Chapter 2
L EILANI
I spend five minutes in the walk-in closet selecting something to wear, while she’s patiently waiting in the bedroom.
Eventually, I return, wearing something that is completely unlike me. A nautical-themed, sleeveless top, navy pencil pants, a sweater tied around my shoulders, my hair brushed back, rolling down in large rings, and cute pink flats with a small golden detail.
Surprise glows over my face.
This is something she would wear at any moment of the day.
It’s cute and comfortable.
It’s proper.
Her gaze moves over my face.
I barely put some mascara on my eyelashes and lipstick on my lips.
It’s a nude shade of lip gloss, rather.
“Do you like it?” I ask, amused by her reaction.
“Uh… Yeah. You look different.”
“Different is good right now. Let’s go,” I say, collecting my phone and sliding it into my pocket. “They’re probably waiting for us.”
She rises to her feet and follows me outside.
We walk in silence, my lips no longer carrying the weight of a fake smile.
Concern grows thick in my chest as we move through the house, exit it, and inch closer to the table outside.
It’s a beautiful day, even more stunning than I had imagined. The birds are chirping, and a good feeling rolls over me, but it’s short-lived. As it should be.
Nothing’s changed. All is the same.
I deftly avoid everyone’s eyes, show Rory to a seat next to me, and interact with the server more than I’m willing to do with anyone else.
Sylvia glances at me without interrupting her conversation, while Giorgio eventually invites Flavia to sit at the table.
He pulls the chair for her and watches her as she gingerly claims her seat.
She avoids my eyes, which I find strange but not unusual.
There’s no love lost between us. I never liked her.
She was never particularly fond of me either, but her behavior strikes me as odd, and it only reinforces my sense that she is playing a role in all this.
I wouldn’t go so far as to claim that she is pivotal in this story. You need brains for that.
We all get settled into our seats around the table as if nothing is wrong. As if they waited for Rory and me, and it’s just another day at the property.
Seeing them around the table with their smug faces, like some overly confident overlords, I recall how little I missed seeing them these past two years.
I missed New York and Rory. I wanted to get drunk on Callum O’Hara, but I never thought about them.
Lunch is tedious and boring. The food is great, as always, though. Caponata, Pasta alla Norma, and delicious cannoli.
Rory and I chat quietly while they talk platitudes, things of no interest to me, like how the weather is in New York, Flavia’s vacation plans, and some remote cousin’s wedding.
And then, as we’re about to finish eating our cannoli and the staff brings coffee to the table, the conversation gyrates toward the foals, and Sylvia looks more and more interested in my reaction to the story.
Whether I want it or not, I have to reiterate my intention of seeing the foals in September, if not earlier.
The conversation seems forced as I’d need to fly to New York only for the foals. Besides, we all know that more important things lie ahead.
I realize it’s all a ruse, a way of keeping the conversation going since no real plans for me to see the foals have been seriously considered.
As I sip my coffee, something else registers with me.
Flavia talking.
Her voice is weak like diluted tea, and her cadence is monotonous, but not so monotonous as not to notice that she’s talking about a party in Taormina.
A town on the east coast of Sicily known for Teatro Antico di Taormina , which is still used today, and also the cliffs dropping to the sea, the coves, and the sandy beaches.
What is she talking about?
Witnessing her monologue, I can’t help but study her.
Her gaze is dipped to her coffee as she rambles on about a large gathering, a seasonal party, one I’ve never seen before.
Again, what is she talking about?
And at what point have I become so suspicious about everyone, but especially her?
It’s like our lunch has been rehearsed. If it smells like a setup, it is a setup.
I drag my eyes to Sylvia.
She conveniently keeps a wilted smile on her face as if she suffers from amnesia, and last night never happened, at least not in the harsh terms I talked to her.
Her dress looks particularly washed out today. It might be the sunlight. It might be intentional. Who can tell?
She wears a pink dress with a narrow white belt and low-heeled shoes.
She’s as elegant as always but without a smidgen of glamour. No head thrown back, no arched eyebrows. No statement jewelry.
She looks like someone who’s attending a business meeting, and who am I to complain? I look like someone who’s dressed for a job interview.
Flavia moves her lips while I drag my eyes over her light green floral dress. The floral pattern is confusing at best, as the peonies resemble spring cabbage.
Giorgio seems very interested in what Flavia has to say, while I grasp a few bits here and there.
They’re planning to attend this big party, and I’ve been invited as well. No one is mentioning who has invited us as a group to this party.
It looks like we’re now doing things as a family.
Barf.
I listen to them, thinking of how not to attend this party. I could fake an enterovirus or the flu. That would keep me away from the event.
They ruined my birthday party.
Chances are, it won't be more than another pony show. I’ll meet and greet another group of assholes.
What else?
I nod along, keeping to myself, and as quickly as I get the opportunity, I flick my chin in the direction of my friend, and we both rise.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I murmur, tossing my napkin to the side and already rounding the table to pull away from them as swiftly as possible.
“Where are you two going?” Sylvia asks, with the same worn-out, fake grin on her face.
Our eyes lock briefly, but no truth is being exchanged.
It’s like I’m looking at a wall of glass. The woman is strange and aloof while pretending she is here.
I fear that something worse than my harsh words happened last night.
Maybe I was late in spilling the truth about her life.
Maybe she knew that all along, and by saying what I had said, I unleashed something dormant in her.
Something vile.
A deep hatred for this world, the one she’s shoving down my throat. If it’s so good and the rules are so magnificent, why isn’t she enjoying herself?
Her disdain for me is glaringly painful. I feel a knot in my stomach while she flashes a grimace as if she’s wearing shoes that don’t fit her well.
And then it dawns on me.
Oh, it’s not about the world we’re living in.
It’s about my making her life difficult and her being forced to face her own reality.
If only I could go along with anything they’re saying and not have a thought of my own in my head.
If only I could be what they had always wanted me to be. A pretty doll, blinking happily, while the adults are finding something for me to do.
I flick my hand toward the pool.
“Over there.”
I point to the lounging area.
“Are we allowed?” I ask maliciously.
The biting irony in my voice doesn’t go unnoticed. She dismisses me with a soft gesture before shifting her focus to her guest. The woman is indeed one of their accountants.
LEILANI
We turn left as soon as we reach the lounging area and go straight to the pool in the back.
“Ugh. I can’t wait for them to fly back,” I say, pacing to the other side of the property while Rory does her best to keep up with me.
“Are they leaving for New York?”
“I hope so. Wait.”
I stop abruptly, and she almost bumps into me.
“When are you flying back?” I ask.
“Tuesday?”
“You’re not sure?”
She gestures at the front of the house.
“Things are tense around here.”
A guilty smile arches her lips.
“You want to abandon me,” I murmur, walking again.
“No way. I’m not doing that. I’m just afraid that they’ll toss me out.”
I laugh. She does, too. Although it is a possibility.
“They won’t do it,” I say, not very confident, though.
The back pool comes into view, and with it, a flashback hits my brain. The memory of last night unfolds in front of my eyes, and I have no chance to even stop it.
“You know what? Let’s go into the house. I don’t want to have anyone’s eyes on us.”
A few moments later, we enter my walk-in closet. I ask the staff to bring us drinks, and we spend the next hour talking about things from back home.
Time flies, and at around three in the afternoon, Rory retreats to her room while I change my clothes, put on my bathrobe, and stroll to the open windows.
A nice view unfurls in front of me, mostly because it is that time of the day when people rest inside the house or snooze in an armchair on the front porch, as Giorgio occasionally does.
The guards drink coffee in the kitchen and chat up some cute housemaid, and there are no people in sight.
A troubled breath enters my lungs.
My peace of mind is gone, doused in paranoia. Only a few short hours ago, this place looked different to me.
I would’ve rolled naked in my bed and made plans on how to seduce Callum O’Hara.
Not anymore.
Absently, I pick at the tray of fruit Nona had brought us earlier before Rory headed to her room.
I crush a strawberry between my teeth and look in the distance, my heart searching for his.
I’m still convinced that he hasn’t left. Does he know about this Taormina business? Has he been invited?
They didn’t even invite him to have lunch with us.
Or maybe they did, and he said no because he had different plans.
Soft voices travel on the crest of a gust of wind.
Instinctively, I pull back and chew slowly, Nona’s story coming to mind.
I’m not that lucky, am I?
My ears perk up as more words float in my direction.
Whoever is talking around the corner of the house must not know the direction of the wind.
Or they do, and take precautions like those little blocks of unintelligible words.
Words spoken in a quiet voice, quiet like a whisper.
Meant to disrupt a sentence.
I’m trying hard to recognize the voices.
It’s a woman for sure, but I can’t tell who she is, and then I realize she’s talking on the phone.
Oh, bummer. That’s why her words don’t make much sense.
“Of course. It sounds good.”
Oh… The affected yet obsequious tone. The fawning. The ingratiating manner.
That could only be one person.
Flavia.
Maybe she’s talking to her husband. When was the last time I heard her talk like that? Hmm. Never?
Her conversation comes to an abrupt end, and I sag against the windowsill, displeased that my efforts rendered no results.
It’s probably her husband. She was talking to her husband.
I’m waiting for a miracle, like her phone to ring again, and her silly self to let out something of importance to me.
Instead, her footsteps move away from me, pulling the plug on my holding out hope.
My attention wanders away when I hear a blend of voices again.
This time, her voice is accompanied by a low, baritone tone. A man. My grandfather. Giorgio speaks evenly as if delivering instructions.
Too bad that I have no idea what the instructions are all about.
Please don’t tell me they’re plotting against her husband now.
He might not be the greatest male who’s ever walked the face of the earth, but he’s no interloper like them either.
Perhaps that’s the problem.
A few seconds pass as I listen to the deep hum of my grandfather’s voice when Flavia inadvertently turns up the volume, and I distinctly hear her next few words.
“He’ll be there.”
The words must have made an impression on my grandfather as he speaks a little louder as well.
“Are you sure?”
“I just spoke to his Consigliere .”
My legs almost give out from under me.
I lean harder into the windowsill as I pull farther back, afraid that one of them might take a little step around the corner, look up, and get a glimpse of me.
All those efforts to keep everything hush-hush.
And now all this excruciating pride is beaming in Flavia’s voice.
Who is Flavia in this family to talk to someone’s Consigliere? And who the fuck is that person? It must be someone big. Important. A Boss. Who is it?
Only a mafia boss is entitled to a Consigliere.
And what business does a Consigliere, who is a high-level advisor, have talking to someone like my aunt?
Oh, please make it make sense.
My mouth fills with bile, and I’m about to puke.
Pressing a hand to my stomach, I try to stop myself from hyperventilating.
Good luck with that.
Giorgio comments about something else, and I can’t make out a word of what he’s saying as a bad sensation takes over me.
The room spins with me, and I’m about to push out my lunch when a realization sidles up to me.
This must have to do with me again.
I don’t know what makes me say that. I make no sense. There is no proof, but my body never lies. My gut tells me that I’m right. Something is in the making.
Something horrid and wrong.
Before long, their voices get lost in the background of a quiet afternoon while I try to gather myself and think clearly for a second.
I fail miserably, and listening to my instincts, I spin around and go search for my phone.