Familiar faces come into view, and I forget all about forcing smiles.

I don’t even realize I’ve made it backstage until I take in the lights illuminating the piano in front of the audience.

The kind of sight I used to dream of. Pray for.

Now, it feels rather pointless. It seems I’m never going to make it too far.

The gallery director welcomes me then disappears, leaving me in another small hallway for a few minutes.

My heartbeat drums in my ears as people take their seats.

I breathe in and out, trying to come back to myself, because even if Cesare is right, this is still the very first time I’ll be performing on stage. I should cherish it.

One last time, I flex my fingers.

G-sharp to B. Don’t overpedal. Crescendo. Breathe.

Muffled coughs and murmurs rise and fall. I swallow hard, the sting of nerves keeping me wired.

And then—

My eyes round at the corners in shock before I even turn.

No.

Not here. Not now. “Oh my God…”

The low whistle—the same whistle that has followed me for weeks—reaches over from behind. I turn slowly, squinting my eyes into the dimly lit hallway, but it’s empty.

“Ten seconds, Cecilia,” the director calls from the opposite direction.

“Wait. Can you bring Cesare? Or someone—”

“Come on, come on,” he chirps, oblivious. “You can do this.” He takes my hand, dragging me toward the edge of the stage. “You don’t want to disappoint your first audience, do you?”

I hold his stare, throat tightening, his words touching a part of me I hate looking at—the one that still yearns to be enough. Maybe the whistle is in my head. Maybe I am losing it.

Maybe—

My name echoes through the room as someone introduces me on stage. Too late to back down now.

I force my feet forward, and just for good measure, I look back into the hallway one last time.

There’s no one there.

Pull yourself together, dammit.

Stepping into the bright spotlight, I take in the silhouettes of the people in the now dimly-lit crowd, my heart fluttering with relief when my gaze lands on the piano at last. I let my feet carry me there, the audience growing silent as my hands hover above the keys.

Then, I begin.

Rachmaninoff’s sad melody reaches every corner of the room. It ebbs and flows as gracefully as I can muster right now, starting soft, faint, then growing into a monsoon of devastating notes.

Ironically, I’m performing a Russian composer’s piece for a crowd of Italian criminals. But music is music, and no matter how much disdain they all carry for the enemy, they can at least appreciate art.

My chest leans into the motions, my whole body wired to the tune I’ve been rehearsing endlessly. Out here, I set it free into the world, wanting to isolate myself from it but somehow achieving the opposite. The harder I press the keys, the more it clings to my heart.

My feet press on the pedals at just the right time, and when the melody slows again, my body sways gently, head tilted back.

The moment the backs of my eyes burn with incoming tears, I swallow them, ignoring the emotion trying to take over until, minutes later, the final chord rings out, and I’m met with a chorus of applause.

I look up for just a second, basking in the praise. But that’s when I see it.

My stalker.

He’s here.

I never made him up.