Chapter 8 Gabi
GABI
Ever since the day Mother Lucia announced that my brothers were coming for me, my world has been transformed as if by the simple sweep of a fairy’s wand.
Brothers. From America. Six princes to come fight the dragon guarding me and set me free. But there are only five left: Alessandro—Alex—is with our parents, someplace where the Mafia gather in the afterlife.
We’re finally on home soil, as Dominic calls it, and I breathe easy for the first time in fifteen years. I just hope being back in America won’t trigger any of my old memories.
I’ve always suppressed thinking of my short childhood in the States, as even small snatches of that time always unleashed nightmares of how I was ripped away from that life.
Nightmares so vivid, they’d chill me to the bone, startling me awake in a cold sweat, barely able to breathe.
For weeks, I’d stop talking, with Mother Lucia patiently reading me stories of bravery, courage and sacrifice, until I’d call out, ‘Be careful, Little Red Riding Hood, he is a bad bad man.’ Of course it was the story of a girl hunted by a wolf that triggered me into talking.
“You okay, Gabi?” Dominic asks as he holds the elevator door for me, jerking me out of my spiraling thoughts.
“Yes. I’m just glad we’re finally here.”
I still can’t get used to my old American nickname or to him and his hovering bulk, always so protective.
It’s weird that I don’t find him menacing or dangerous, and with Stephano, it was the same.
From the moment I met both of them, I felt for the first time what it was like to be under male protection and not male threat: really, truly safe.
But if I’m honest, I’m a mess. Deep down I feel like Cinderella, with the clock ticking to midnight, and I dread the moment everything is going to turn back to what it was before: me on the run, a wolf on my scent, watching for glimpses of my red cloak as I chase through the forest. I guess that’s what trauma does to you—you can never let your guard down.
If only I could be the woodsman and hack the wolf to pieces. Or be the dragon and not the princess.
Ever since we left the convent, and after Mother Lucia’s hints about keeping my whereabouts secret, Dominic dictated that nobody could know who I was, or where I was from.
I’m now Gabriella Scalera, someone who never really existed on paper in the first place.
I’m not sure how they managed to create me out of thin air, but I have a passport, a birth certificate, and everything else needed to wipe Gabriella Murano—my adopted name—and every other name I’ve had over the past fifteen years off the face of the Earth.
I glance at Ariana as we ride up, reading in her eyes that she hasn’t been to Matteo’s place before, either.
In the three weeks as a new-found Scalera, I’ve learned a lot from her, but I haven’t opened up to anybody yet.
I observe and mostly say nothing. They think I’m shy, and I am, but Ariana is the only one who seems to get the level of overwhelm I’m suffocating in.
For someone who has only lived in modest convents across Italy, the grandeur and splendor of the house on Lake Como was a shock to my system.
At least that was still in Italy, and the Trapanis’ house, with its many secret places and beautiful gardens to hide away in, was the perfect sanctuary for someone cautious of company.
Someone who doesn’t understand her place or role yet.
Now this elevator’s marbled walls scream money on a whole different level, and I don’t think I’ll ever grow used to it. I mean, we flew to Boston on the family’s private jet. Every experience is so new. Everything is strange, and the only thing I can do is try to not gape like an idiot.
And wait for the other shoe to drop.
I try to relax. Randazzo, my dragon, is dead, and I’ve managed to escape an arranged marriage.
I have family. All the Scaleras—and the Trapanis—have been wonderful.
We’ve spent so much time over calls, I feel I should know my brothers, but sadly, you don’t flick a switch and be instantly close.
I’m out of my depth with these sophisticated people, unsure how I’m going to fit in with the family.
Even worse, and I never thought I’d say this, but I miss the rhythm of life in the convent.
The structure and rituals dictating what I must do or where I need to be next, without any thinking involved.
Now my brain is permanently in overdrive, keeping up my mask, double-checking my words and thoughts.
I miss Mother Lucia.
I miss the kindergarten kids and the simplicity of their routine, which also gave me a framework to ease my frazzled nerves in. I even miss my hideout in Potenza. For all I was locked up, I was still ‘home.’
I clutch my golden cross necklace and tighten my grip on the leather satchel holding my Bible and Bianca Randazzo’s letters with The Princess and the Six Princes. I’ll never let it out of my sight.
The ride to the top floor is quick, and when we step out of the foyer, there are three doors, two singles bracketing a double door. I’m about to meet Matteo, Luca, and Benedict in person—my last hurdle.
“This one,” Dominic says as he walks toward the middle set of doors, which someone is already opening it from the inside.
I bite my lip as Matteo fills the frame.
He is dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit, and as his eyes land on me, he reads my face.
I know what he sees, and this is probably why Dominic keeps staring at me in disbelief, too.
I’m real, not just a woman on a screen. And I look just like their—our—mom.
Then he’s taking my head in his hands and pressing kisses to my cheeks.
“Gabriella, at last. Welcome to Boston.” His voice breaks as he pulls me into a hard-chested hug before he puts me at arm’s length. “It’s so good to finally have you here. Sorry it took us so long.”
It’s become a standing joke, because what else are you going to do about it but laugh to break the ice.
“Here’s Tasha,” he says as he steps away and indicates the beautiful woman hovering inside the door whom I recognize from our Zoom calls.
I’m pulled into a hug haloed in soft floral perfume.
It’s another tight one, and Tasha intensifies it with an Ooh…
And then, “You poor thing. We’re so going to take care of you.
Come inside. I bet you’re tired even though flying with the jet is a breeze.
Did they sort you out with clothes and everything you need? Just say if you need anything—”
“Kitten.”
One word from Matteo, and the whole atmosphere seems to shift. I glance at Dominic, because he has become my brotherly go-to.
“Best we all sit down for this,” Dominic says and indicates we should move deeper into the apartment.
Something’s off. I sensed it when we got off the jet, but with everything I constantly need to take in, I’m in permanent sensory overload.
“What’s wrong?” I whisper to Ariana as we head toward the living area.
“I’m not sure,” she whispers back.
Something happened during our flight here, and maybe if I hadn’t fallen asleep—feeling really safe up in the air—I would have caught on.
With a glance, I take in the oversized double-volume space. The floor-to-ceiling windows, the hollow feeling of the apartment where every last sound echoes. This isn’t a home. It’s a showpiece. A place to intimidate, and I feel it pressing down on me already.
My gaze lands on the other two men standing at the sectional gracing the living area.
Luca, a carbon copy of his twin, Stephano, and Benedict, my youngest brother.
Bless these Italian genes because my brothers are all sexy, gorgeous, and could all grace any cover of those steamy romances Chiara used to smuggle in and read.
Gosh. I wonder what Chiara would make of my fine collection of brothers.
We make our way toward each other, all smiles, and then more awkward, hard-chested hugs follow.
“Lil sis,” Luca says, his smile as warm as Stephano’s. “Welcome.”
Benedict pulls me into a side hug but says nothing as Matteo’s and Dominic’s voices echo into the living area. My ears prick as I try catch as many words as I can, wanting to hack through the underlying tension in the room.
“Not only is the cat out the bag,” Matteo says, “but Petrov isn’t buying that Boryslav Petrenko isn’t here.”
Russians. A chill chases down my spine.
“Are they asking after anybody else?” Dominic asks.
“Yep. Their body count is six, and our story of nothing to see here isn’t sticking.”
Body count?
Dominic sighs. “Well, fuck. We’re going to have to deal.”
“And soon. Fuck, one thing at a time.” Matteo grunts with such ferocity, a steady blush heats my face.
It’s been three weeks of cussing, and if this carries on, one of those is going to pop out of my mouth soon and that’s not the behavior of a good Catholic convent girl.
“Matteo,” Tasha says softly. “Can you talk shop later? Gabriella just arrived—”
She breaks off, and I tune in to the thickening atmosphere when nobody else speaks.
Matteo clears his throat. Benedict rocks on his heels, not meeting my gaze, and it’s in Luca’s eyes that I read the sympathy.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my heart already beating faster. “What’s happened?”
“Gabi…we didn’t know whether to tell you or not,” Matteo starts, but then he strokes at his brow with his thumb, eyes downcast.
What on earth… I stifle my gasp. Has that Russian found me?
Dominic comes to my side, makes me sit down on the sofa, and reaches for my quivering hand as he takes the seat next to me. “We wish we had better news for your arrival in Boston, Gabi.”
The way he holds me, stroking my knuckles gently as if he’s about to tell me my adopted stray dog got run over, wraps invisible fingers around my neck, squeezing. “What’s happened?”
Benedict comes over and holds out a tablet to me. “It isn’t what any of us expected. This was posted about three hours ago. It’s headline news on every newspaper site in Italy.”
A news article is open on the tablet’s screen, its headline and opening words screaming at me: Reverend Mother tortured and torched. A new unprecedented wave of violence hits Northern Italy, the convent of Potenza being the latest target.