Obsession (Sinners of New Orleans #3)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Madi

Ten Years Old

T he hardwood floor is cold against my bottom as I curl into the corner of the closet. My newly claimed hiding spot is located in my grandfather’s office, tucked behind musty smelling jackets and boxes of wrinkled papers. I wrap my arms around my knees and close my eyes so I can pretend it’s not pitch black in here. Still, it’s better than being out there.

Nonno’s oversized New Orleans home is currently crowded with people. Too many people. They make sad faces as they press me into unwanted hugs while whispering pity filled words.

I’m so sorry for your loss.

Your father was a good man.

I’m here if you want to talk.

Talk? Talk about what?

Their sympathy and weird phrases swirl in my head, causing nothing but confusion. My father wasn’t a good man. There was a version of him that resembled one. At least, I think so. But all the versions of him tangle together, the edges so faded, I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. The good has been entwined with the bad, tainting everything in a red haze of anger and screaming matches.

Al Ricci, my father, was a large man with bulging muscular arms covered in scars and tattoos. I tried to count them once on a vacation we took to the beach. But the mangled flesh mixed with the black ink and I lost count once I hit fifty. I couldn’t ask him to tell me the number. My father was a stranger in my house. Multiple strangers, really. Every time he walked through the front door, I didn’t know which one to expect.

Of the many versions, the nice one was my favorite. The one I called daddy frequently brought home candies, took us out for ice cream, and spent late nights watching movies in the basement theater with me. But he was infrequent and never stayed long.

Shame burns in my stomach when I think of all the mourners outside this office. People who announced their sorrow by crying tears of sadness over my father’s death. The man we sealed into a metal coffin this morning was not the version I loved. I could barely remember the one I loved; he hadn’t come out in far too long and I already considered him a ghost. In my head, Al Ricci died years ago. The body that now sits in a tomb at Lafayette Cemetery is not my father. I don’t mourn his death, despite what everyone else thinks.

I mirrored their faces of sadness, pretending that this event affected me much more than it did. The truth was, I was thankful when my mother told me my father would never return home. I exhaled a breath and sucked in fresh air.

Our house was lighter, easier to navigate without him there. I felt like I could walk. The broken eggshells that once lined our floors were swept away, allowing me to dance through our home freely. I was happier this past week than I’ve ever been.

But that happiness was inappropriate. At least, that’s what my mother said when she saw me smiling. I was supposed to be grieving.

This was my third funeral of the year, and I thought I had it down to a science. Black dress with matching Mary Janes, stay silent and look sad. But my father’s funeral proved to be harder than I had anticipated. The acting was more difficult. The other funerals were different, people I didn’t know. It was easy to pretend then.

But I knew my father, and I wasn’t sad. Despite the fake tears that rolled down my face, I felt nothing .

A creak on the old floors of my nonno’s estate jolts me out of my thoughts, and I curl tighter into myself, hoping no one thinks to open the closet.

“You did good, Son.” It’s my nonno’s voice. He wouldn’t be upset if he caught me in his office. I’m his favorite, after all. The baby of the family. But his voice is low, and I can hear him shuffling around as he sits down at his desk. “But you’ll have to keep this from your sister.”

There’s someone else in the room. I can hear their footsteps as they take the seat across from my nonno’s desk. I seal my hand over my lips, keeping myself quiet as I listen to them talk.

“You don’t have to tell me that.” It’s my Uncle Junior who responds. “I have no interest in telling Caterina I murdered her husband.”

That single word reverberates through me. I know what it means; I’ve heard it said in my house, heard it broadcasted on the news. But my father wasn’t murdered…he died in an explosion. That’s what the TV said.

But still, my uncle’s statement sloshes through my brain.

Murder?