Chapter 47
Annamaria
I used to love Christmas.
The glittering trees towering in shop windows. The colorful lights wrapped around brownstones and lamp posts. The sound of Christmas carols drifting through snow-covered streets. The smell of cinnamon, pine, and roasted chestnuts lingering in the air.
I used to love all of it.
Not anymore.
Chicago holds no joy for me now, nor does this holiday.
It’s been four weeks since Marcello and Stella dragged me back here. Four weeks since they ripped my heart out of my chest and left me to survive without it.
They killed my husband that day in the church.
And I haven’t taken a full breath since.
I can barely look at my siblings anymore. Stella has tried talking to me… tried pulling me out of this endless melancholy that threatens to swallow me whole… but she doesn’t understand the misery I’m trapped in.
How could she?
Her husband still breathes.
Mine does not.
But even through the haze of my depression, I’ve noticed the changes within our home.
Not just within our family, but throughout the Outfit too.
The biggest change being that my father, Vincent, has officially stepped down as Capo dei Capi.
He claims it was simply time, but we all know the truth.
The second news of his polyamorous relationship spread through the Outfit, the other Dons lost all respect for him.
And a Boss who no longer commands the respect and loyalty of his men isn’t a Boss at all. Period.
It’s also why my father Giovanni relinquished his role as consigliere, while my other father, Dominic, finally put down his guns and knives and stepped away as the Outfit’s head enforcer.
Neither of them seems particularly upset by the change. In fact, my mother has been practically glowing ever since her husbands no longer have to risk their lives for the syndicate.
Honestly, I’m a little surprised the Outfit allowed any of them to retire at all. I know my father always talked about stepping down when the time was right, but I grew up believing that once you take the omertà, the only way out of the famiglia is in a body bag.
Then again, Marcello likely had a hand in making it happen.
After all, he’s the one sitting on the throne now, with Stella ruling faithfully at his side. And with so much uncertainty surrounding the Outfit’s future, old resentments within our family seem to have taken a backseat.
From what little I’ve gathered, my siblings gave my parents the silent treatment after discovering they’d known about my marriage to Matteo all along. But whatever bitterness about being kept in the dark still lingered between them quickly faded once my father surrendered his crown.
I wish I could be as forgiving.
Maybe if my parents had told Marcello and Stella about my marriage sooner, they wouldn’t have been so quick to kill my husband. But even as the thought crosses my mind, I know nothing would have changed.
The outcome would have still been the same.
Matteo dead.
Me only half alive.
Meanwhile, the war between the Outfit and the Cosa Nostra still rages on despite my return to Chicago. Which only proves what I’ve suspected all along.
This war was never truly about me.
If it had been, it would have ended the moment my siblings brought me home.
I avoid my siblings as much as possible now. It’s just too painful watching them bask in their wedded bliss while mine lies buried in the ground.
They get to keep their happily ever after.
Why did they have to kill mine?
They won’t even let me call Paolina. Won’t let me speak to anyone back in New York. According to them, hearing from Matteo’s family would only ‘confuse’ me further.
They think I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.
They say I need time. Distance. Counseling.
They believe that eventually I’ll realize my place is here in Chicago and that whatever fantasy Matteo planted in my head will eventually die too.
The irony is that I feel far more like a prisoner in my own home than I ever did back in New York.
The people who claim to love me… who insist they only want what’s best for me… are now the very people holding the key to my gilded cage.
I’m not allowed a phone. I can’t use a computer unless I’m being supervised. I can’t go anywhere without a fleet of soldiers shadowing my every move or one of my siblings keeping close watch over me.
The only thing they’ve let me keep is Matteo’s piano. And I think that has more to do with them underestimating what his gift means to me than any act of kindness.
During those first few days, when I barely slept and vomited up everything I tried to eat, Stella hauled me to an OBGYN, terrified I was pregnant.
Thank God I wasn’t.
Not because I didn’t want Matteo’s baby, but because I was terrified my family’s hatred for all things Donato would keep me from having it.
The thought alone makes me violently ill.
I never would’ve forgiven them if they’d taken away the last living piece of my husband.
But it’s okay.
I made myself a promise.
Right now, I’m watched every second of the day. Especially with Jude, Mina, and the homicidal Crane twins here stateside. But eventually their focus will shift elsewhere. Back to the war. Back to whatever mob nightmare demands their attention next.
I’ll spend this final Christmas and New Year’s with my family, and afterward, when I’m no longer the center of everyone’s concern, I’ll make my escape.
I’ll return to New York. I’ll see Paolina again. And then I’ll visit my husband’s grave, lie beside him, and finally rest.
There will be no ‘after.’
No future.
Just Matteo and me together again, exactly as we were always meant to be.
Knowing this agony won’t last much longer is the only thing that gets me out of bed these days. It’s what makes me take a shower. Eat. Sleep. Play the piano.
Because soon, I’ll see my husband again.
Matteo used to joke that I was the Helen of Mafia Wars.
Little did he know we’d become the Romeo and Juliet of the underworld instead.
And strangely enough, there’s comfort in that. Comfort in knowing the end is close.
That soon, I won’t have to survive another day without my heart. My soul.
And this time, no one will ever tear us apart…ever again.
“Are you sure you don’t want a slice of Frankie’s pie? She made your favorite,” Lucky says, the smell of cinnamon and baked apples invading my nostrils and turning my stomach.
I turn away from him and walk toward the window instead, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the woods outside.
“Has she talked to anyone yet?” I hear Alejandro whisper behind me, likely to my brother Enzo, concern lacing his voice.
“No. The last time I heard her speak was when she begged me to call Matteo’s mother a few days back,” Stella answers for him, sounding just as worried.
“Anna? Hey.” Lucky steps beside me, gently tugging at my sleeve until I finally turn toward him and the rest of the room.
“Frankie and I were thinking maybe you’d be up for a trip to Russia this summer.
Fresh air, horseback riding, gardening… there’s loads to do there.
” He glances toward Stella and Kirill for backup.
“Tell her about those ridiculous flowers Misha is obsessed with.”
Stella forces a hopeful smile. “He’s right. I think you’d really like the Petrov compound. It’s very peaceful there, and Misha’s has a library that puts ours to shame.”
I say nothing.
Instead, I walk over to Matteo’s piano and brush my fingertips across the closed lid.
“For fuck’s sake, Anna,” Lucky snaps, finally losing patience. “You can’t keep giving everyone the silent treatment.”
“Lucky… stop,” Frankie warns softly.
“No, babe. I’m sick of watching my sister walk around like a ghost. This isn’t healthy.”
“Leave her alone, Lucky,” Marcello says, his tone making it clear it’s an order, not a request.
“No. Us leaving her alone is how she got into this mess in the first place. We have to do something,” Lucky counters.
I should feel guilty for causing my family so much misery. I should feel… something.
But I don’t.
All I feel is numbness.
“Dolce angelo, why don’t you play something for us? Maybe one of your songs?” my mother asks softly, now standing behind me.
“Tesoro… maybe we should let Anna play when she wants to,” my father gently suggests, worried my mother is asking too much of me.
“I’ll play,” I reply, opening the lid as the entire room falls silent at the sound of my voice.
Pretending I don’t notice how the room has gone quiet, I lower myself onto the piano bench and press my fingers against the keys, letting them rest there for a moment before I begin.
The first notes come out soft. Hesitant. Like they might shatter if I press too hard.
They carry something warm… something that feels like light. Like the memory of love before it was stolen from me.
I can almost see Matteo. Almost feel his hand in mine.
And for one brief moment, breathing doesn’t hurt quite so much.
But it doesn’t last.
My hands begin to move faster, heavier, the melody slipping into something deeper. Something hollow.
The warmth fades and is quickly replaced by an ache that claws its way out through every note. Each key feels like another crack splitting through my chest, like I’m reliving the moment I lost him over and over again.
The music turns raw. Grieving.
No longer a memory, but an open wound laid bare for everyone in the room to hear.
“Fuck, I can’t handle this,” Lucky chokes out somewhere behind me before his footsteps hurry from the room.
“Lucky, wait,” Frankie calls, racing after him.
By the time I reach the end, my fingers tremble against the keys. The final notes linger through the room, unfinished and aching… just like me.
When I finally turn around, my family looks even more devastated than before I started playing.
“That was…” My mother wipes at her tears. “Very beautiful, piccolina.”
I try to smile at her, but it feels as hollow as everything else inside me.