3. Luna
Our house is massive. There’s an overkill of rooms, with even more bathrooms—all tossed in an opulence of gold and dark oak wood. But, for as large as this house is, the ability to eavesdrop is effortless.
The hallway to my father’s office is dark. The rich, warm tones of the oak-paneled walls range from golden caramel to deep, luxurious mahogany, but right now, in the dim light, everything looks murky.
I tiptoe past extra guest rooms until I reach one adjacent to the office. Inside, I move the dresser and press my ear to the wall.
“So, he agreed?” My mother’s voice is boisterous and clear.
“No, not at first—or, at all, really. It was Nikolai who said he would think about it,” my father replies, sounding stern and agitated. He is the son of my grandfather through and through, always right, never wrong, and if you don’t agree with him?—
“Well, what do you think he’ll say?” my mother says, hope in her voice.
I am still trying to rack my brain as to why my father would be meeting with Mr. Morozov at all.
“I don’t know, Maria. Antonio screwed the Cosa Nostra in every way. This alliance is the best course of action to repair it; it would mean hope for our future. I told Luka I would send the contract for him to consider?—”
The slightest shift has me accidentally stepping on a power cord, which sends the TV on the dresser tumbling down over my head.The talking in the office halts, and I scramble to untangle my foot from the cord. Once free, I quickly right the dresser and pick up the television. It’s broken.
Shoot.
I frantically scan the room, wondering if I should run or hide.
The door to the office opens and my father tells one of his men to search the hall—I think. It was in Italian and I didn’t understand all the words.
My mother refuses to speak the language, claiming the best way to avoid identification as Cosa Nostra is to integrate.
The door to the guest room slams open, a photo of Italy’s vineyards falling to the floor when the handle smacks into the wall. I’m frozen, unable to duck under the bed or dive into a closet, and the guard gives me a look. One you’d give a dog for eating your food.
He motions for me to come with him, and I drag my feet with each step around the corner.
My father is sitting behind his desk, gaze boring into my skull, when I’m plopped into the seat across from him. My mother is in the seat next to me, her chin lifted, eyes averted.
“What were you doing, Luna?” my father asks, his voice quiet.
“I–I’m sorry,” I stutter.
He leans back in his chair, arms resting on the dusky leather arms. Most of the office is filled with dark wood and leather, and the smell of cigars lingers in the air. Behind my father rests floor-to-ceiling bookshelves packed full of books with broken spines, and leather bindings. Antique guns in display cases also line the shelves, right next to family photos from our younger years. My sister and I in mismatched clothes, each of us atop one of my father’s shoulders—such a normal photo in an abnormal world.
“How much did you hear?” my mother asks, still avoiding eye contact.
“Maria,” my dad snaps, “leave us.”
My brows lift. This is different. He never asks my mom to leave. One thing I’ve always respected about my dad is his desire to include my mom in Cosa Nostra conversations and business dealings.
She gets up, offering my shoulder two robotic taps before leaving the room. My gaze moves from the empty doorway back to my father, and my stomach rolls.
“We have an opportunity,” he starts, “to mend the rift between the Cosa Nostra and the Bratva—through an alliance.”
Uh-huh. This is the part I did catch, but the joyless smile my father is offering me has a pit forming in my stomach.
“We have decided an alliance through marriage would be the best course of action. The pakhan has agreed to consider a contract for a marriage between his second, Nikolai Balakin, and you.”
It feels like the air’s been knocked out of me. The only thing in my chest is my wild, racing heart.
I stare back at my father, tears prickling behind my eyes, but I blink them away—I cannot cry.
No, no, no, this isn’t happening. A contract? Does that make me anything other than a legal exchange?
“N-No.” I barely push the word out.
My father’s nostrils flare and his eyes narrow at my defiance. “You will marry him and do your part for the Cosa Nostra.”
My body stiffens, heart hammering in my chest—he isn’t giving me a choice in this.
“But if you’d just?—”
“Know your place, Luna!”
I flinch.
“If you want to survive the Bratva, I suggest you learn to keep your spying in the shadows at a minimum—and your tongue leashed.”
My eyes find the floor and I shrink back into the chair.
“Yes, Papà.” The words come out as a whisper, my voice unable to muster anything else.
“Very good.” With a tight nod, he dips his nose back into his paperwork. I’ve been dismissed.
I don’t remember walking to my room, nor do I remember fishing out my swimsuit. And yet, here I am, standing at the edge of the pool, feet halfway hovering over the cold, sparkling blue.
I tremble. I want to explode. My mind is pushing, rebelling against what my father has demanded of me.
My feet tip forward until my balance fails and I tumble in. The chill reaches deep into my bones, numbing my mind as I cross my feet and sink to the bottom.
Marriage.
“You will marry him and do your part for the Cosa Nostra.”
My father’s words swim around in my head. My chest aches, the feeling of loss settling there, though I can’t put my finger on why.
Being tucked away on our private estate for much of my life, there wasn’t an opportunity to interact with boys. And, eventually, men. I never thought much about love, or prospect of marrying the love of my life. Especially after what happened—after he happened.
Looking back, it wasn’t love, but it was still my own choice, and choices aren’t something I have many of.
“I want flowers, endless flowers,” my mother says while pointing at the wedding planner. It’s been exactly one week since my father demanded my loyalty to the Cosa Nostra by way of marriage, and that’s all the time I’ve had to process everything.
“Yes, we can do whatever you’d like,” the wedding planner replies.
“Colors should be within the navy blue and gold color palettes. We need a full Italian menu, and a venue large enough for over a hundred people,” my mother continues.
I’m not even in the room. At least, that’s what it feels like.
Why they’re treating this wedding like such a party is beyond me. This isn’t about two peoplein love, wanting to share an event with beloved friends and family. It’s a legal show. An alliance. A boardroom would be a better place for it.
“And what about the groom?” the wedding planner asks, clearly trying to hint to my mother that she’s ignoring the fact there’s another person involved in this arrangement.
“It’s customary to have the bride’s family plan the wedding. Make sure there’s some vodka there and I’m sure he’ll be happy.”
The conversation turns to cake and invitations—which are pointless, because only people from our organizations will be there, no outsiders. My thoughts drift to Nikolai, and I wonder what he’s like. I’ve resisted the urge to look him up. Not that there would be anything to find, but still—I’m proud of myself.
This parlor has always felt stuffy, but as I stare past my mother and the wedding planner, the air becomes thick and uncomfortable. The banana leaf green walls along with the overdone oak wood offer no reassurance. The piano in the corner, topped with gold decor and a ticking clock, holds my attention. The conversation fades into the background, and the only sound I hear is that clock, ticking down time to the rhythm of my heartbeat. Everything is out of my control.
“Does that sound good, miss?” The wedding planner’s voice breaks through my spiraling. “If there’s anything you’d like to add?—”
“I think we’re all set. We’ll be in touch for our tastings,” my mother answers for me.
I don’t mind—it keeps me from breaking down. The wedding planner gives her a smile and then looks at me again, her upturned lips collapsing. She gives me a nod and scurries through the double doors of the parlor, leaving my mother and me behind.
My mother’s bright, red-stained lips purse into a thin line, and her eyes trace down my face. I look at her silently pleading, willing her to see the pain this is inflicting on me. We hold each other’s gazes for a few beats before she turns on her heel and walks out.