5. Ana
5
ANA
The gates to the Costa family estate swung open, and the town car that met me at the Sicilian airport drove in, the tires crackling over the pebbled drive. We wound our way through terraced vineyards until we arrived at a terracotta villa, picturesque against the hills of Sicily.
I’d only visited twice as a child, and never as an adult. My grandfather, Nonno, waited for us, standing straight in front of the double doors, even though he carried a cane for support—or to smack errant teenagers into behaving, as the case may be.
The chauffeur opened my door, and I stepped out into the Sicilian sunset, shades of orange and gold turning the scene magic.
“ Bella Ana,” he said, opening his arms to me. “Angelo has told me so much about you.”
He had? I hid my surprise by burying my face in my grandfather’s chest. Despite his age, he was still intimidatingly tall, strong like the peasants we descended from. You’d never know he was part of the Cosa Nostra, a man who’d trafficked in drugs and women and arms, and had murdered dozens himself in pursuit of power.
“Thank you for having me,” I said, falling back on my manners to push through the awkward moment.
“Always,” my grandfather replied. “Gio’s passing was a loss for all of us.”
He left unsaid the question—why was I in Sicily? Because Angelo wanted me to be. I was a useless girl child, no longer a virgin, with a master’s degree in finance instead of a suitably feminine bachelor’s in early childhood education or some drivel like that.
There wasn’t anything wrong with the mafia woman who walked that road. They didn’t have any more choices than I did.
But I wanted more.
I had fond memories of my grandfather’s stable. He might be a brutal mafia don caught in a power struggle for the future of Sicily, but his estate included vineyards, paddocks, a working farm, and dozens of employees, many of whose families had lived in a nearby village for centuries.
The best way to get around was by horse, and I was determined to shake off my hurt and resolution before the reading of my father’s will tonight.
Marco, his stable master since I was a child, watched me saddle Limonata, a placid mare who wouldn’t give me any trouble. “You can have a feistier animal when I’ve seen you in the saddle,” he’d told me.
I smiled and told him that excitement was the last thing I wanted right now. Limonata suited me fine.
He’d harrumphed and handed me a brush.
“Will you be okay on your own?” he asked in Italian as I swung my leg over her back.
My Italian was rusty, but good enough to answer in the affirmative.
I nudged the horse’s sides with my heels, and she moved forward at a calm walk. Exactly what I wanted. Time to myself.
Calm.
Quiet.
Peace.
The warm breeze ruffled my hair as I rode, and I let my mind empty, focusing on the gentle thud of hooves against the ground, the rustle of the summer breeze through the grape leaves, and the trails of dust that blew through the air.
Men nodded their heads at me as I plodded by—they knew who I was. The entire village was in mourning for my father. We’d buried him yesterday, and the wailing and tears and rending of garments had astounded me. These people had no idea what a monster he had been. Did Nonno? My grandfather’s stoic demeanor told me nothing. I was too young, too female, and too American to be allowed into his inner circle.
Nonno had seen the bruises on my arms one morning when I came down for coffee in an elegant sleeveless dress. He’d simply raised his eyebrows and suggested I put on a cardigan, as the air was cool until the sun rose.
He’d yet to say anything about my engagement to Grégoire Tchérnov, but he would, eventually. My father would never have made plans to ally himself with another, powerful European family without informing my grandfather.
He also hadn’t said anything about the Russos. I supposed he didn’t care. Why would he, safe in Italy, with Angelo in the States to do his bidding? I held back a sniffle of self-pity. I missed my best friend. Sofia and I had known each other since we were children, and our friendship had solidified when she started her undergrad in Finance, and I TA’d one of her classes.
But my family had ruined that. I wouldn’t want to look at me either.
I hadn’t found any solutions when the sun began to set, but my heart had calmed. Whatever the future held, I would face it head on. I was Ana fucking Costa. My father beat me, locked me in closets, let men feel me up if it’d help seal a business deal, and sold me off in exchange for a shipping deal.
I could do anything.
And I would.
We gathered in my grandfather’s study, full of old mahogany furniture, books in half a dozen languages, and a bar cart with bottles more expensive than most cars. Unlike my father’s imposing desk, my grandfather’s study was deceptively cozy and welcoming.
This was where he met with his captains, his capos , the men he sent out into the world to do his violent bidding.
Tonight, an American lawyer met with us on a large screen. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that my grandfather embraced technologies to help him run his empire, but the screen still looked out of place among the Old-World ambiance.
On the screen was the lawyer, Angelo, and my father’s mistress. I bore Esmerelda no rancor. She’d never been cruel to me and had often distracted my father from the worst of his excess. Her presence meant he’d left her something.
Good.
With me were Nonno and Nonno’s consigliere—an attorney, advocate, and man-about-town—my grandfather’s right-hand man, but not his second-in-command.
Angelo wore a suit and he filled it out beautifully, his strong shoulders and thick biceps pushing at the fabric. The tattoos on his neck peeked out from the unbuttoned shirt he wore under it, and when he raised his hand to run it over his face, I watched the tattoos on his fingers with fascination.
All my life, I’d been surrounded by brutal, violent men, and none of them had ever given me the sense of safety Angelo had when he’d caged me in his arms.
The American lawyer cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming today. This will is …” he trailed off. “It’s unusual in that it lists very few assets.”
My brain flew to attention. Papà had owned property all over Yorkfield and Italy, much of it hidden in a byzantine maze of shell corporations so it couldn’t be found and taken to pay off his extensive debt.
“He left a million dollars to Esmerelda Echeverria.”
Esmerelda’s eyes widened and her hands flew to her chest. She prayed softly in Spanish, thanking the lord. Good for Papà. Not that she’d be able to collect, not with the cash he’d tied up in the trafficking operation that I was certain the Russos were dismantling as we spoke, but at least he’d done right by her.
“He left some small family heirlooms for Angelo Costa,” the lawyer continued.
“To Ana, I leave my estate and business operations in trust for her future husband. The trust gives her nothing until she marries, and at that point, will transfer into the hands of her husband. Until that day, Angelo Costa will manage my businesses and care for my estate.”
I gasped, leaving behind a lifetime of training for a moment, as my father’s betrayal settled into my bones.
He’d left me nothing. Nowhere to live. No money. No home. Fucking nothing. My entire life, he’d forcibly stopped me from my independence, and now, he’d left me destitute.
Fuck him.
My eyes flicked to Angelo’s face on the screen. “I don’t want it,” he growled.
Nonno’s face gave away nothing, but he raised a hand, and Angelo fell silent. “Angelo is unsuitable to run an empire,” he told the lawyer. “How do we fight this?”
“Angelo can hire whomever he wants,” the lawyer declared. “There’s nothing in here that says he has to be involved in the day-to-day details of the empire. But he is the signatory for the trust.”
“How do we challenge it?” Nonno asked. “Giving away the entire American branch of the Costa empire to the Tchérnovs is unacceptable.”
Angelo and I stared at each other for a long moment, furious at the will, unable to do anything about it, as our minds whirled, churning through the various paths we could take toward the future.
“Ana’s in danger,” Angelo said finally. “The will doesn’t specify who her husband is, only that the empire goes to whomever marries her.”
Nonno nodded sharply. “Without Gio at the reins, marrying her off to the French bratva seems less useful than an American alliance.”
When I opened my mouth to speak, Nonno looked at me with annoyance. “Hush, child.”
Twenty-six-years old, a master’s degree, and I’d never be anything but a child to him. If I’d been born a man, my father would have made me his heir, and I’d never be in this situation. All the years I’d spent at my father’s side unaccounted for. Silent, pretty, ornamental, serving liquor to men who thought I was a stupid doll, listening to every fucking deal my father made. I was useless.
My grandfather’s consigliere shifted in his seat. “Can the will be challenged?”
“Only if you want the American courts digging deep into Gio Costa’s finances and businesses.”
Inside, I snickered. Externally, I remained calm and placid, my legs crossed at the ankle, not revealing a goddamned thing. My father was a bastard, the worst sort of man, but if nothing else, I’d learned to hide what I was thinking, lest he beat me for showing how much I hated him.
“No,” Nonno said, slashing his hand through the air as if to cut off that path of conversation. “Absolutely not.”
Did they know about my father’s debts? Did the American lawyer know? Were they salivating over his empire without knowing that Gio sold me to the Tchérnovs in exchange for paying off his debts? Nonno had to know.
“I’ll consolidate power in Yorkfield,” Angelo said finally.
“And seek an advantageous match for Ana,” Nonno added. “An American, wealthy, a social climber who won’t mind paying off Gio’s debts and taking a damaged, used wife in exchange for access to our trafficking network. Someone who will continue to defer to the Sicilian branch for decision-making.”
Pain pierced my chest, so sharp it felt like a knife cutting into me. It didn’t matter what I did. These men would never respect me, never recognize that I could be good for anything other than my ability to make an alliance and pop out babies.
When Angelo didn’t say anything, Nonno prompted him. “Son?”
“Understood,” Angelo said, nodding sharply. His eyes flicked slightly to the left, and I wondered if he was looking at me on his screen, if he could see the panic building in my breast.
My father promised to let me wait to marry until I graduated—a compromise I paid for in blood. Somehow, I’d thought with his death, I’d get more time.
Unable to draw a full breath as my vision narrowed, I blinked.
“Ana,” a voice said, but I could barely hear it over the ringing in my ears. “Ana!”
It was Angelo, barking through the screen. “Ana, take a breath.” As if it were that easy. “Breathe,” he snapped, and to my shock, I inhaled sharply.
“Again.”
I did it again, and again, until my breathing calmed.
“Papà,” Angelo said. “She needs a drink.”
Nonno looked at me with contempt but offered me his glass of American bourbon. I took a sip, and the burning in my throat brought me back to the present.
“ Grazie ,” I whispered.
“Weak,” Nonno sneered.
My father had thought the same thing. They were right. Without a word, I stood up and strode from the room, pressure gathering in my chest as my steps got faster and faster until I was running.
I shed my kitten heels as I dashed out the kitchen door and into the night.
It wasn’t true freedom.
I didn’t even know what that felt like.
But at least, for a moment, with my bare feet pounding over the dirt roads of my grandfather’s estate and tears streaming down my face, I could pretend.
The silence appealed to me—shadowed trails leading through vineyards and rolling hills, with my grandfather’s manor at the top, surveying everything he owned and even more that he influenced.
Eventually, I slowed, my muscles aching and my feet no doubt bloody and bruised from my frantic flight from the house.
No one followed me. Here I was safe. Caged, but safe.
Sweat poured down my face, and I lifted my arm to wipe it off, surprised at how tired I was. How long had I been running? I’d left everything at the house, even my phone.
I turned around and stared at the villa on the top of the hill, brightly lit and inviting, almost cozy, nothing like reality—violence and death, paid for by every single one of us who wasn’t lucky enough to be born a man at the top.
The earth under my feet was cool despite the summer heat, and I squished my toes down into it, letting my imagination run wild with dreams of freedom.
Quiet footsteps thudded in the dirt in front of me and behind me, and I whirled. “ Chi c’è là? ” Who’s there?
Faster than I could blink, arms wrapped around me, then bound my hands behind my back and shoved a hood over my head.
I screamed, only to receive a punch in the stomach for my efforts. Unable to double over in pain, I wheezed.
“ Je l’ai ,” a soft voice said from behind me. I have her, in French, with a thick Russian accent.
“Vous êtes qui? Qu’est que vous voulez?” Who are you? What do you want? My cries went unanswered as the men dragged me forward, stumbling over roots and rocks. “ On va ou? ” Where are we going?
Silence.
I opened my mouth to scream, and a sharp metal blade slid up my spine.
“I wouldn’t make another sound,” a voice menaced, low and mean in my ear. “I don’t give a fuck whether the boss wants you. You’re dead.”