Chapter 2
Gina
Okay, I will never admit it to my father, but traveling commercial is the shits. It’s grueling, and I’m exhausted, and it feels like a film is covering my teeth.
But there was absolutely no sane reason he should send a private jet for me halfway across the world, empty for one part of the trip, just to pick me up and fly me here all alone.
Over the years, and while our wealth increased, my father loved to flash his money around, but that was just plain stupid. Not to mention arrogant and bad for the environment.
So, I made sure that I arrived here before the private plane was scheduled to leave.
I mean, it’s not even his plane. Probably had to borrow it from his boss, and sell one of his kidneys in the process.
Because my father is rich, but not I-have-a-private-plane-at-my-disposal rich.
And his boss is mafia, just like him. Or bosses, I should say, because he always talks like he still reports up the chain to Stefano Santoro, whereas, in reality, Tommaso is the big head cheese here in San Francisco.
I study the city as I ride in a cab. I already miss the quiet, secluded town where I had been banished to ever since my father could afford to send me to private school.
I only came to visit my parents during the holidays, when it would look bad if your child was abandoned at school.
God forbid someone judge my parents poorly.
Keeping up appearances has become everything to Franco and Guila Caruso.
Hence why, as soon as my father rose high enough in the Santoro mafia ranks and could afford it, he sent me off to Santa Elisabetta.
A private all-girls school, where most of the students were the poster children for privilege, wealth, and prestige.
Then there were the other students, like me, who weren’t old-money or old-power.
We were allowed to attend because we could pay the exorbitant tuition, but more importantly, we knew someone connected who had pull to get us in.
As you might suspect, those other students like me were treated horribly by the entitled, snobbish princesses and reminded daily that we shouldn’t even be there.
As much as I hated Santa Elisabetta and the rich bitches who went there, including mafia princesses, I had two close friends, Allesia and Mia, who I already miss.
Plus, I loved the town itself—one on the coast with narrow cobblestone streets winding between sun-bleached buildings, not this modern, cramped, bustling city that feels claustrophobic.
But at least this wasn’t LA or something just as sprawling and huge.
I’ve always wondered why the Santoros started with San Francisco to conquer new territory rather than a larger city.
But I’ve never asked, not because I don’t care, but because it’s not my place.
Something my parents ruthlessly drilled into me, the higher up my father rose.
My curious, inquiring mind was why I was sent to Santa Elisabetta, so I could learn how to be polished and compliant. Pretty to look at while keeping my perfectly painted mouth shut.
I stifle a giggle, feeling almost maniacal from lack of sleep.
God, my parents are going to shit kittens when they see me, pulling up in a cab, hair in a messy ponytail, no make-up, and in sweatpants of all things. Seeing all their money and the last few years spent at that school learning how to be a proper lady not sticking one bit.
Truth be told, I love classic, elegant clothes. Think Jackie O and her style—polished but understated and chic. Quiet sophistication and power.
But rebellion against what my parents want me to be, like a perfectly normal almost nineteen-year-old, makes me hide that.
I don’t want to be told what to do; I don’t want to keep silent and look pretty like I’m arm-candy or a trophy, an ornament on some man’s arm. I have a brain and thoughts. Opinions. I’m not some mafia trophy wife who loves flashing her husband’s blood money around.
I don’t actually know what the Santoro family is into, either in Italy or here, but I’ve overheard the other mafia princesses talking.
Drugs, mostly, and a few of them were involved in trafficking.
They hadn’t even batted their perfectly mascaraed eyelashes when talking about how their families made their money.
I shudder, hoping that my father’s work doesn’t involve that, but I know I’m being na?ve—not that I’ll ever ask him, though.
Partly because I want to bury my head in the sand, but mostly because when he’s looked at me the last few times I’ve come home, it’s like he’s plotting how to use me to climb the food chain.
My father never used to be this way. When I was younger, I affectionately called him Babbo, and he’d walk, holding my hand or carrying me on his shoulder to get ice cream.
Thinking of the days when I called him Babbo brings me peace and a wistful longing for the man and family we were back then.
I was my parents’ world, and we were close.
I felt treasured and safe. But then two things happened that I attributed to the change in my father.
First, he had a mild stroke, and he was never quite the same afterward.
Every now and then, though, I’ll get a glimpse of the man he used to be.
But the other big contributing factor was his climb up the mafia food chain.
The more he got a taste of power and money, the more he craved it.
My mom changed along with him—maybe to keep her husband happy, or maybe because the wealth and power went to her head as well.
It didn’t matter, because neither of them were the parents I dearly missed.
Sighing and pushing away the nostalgic sorrow for the family we once were, I notice we’re approaching the address I gave the cab driver. My parents have recently moved, and I haven’t been here yet. A house comes into view, and it’s gaudy, over-the-top, and bigger than I expected.
Guess my father is really rolling in the dough now.
I push that thought away, not wanting to think about what he’s been doing to afford this grandiose house as the cab stops outside the wrought-iron gate.
That has armed guards.
“Cristo,” I murmur quietly. What the actual hell has my father been doing to afford this?
The cab driver looks nervously at the armed guards and grips the steering wheel. “Ah, is this the right place, lady?”
One of the guards approaches, his hand resting on his automatic weapon strapped across his shoulder, and the cab driver’s swallow is audible. The guard taps the glass with the butt of his gun, and the driver jumps.
“Here is fine.” I quickly pull American money out of my bag and toss it into the front seat. “Thanks for your trouble.”
I open the door, grab my small suitcase, and quickly get out. More guards step closer, and I gulp. “I’m Gina, Franco’s—”
Before I can say anything further, a different guard pushes through the group, his brow furrowed. “Gina?”
“Davide.” I sag in relief as I recognize someone.
“What are you doing here?”
He grabs my suitcase and knocks on the roof of the cab. The driver needs no further encouragement as he backs away from the gate, his tires squealing as he races away.
I face Davide, lifting my chin and setting my shoulders. “I took a commercial flight like a normal person. It was stupid for Father to send a private plane for me.”
I refer to my dad as Father because that’s what he prefers, even though the little girl in me cries and wishes for her Babbo.
Davide curses in Italian and grips my elbow. “Your father is going to be pissed.”
The guard who had first approached the cab blocks our way. He’s huge and scary-looking. “Where do you think you’re going?” he demands in a heavy Italian accent.
“This is Franco Caruso’s daughter,” Davide says tightly. “I’m escorting her to the house. Your boss and his heir will be just fine for a few minutes while I leave my post. There’s more than enough men here at the gate.”
The big man’s jaw clenches. “This isn’t how things are done. Sloppy fucking Americans,” he sneers, looking down his nose at Davide.
“I’m Italian, you fuck,” he seethes, then shakes his head and points at the man trotting over from the house. “Leandro can replace me.”
“I don’t want to cause trouble,” I say hesitantly, looking between Davide and the scary guard. “I can see myself to the house.”
“Open the gates,” Davide orders.
Once they’re open, and he pulls me toward the house, his fingers tight on my elbow over my jacket, and his other hand clenching the handle of my suitcase.
I struggle to pull free from his hold but fail. “Davide, what’s going on? Who were those guards?”
“Some of them are our men; others, like the dick,” he grits, “are here because your father has visitors.”
Shit.
“Who?”
“Important people.” He pauses at the steps that lead up to the house.
Marble steps that look like they’re inlaid with gold; straight up screaming ‘I’m rich’. Not to mention, they’d be treacherous when it rained. But I ignore the over-the-top house and focus on Davide.
“Be on your best behavior.” His eyes skate over me, taking in my messy ponytail, no make-up, and my way-too-casual and rumpled clothes, and he shakes his head. “Why do you always have to rebel, Gina?”
I bristle. I don’t know him well enough for him to be this forward with me, plus I don’t like how he eyed me like I was a disappointment. Just like I know my parents will.
That foolish, nostalgic longing for the parents and family we used to be rises, but I shove it away as Davide pulls me up the steps and into the entrance of the house.
I’m about to hit him with a snarky rebuke, but I stop and gawk. Dear Lord, the inside is worse than the outside.
The marble floor is polished to a blinding shine. There are gold accents everywhere—the window handles, picture frames, the light fixtures—and it makes me squint. And it looks like an art gallery exploded, with almost every available spot on the wall hanging some sort of painting.