Chapter 3
Giulia
SONG: OLDER BY ISABEL LAROSA
The library had always felt like a cathedral to me.
Not the religious kind. I'd sat through enough masses in St. Mary’s Basilica to know the difference between obligation and devotion.
But there was something sacred about the reading room on the third floor where light filtered through tall windows and dust motes danced in golden shafts of afternoon sun.
The smell of old paper and binding glue.
The whisper of pages turning. The quiet breathing of a hundred students bent over their work like monks copying manuscripts.
This was my church.
I sat cross-legged in my favorite chair by the window with three books stacked beside me and a fourth open in my lap.
Byzantine history. The fall of Constantinople.
I'd read this particular account twice already but something about the author's description of the final siege kept pulling me back.
The way he wrote about inevitability. How everyone inside those walls knew what was coming but fought anyway.
There was a lesson there. I just hadn't figured out what it was yet.
"Giulia."
I looked up. Maria stood three feet away with her arms crossed and that expression she wore when she'd been trying to get my attention for longer than she should have needed to.
"Sorry. What?"
"Your phone." She pointed at my bag. "It's been buzzing for like five minutes."
I pulled out my phone and saw seven missed calls from Mamma. My stomach dropped.
Seven calls meant something was wrong. An accident. An emergency. Papa having another heart scare like last year when we'd all rushed to the hospital and he'd just had indigestion from Mamma's experimental meatballs.
I called back immediately.
Mamma answered on the first ring. "Where are you?"
"Library. What's wrong? Is Papa okay?"
"Your father is fine. Come home. Now."
"I have to get this research done—"
"Not anymore you don’t. Come home." Her voice had that steel underneath that meant arguing would be pointless. "Your father needs to speak with you."
She hung up.
I stared at my phone. Maria raised her eyebrows in question.
"I have to go." I started shoving books into my bag. Byzantine Constantinople would have to wait. "Family thing."
"Everything okay?"
"No idea."
The Uber ride to the restaurant took forty minutes but felt like hours. I ran through possibilities. Papa was sick and they'd hidden it from me. Someone had died. The restaurant was in trouble. Maybe the IRS had finally noticed that Papa's record-keeping was more creative than accurate.
But seven calls? That seemed excessive even for Mamma's usual drama.
I walked the last few feet to our building.
Four stories. Red brick. Papa owned the whole thing.
We lived on the top two floors. The restaurant took up the ground level.
Various cousins and business associates rented the remaining apartments at rates that probably violated housing codes, but nobody ever complained.
This was our kingdom. Small but ours.
I climbed the stairs to our apartment and found Mamma waiting at the door. She pulled me into a hug before I'd even crossed the threshold.
"Mamma. What's going on?"
"Your father will explain." She held me at arm's length and studied my face like she was memorizing it. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying.
Now I was really scared.
"Is someone dead?"
"No, baby. No." She smoothed my hair back. A gesture from childhood. "But things are going to change. You need to be strong."
She led me through our apartment to Papa's study. The door was closed. Mamma knocked twice and Papa's voice rumbled from inside.
"Come."
Mamma squeezed my hand once and then left me standing there alone.
I opened the door. Papa sat behind his desk. He looked older than he had at breakfast this morning. Tired in a way that went deeper than just physical exhaustion. His hands were folded in front of him, and he gestured to the chair across from him.
"Sit, mia figlia."
I sat. The chair felt too big. Or maybe I felt too small.
"You know I love you," Papa said.
Oh God. This was bad. Papa didn't start conversations with declarations of love unless something terrible was about to follow.
"I love you too, Papa."
"What I'm about to tell you...you need to understand that I have thought about this very carefully. That I would not ask this of you if there was any other way." He paused. Took a breath. "You're getting married."
The words didn't make sense at first. They just sat there in the air between us like objects I couldn't quite identify.
"What?"
"Dimitri Morozov. The new Pakhan of the Bratva. He and I have made an arrangement. An alliance between our families. You will marry him in one month."
The study tilted sideways. Or maybe I did. I gripped the arms of the chair.
"The Bratva." My voice sounded far away. "The Russian mob."
"Yes."
"You want me to marry the head of the Russian mob."
"I need you to marry him, Giulia. For the family."
I stood up. Sat back down. Stood again. My body didn't know what to do with this information.
"I don't...I haven't even met him."
"That's how these arrangements work. The families agree first. The couple meets after."
"After?" My voice pitched higher. "After we're already engaged?"
"Giulia—"
"No." I shook my head. "No. This is insane. You can't just...Papa, I have plans. I was going to apply for grad school next year. I was thinking about teaching—"
"You may still be able to do those things."
"Will I?" The question came out sharper than I'd intended. "Will I really? Because somehow I doubt the head of the Russian mob is going to be thrilled about his wife getting a PhD in Byzantine history."
Papa's expression hardened slightly. There was the Don. The man who ran our family with an iron fist wrapped in velvet.
"Dimitri Morozov is a good man. Young. Smart. He came to me with respect. He wants peace between our families."
"So give him peace. Why does that require me?"
"Because peace without bonds breaks easily.
" Papa stood and walked around the desk.
He took my hands in his. His palms were rough from years of working in the restaurant before he'd handed it over to Uncle Tony.
"Listen to me. The old Pakhan was a monster.
He started wars we couldn't win. Cost us soldiers.
Cost us money. But his son is different.
I met with him today. He's not like his father. "
"You met with him today?" I pulled my hands back. "So, you've known about this for all of what? Three hours? And you've already promised me to him?"
Papa's voice softened. "I'm not a tyrant, bambina. I won't force you. But I'm asking you to consider what this means for our family."
I sank back into the chair. My legs wouldn't hold me anymore. "Tell me why," I said quietly. "The real reason."
Papa was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed and returned to his desk. He pulled out a folder and pushed it across to me.
I opened it.
Photos. Reports. Numbers. Evidence of attacks. Missing shipments. Dead soldiers with Italian names.
"The Chechens are moving in," Papa said. "The Albanians are getting bolder. We're strong but we're not strong enough to fight on multiple fronts. An alliance with the Bratva changes the equation. It makes us untouchable."
"And if I say no?"
"Then I find another way. But it won't be as strong. It won't be as secure. And good men will die because of it."
There it was. The weight of it all dumped into my lap like a bag of stones.
I looked at the photos again. Carlo. I'd known him. He'd worked security at the restaurant. Always smiled at me. Always asked about school. His photo showed him in a morgue with a white sheet pulled up to his chest.
"How old is he?" I asked. "Dimitri Morozov."
"Thirty-five."
Fourteen years older than me. Old enough to be...well, not my father. But definitely not someone I'd have met at a college party.
"What's he like?"
"Intelligent. Direct. A little too sarcastic." Papa considered. "He's a man trying to be better than his father was. That counts for something."
I closed the folder and stared at my hands.
They looked the same as they had this morning when I'd been sitting in the library reading about the fall of Constantinople.
Same slim fingers. Same short nails because I chewed them when I was nervous.
Same small scar on my thumb from when I'd tried to help Mamma cook once and cut myself chopping onions.
But everything else had changed.
"Can I ask you something?" I looked up at Papa. "Would you want this for me? If there was no alliance. No politics. No dead soldiers. Would you want your daughter to marry a stranger from the Russian mob?"
Papa's face crumpled slightly. Just for a second. Then the Don was back. "No," he said quietly. "I'd want you to marry someone who makes you laugh. Someone who loves your books as much as you do. Someone who doesn't understand this life and all its ugliness."
"But that's not the world we live in."
"No, mia figlia. It's not."
I thought about Constantinople again. About those walls everyone knew wouldn't hold. About fighting anyway because what else was there to do?
Sometimes you didn't get good choices. You just got choices.
"Okay," I said.
Papa's eyes widened. "Okay?"
"I'll marry him." The words tasted strange in my mouth. Like speaking a language I'd only read about but never practiced. "For the family. For peace. For Carlo and everyone else who died."
"Giulia—"
"But I need you to promise me something." I stood up. Found my spine somewhere in the debris of my demolished future. "Promise me that if he's cruel, if he hurts me…if this alliance costs me more than I can pay, you'll let me come home."
Papa crossed the room in three strides and pulled me into his arms.
"Always," he said into my hair. "You can always come home. I swear it."
I let myself be held for a moment. Let myself be twenty-one years old and scared and small.
Then I pulled back and wiped my eyes. "When do I meet him?"
"The wedding is in one month. Traditional ceremony. You'll meet him then."
"Not before?"
Papa shook his head. "He said he trusts my judgment of your character. That meeting first wasn't necessary."
I almost laughed. It came out as a sound halfway between a sob and a hiccup.
"He trusts your judgment. How reassuring."
"He's trying to show respect. To honor tradition."
"He's trying to keep distance." I pulled away and moved to the window. Our neighborhood spread out below. Red brick and fire escapes and old Italian women hanging laundry. My whole world. Soon to be my old world. "It's a business deal to him. Nothing personal."
"Is that so bad?" Papa asked. "No expectations. No disappointment. You both go into this with clear eyes."
Maybe he was right. Maybe it was better this way. At least I wouldn't have to pretend this was some great romance. At least we'd both know exactly what this was.
A transaction.
An alliance.
A sacrifice for the greater good.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. "I should call Maria. Tell her I won't be at class for a while."
"Take whatever time you need."
"I don't think Columbia offers a course in 'How to Marry the Head of the Russian Mob.'" The words came out bitter. I couldn't help it.
Papa crossed to stand beside me. He didn't touch me. Just stood there looking out at the same view.
"Your grandmother was seventeen when she married my father," he said quietly. "Didn't meet him until the day of the wedding. Didn't speak English. Didn't know anyone in America. But she built a life anyway. Built a family. Found happiness in small moments."
"And if I can't?"
"Then you come home and we find another way." He finally looked at me. "But I think you're stronger than you know, mia figlia. You always have been."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be that strong.
Mostly I just wanted to go back to this morning when my biggest problem was whether to write my paper on Justinian or Theodora.
"Can I have some time?" I asked. "Before we tell everyone?"
"We're announcing the engagement at the end of the week. The whole family will know by then. But until then it's just us."
Just us. Mamma and Papa and me and the enormous secret that was about to become my entire life.
"Okay." I turned from the window. "I should go talk to Mamma. She looked like she'd been crying."
"She's worried about you."
"She should be." I moved toward the door and then stopped. "Papa, what does he look like? Dimitri Morozov."
Papa pulled out his phone and showed me a photo. Surveillance. Grainy but clear enough.
Tall. Dark hair. Sharp features. Eyes that looked gray even through the poor quality image. He wore a suit like armor and stood with the kind of posture that came from always being ready for violence. He looked exactly like what he was.
Dangerous.
"Oh," I said softly.
"He's handsome," Papa offered.
"He looks like he could kill someone with his bare hands."
"He probably could."
Fantastic. Just fantastic.
I left Papa's study and found Mamma in the kitchen stress-baking. There were already three trays of cookies cooling on the counter, and she was working on a fourth.
"So," I said. "I'm getting married."
Mamma burst into tears.
I held her while she cried and told me how sorry she was and how proud she was and how everything would be okay. I made soothing noises and patted her back and felt absolutely nothing.
That was the strange part.
I should have been crying too. Screaming. Throwing things. Having some kind of breakdown appropriate to finding out your life had been sold to the highest bidder.
Instead, I felt oddly calm. Like I was watching this happen to someone else. Like I'd stepped out of my own body and was observing from a safe distance.
Shock, probably. It would hit later.
When Mamma finally calmed down, I ate six cookies and drank a glass of milk and went to my room.
My childhood room with its bookshelves covering three walls and posters from museum exhibitions I'd loved.
My desk where I'd written a hundred papers.
My bed where I'd dreamed about a future that looked nothing like this.
I lay down and stared at the ceiling.
In one month, I'd be Giulia Morozova.
Wife to a man I'd never met.
Part of a world I'd only read about in history books.
I thought about Constantinople again. About those walls that wouldn't hold.
The Byzantines had fought anyway.
Maybe I could too.