Chapter 4
GABI
Mother Lucia fetched me at four this morning. In the quiet before daybreak, we snuck down the stairs to her office and then to her chambers.
I clutch my golden cross necklace that I never take off.
Before the other sisters were up for personal prayer, Mother Lucia had led me to a room adjacent to her office, then through a hidden door in a cupboard and into a narrow, claustrophobic passage.
I hate it here. Something about it reminds me of waiting in a dark and dank place. Pig stench and squealing.
But I’m here for a reason today. Onwards and upwards. I’m leaving the past behind. Hopefully.
Mostly, I’m digesting what happened in the past twenty-four hours and ruminating about this next phase of my life.
There’s only one chance for first impressions.
Dominic Scalera is the first blood relation I get to meet in my twenty-two years.
I’m a clean slate to these people. My brothers don’t need to know about my scars and scratches, or how many times I’ve tried to erase them.
I need to go in looking innocent and pure, but with eyes wide open, hiding myself from them.
My brothers can never know—what they don’t know can’t hurt them.
Rule number two for surviving in my world: never step out of character.
I don’t need to slip a mask on; I’ve been wearing one for years.
I don’t need to play a role; I’ve been acting forever, molding to my environment, being what I need to be to survive: an innocent convent girl who knows nothing of the real world.
Serving only in God’s name, in whichever way He deems fit.
An innocent convent girl is what they want and expect, and this is what they will get until I find a way to freedom.
Freedom from fear, freedom from this convent loop my anointed groom knows I’m trapped in, like an electric toy train, always running the same circuit—it’s only a matter of time before he finds me parked at some station where he will catch up with me and derail me forever.
I try to eavesdrop as Mother Lucia goes about her day as if I’m not there at all, meeting with other sisters, signing documents, but the time for Dominic Scalera’s appointment draws near.
Glancing through the peephole in this painting of Christ on the Cross in her office, I watch how she quiets down, prays, her fingers running the rosary, her lips muttering.
When the old telephone on her desk rings, I jump.
“Yes, yes,” she answers. “See them in.” As she puts the phone down, she shoots me a barely perceptible glance and nods.
A long stretch of quiet follows. I inhale and exhale slowly, but nothing unspools the coil in my stomach.
I focus on the dust motes dancing in the colored sunbeams falling through the stained-glass window behind her desk and breathe in the familiar scent of ancient parchment, wood oil, and beeswax woven together in a mix I call Convent Cologne. I bet I’ll miss this scent.
Don’t take root here, cara, Chiara’s voice echoes in my head, this old-church smell will start clinging to you, too.
I smile and just doing so seems to calm me a bit.
Chiara was the perfect stabilizer for my shredded nerves last night and a stark reminder that, irrespective of Randazzo and his legacy, irrespective of my new-found family, I wanted to get out of here before I became part of the furniture.
I’m gutted her plans for us came to nothing, but I don’t want her to become just another casualty in my quest to get away from Randazzo’s vows.
I’ll miss her. She won’t have any means of finding me after today, and I could never endanger her by seeking her out. I swallow, treasuring the weird dry scratch in my throat from taking two measly drags from her offered cigarette.
A knock on the door, and my heart shoots more adrenaline through my veins. I fist my hands to stop fidgeting as I squint again through the peephole.
A sister opens the door, and a tall, broad-shouldered man, handsome as sin and dressed in a suit with no tie, walks in.
There’s a woman behind him, her hand wrapped in his.
She’s beautiful with thick blond hair and light eyes that would be the envy of every dark-eyed, dark-haired woman.
He is scanning the office already, on high alert, keeping the woman behind his back, protective.
His stance says nothing is going to hurt her, and my heart seems to sink with relief to go pound in my stomach.
There’s no doubt in my mind he is my brother. Dominic Scalera looks just like my biological father from the wedding photo depicting the threesome of this mess: Giuliano Scalera, Bianca Randazzo, and her ‘father,’ Emilio Randazzo, who became ‘my father.’
Dominic lets the woman come forward to his side, and he settles his hand on her lower back, protective, possessive, and something inside me clenches tight.
This is a good man. He might be many things—for what do I really know about my brothers?
—but the softness in his gaze as he looks down at her, the comfort with which she settles in the fold of his arm, tells me everything I need to know.
I’ll have to learn to trust men, and I’ll start with my brothers.
They greet Mother Lucia and then it’s all business. Letters, questions, Mother Lucia watchful with every move they make, every word he says. Dominic is tense and eager, not wanting any more delay.
“My sister?” he asks.
I’ve never been called that before, and it tightens my throat.
“She’s here,” Mother Lucia says as she picks up her old desk phone to dial nobody. She has a short conversation though, and this is my cue. Dominic, in her eyes, has passed the test.
This is it. My first step toward the future, toward my freedom.
My heart pounds so hard I feel dizzy and sick to my stomach.
I take a steadying breath and side-shuffle along the narrow passage, listen at the thin door leading into the cupboard to make sure the office is empty.
It should be. At this time of the morning, the sisters are at work and this office isn’t occupied.
I crouch and make my way through the cupboard, stretch to loosen my limbs from sitting for hours in the confined secret room, then sneak up to the door.
I open it an inch, confirm the corridor is empty, sneak out, knock briefly on Mother Lucia’s door, open it, slip in, and close the door.
Nobody saw me. I’m safe.
I look up. Dominic is standing with the woman by his side, their fingers woven in a tense grip.
He blinks, confused. Why is he looking at me like this?
It makes me want to take a step back, but the door behind me is closed, blocking my exit.
The moment is too big, and I reach for the golden cross resting on my chest, always there to anchor me.
His gaze drops there, and I see recognition flit in his eyes.
The beautiful floral pattern engraved on it, delicate and feminine.
Our mom’s cross. The one I imagine she wore as she changed countless diapers, dangling over each of her sons.
I can see her babies trying to reach for it with chubby cherub hands, with her just teasing that it’s not to play with.
A knot twists in my throat, but I swallow it down as he reaches out to me, disbelief washing over his face. This is real. I am real.
“I’m Dominic Scalera, your brother,” he says, stunned.
Now I get why he is staring at me like this. I look just like our mom.
He reaches out a hand to me.
I have no choice but to test his grip.
I slip my sticky, tense hand in his and give him the short perfunctory shake as our gazes lock. He has such kind eyes, and his fingers are warm but firm, comforting, confirming everything I’ve surmised already: here is a man I can trust.
“I’m ready,” I breathe, not sure where these words come from. They weren’t planned or rehearsed, but in this moment, my decision comes so easily. Mother Lucia approves and I trust her judgement. If there are six men like this, I’ll have an army of princes to protect me.
“You’re ready?” he asks, clearly taken aback.
“I’m ready,” I repeat. “To serve in the way God sees fit.”
The words of a good Catholic convent girl, but in my head, I’m fleeing a convent for the last time. I’m becoming someone else again, eager to be in another world and to understand who I really am when I’m not running.
“This is Ariana,” he says as he turns toward the woman, the love for her clear in his eyes for all to see. “My partner.”
Here’s another woman and my first ally in the world of Mafia men. I don’t hold back but step into her arms. The way she wraps me in a hug whispers to me, confirming I can go with them. That everything is going to be fine and she has my back.
“Are you sure you’re good to go?” Ariana asks as she pulls away from me. “Because we have quite the journey ahead, all the way to Lake Como.”
“Lake Como?” I know where it is, but I’ve never been. It’s not a Catholic convent hideout hotspot for girls like me.
“Stephano, one of the twins, is there with his wife, Gabi,” Dominic fills me in. “We’ll be staying there for as long as it takes to organize things. From there, we’ll call Matteo and Luca and Benedict, and you’ll get to meet everybody…all of us, your brothers.”
That’s…a lot to take in. But this is to be my new reality. So be it.
“Okay. I don’t have much.”
Mother Lucia reaches for my few belongings in her drawer and places them on the desk with a paper tote. “I’ve gathered this for you, cara. Gabriella actually ‘left’ the convent weeks ago. What with Randazzo’s death, we’ve been cautious.”
Dominic goes dead quiet, digesting this information.
“And then rumors spread that Franco Fiore took over as Don and we became even more cautious,” Mother Lucia elaborates.
I quietly beg her to say nothing of the Russian.
After a few seconds, he nods. “You don’t need to worry about Franco Fiore anymore.
I believe he has been, uh…neutralized, but I understand why you are cautious.
Nobody will know we’re in Lake Como. Nobody knows about our connection with the family there and we’ll keep it that way.
Once we’re in America, things should cool off. ”
Franco Fiore neutralized… Like in dead? How does he know? If this is true, I have one less villain to worry about.
“Thank you.” Mother Lucia pushes the tote in my direction, breaking through my thoughts. “The best time to walk out of the convent unnoticed would be at midday prayer, which is soon.”
I reach for the tote and stare at the everyday student clothes: jeans, a T-shirt, a dull blonde wig with outgrown roots. It looks so real, so different from my usual look, nobody would take me for the girl who used to wear standard-edition convent wear.
“We’ll wait outside,” Ariana says and has Dominic by the hand.
As soon as the door closes behind them, I turn my back to Mother Lucia to change my clothes. She comes over and helps me place the wig.
“I hardly recognize you,” she says as she steps away. “And praise the Lord for that. I’ll walk you out to the side gate. Nobody should be there this time of day.”
It hits me I’m saying goodbye to her. My stand-in mother for fifteen years, who looked after me as if I were her own, who protected me with every fiber of her being, always putting me first. Who knows when I’ll see her again?
Love for her balloons in my chest. Everything she’s done for me goes beyond being just a mom to a lost girl who got served a convent sentence for being born to the wrong man.
Mother Lucia wraps me in a tight hug, and I cling a moment longer. I’ll be in her debt forever.
“I’ll call,” I whisper to her. “As soon as I can.”
“No. Please don’t,” she whispers back. “I trust Dominic and no news is good news. For one last time, run and leave no tracks. Whatever you do, don’t make new ones.”
I stiffen in her arms as her words give me pause. No trace. Nothing to put that Russian, Franco Fiore—neutralized or not—or any of Randazzo’s other henchmen on my scent. Nothing that could link the convent in Potenza to the States and the Scaleras.
She knows something she isn’t sharing. What if they still come despite every last precaution?
I nod with a swallow as I pull away. America might not be far enough away to run from my past. From my scripted future.
Randazzo might be dead, making all vows null and void, but things in our world aren’t exactly black and white.
They’re smeared red with blood promises only my death could truly break.
Only time will tell, but I might not be done running yet.