38. Chapter 34
Chapter 34
Isabella
A beautiful girl on stage finishes singing the part I’ve sung for the last year. The audience explodes into cheers as the lights go down. When they flicker back on she bows, smiling just as I’d smiled a thousand times before. She points up to the boxes, thanking my father and my family, and blows kisses to the audience. I’ve seen her a few times before at family gatherings. A distant cousin who married into the family in the last year. From how my father is looking at her, I won’t hold out much hope for the longevity of her marriage. My father knows what he wants, and, even if it takes a life-time, he always gets it.
I join the crowd, getting to my feet and clapping, hoping conformity will hide the withering behind my eyes.
The other performers join her on stage, bowing and smiling together. One of them runs over to her and kisses her, causing the crowd to fall over itself in hysterics. I want to be happy for her, but the moment they kiss, all I can think about is Nikolai. The shock in his eyes. The pool of red. The anger. The frustration.
That’s the last time I’ll ever see him. I try to swallow down the stress in my throat, but it won’t budge.
How can that be the last time?
After everything we shared? After all I gave over to him, that’s it? It’s what I get for letting my guard down and believing in the fantasy. I don’t even know if I really believe it, or if I’m just saying it to spare the pain.
Fredo grabs my wrist, pulling me away from my thoughts, and drags me out to join the rest of the family as they make their way to the private after party. I glance around for Bianca, but since I returned, there’s been no sign of her.
“Where’s Bianca?” I hiss to Fredo as we follow the crowd of capos surrounding my father.
Fredo shoots me a disinterested look, as if we’ve already had this conversation a thousand times in his head.
“Dad sent her away for a term at a Catholic education centre.”
“Catholic education centre? What the fuck is that?”
“Language, Isabella.” My mama tuts as she walks past with my sister.
“What the fuck is that?” I whisper, again.
Fredo shrugs. “I don’t know. Dad and uncle Felipe fell out over it, they’re still arguing. She only has to do a term. I don’t know what all the fuss is about. It could be so much worse.” His eyes linger on me for a moment, before he glances away and runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “Dad said some shit about teaching her to respect the family name.”
“Language, Fredo!” Mama snaps again.
“What?” He throws his hands up, but stops protesting when she shoots him a dirty look. “She marries a killer, but can’t hear me curse.” He mutters under his breath.
Andrea joins me at the bar of the after party, a drink already in her hand.
“Since when were you old enough to drink?” I arch my eyebrow at my baby sister.
She shrugs, a devious little smile on her lips. “If dad sees he’ll blame you, I’m in good credit for the next decade after you ran off with a Russian.”
When did her rebellious streak start? She’s always been the most well-behaved in the family. Is it irresponsible for me to let her drink? Our family doesn’t exactly follow norms when it comes to responsibility.
Runs off with a Russian. Is that how my short-lived romance with Nikolai is being remembered? It felt like so much more than that at the time.
“How’s the family been while I was away?” I ask, moving the subject before Nikolai’s eyes can haunt my mind again.
I’ve spent the last week working odd jobs, keeping as busy as I can to push away his ghost from breaking into my thoughts. But, every night, before I pull up the covers for another nightmare-fuelled sleep, his eyes return. Watching me, pained and furious and lost.
I always sing about love and loss, yet I never seemed to take heed of the words coming from my own mouth.
Love found is love severed.
Andrea leans into me, swaying a little as the alcohol numbs her senses. “Dad’s been acting like a maniac.”
“What?” Dad has a streak of insanity - it runs in the family - so for Andrea to describe him that way means he's really been acting crazy.
“Yeah, he got into a huge fight with uncle Felipe when you left. Felipe threatened to kill him.” Andrea hiccups and a dopey smile spreads across her face, as if this was one of the K-Drama plot lines she loves so much. “Mama stopped talking to him for like a week straight after you left, too.”
A pang of emotion strikes my heart. My mama was never the type to show much affection, or even acknowledgement. She’s always followed dad’s orders. I didn’t expect her to care enough to show any fight.
“She’s stopped talking to him again, but I don’t know why.” Andrea hiccups again.
“Did she say why?” I ask, subtly switching my empty glass of wine with her half full one, as she attempts to focus her eyes. I signal to the bar staff and mouth water, please .
“She just kept saying she’s married to a devil.” Andrea hiccups and laughs to herself. “You don’t think dad is a devil, do you?”
I take the glass of water from the barman and hand it to my sister. “I think dad believes in power, and that if he gets all the power he wants, it will solve his problems.”
A roar of laughter erupts around our father, his capos slapping their knees and wiping tears from their eyes that would make Meryl Streep jealous.
“I don’t think he’s ever sat with his feelings for longer than a second. He just finds whatever he can to fill it in.”
Andrea glugs down the water. “Iz.” She glances at me.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think I like wine.”
I rub her back softly and signal the barman for another water.
“Nobody does at first.”
She hiccups again, joining my gaze, watching our father perform his role.
“Are the Russians like that?”
Aleksander is the closest, but even then, he isn’t the same. My father would never have listened to Adrienne, a servant, and a woman at that. Despite the stereotypes, the Bratva men aren’t as cold as the Cosa Nostra. They are cold killers, but they don’t pretend to be more than they are. The image cultivated around them is from everybody else telling stories, not some carefully calculated facade like in the Cosa Nostra.
“Are we like that?” Andrea continues, before stumbling over to the nearest table, sitting, and burying her head in her arms.
“No.” I snap immediately, but her question leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. What is dad doing if it isn’t running away from his real feelings? From the parts of him that are truly terrifying. I haven’t been able to sit with what happened with Nikolai since I pulled the trigger. Even the moment I pulled the trigger was because I couldn’t sit with the possibility my worst fears were coming true. I ran away. Sure, my dad runs by destroying everyone around him, but hadn’t I done the same? Even the thought of the comparison sends a shiver down my spine. We can’t outrun our genes, but surely we’re not bonded to them either?
“Principessa.” My father’s smooth voice eases me away from a horrifying epiphany, as if there’s a familial sixth sense designed to prevent us from facing our demons.
“Dad.” I sound like a stunned doe, and I hate it.
“Walk with me.” His tone drips over me like rotten honey.
Once I'm sure someone is looking after Andrea, I take his arm. He walks me through the room and out of the after-party, onto the street and over towards West Brink bridge.
“I’m glad you finally came to your senses. I knew I could rely on you to come back home. You’re my girl, my blood.”
Home. The word runs hollow while clinging to his perfectly crisp white suit. Sidorov Mansion flashes through my mind; the piano on the upper floor, Adrienne’s freshly cooked breakfast and Anton sleeping at the foot of Nikolai’s bed. Our bed.
I smile at my father, doing my best to suppress any negativity he might pick up on.
The centre tower of the bridge looms above us as we walk. An orange horizon bleeds into the water and reflects onto the bridge. He glances out at Righteous Cove and then back at me.
“Where’s your headband? Have you stopped wearing it?”
I thought he’d taken no notice of what I wore, aside from how “appropriate” it was.
“I guess.” I don’t know what else to say. It’s not a conscious decision, I just wear it less.
My dad shrugs as we step onto West Brink bridge and the amber reflection of the water bounces into his eyes.
“I liked it.”
What? Since when? He’s never once made a positive comment about what I wear, aside from when it’s something he’d pre-approved. We stroll across the bridge with our arms linked. Is this what a father-daughter relationship should feel like? Taking a walk together, talking about things that only matter because they’re being said by the two of you?
“Remember when you were a little girl?” A genuine grin pulls at my father’s lips. “And I caught you trying to cross the bridge to find the monsters on the other side?”
“Caught? It happened more than once, dad.”
He laughs, “I know. You never listened.” We stop in the middle of the bridge and lean out against the railing together.
“You told me there were monsters there.” I say, refusing to let myself give in to this moment.
He laughs, the natural charm he’s used to crack a thousand skulls lights up his face, and I remember why I wanted his attention so badly as a kid. His whole face lights up when he laughs. Not the fake, bullshit laugh he does with his capos, but the real one. It’s so disarming.
“I told you there were monsters to stop you. It only made you more determined to go!” He shakes his head and glances at me like our recent history never happened. Maybe he wants to pretend. It might be his only way of bringing me back into the family.
“I was curious.” I say, throwing my hands up defensively.
Dad turns his body to face mine and really looks at me; the frown lines between his eyebrows crinkling with concern.
“I did this.”
“Did what, dad?”
“You know what.” His expression flattens back to a scowl, and he looks out at the water. “You running away. It’s my fault.”
What? Did someone spike his drink? I mean, sure, it’s obvious it’s his fault. He literally disowned me. But mafia men don’t accept responsibility unless they absolutely have to. Maybe this is real? Maybe the little girl in me that accepted she’d never have a whole dad can have a second chance?
“Why did you cage me in so much, dad?” I recite the lines I’ve practised in the shower since I was thirteen years old. Ever since I accepted I’d never see him open up to me, I resorted to fantasy, and eventually, I let go.
My dad leans further over the railing, specks of dirt smudging across his crisp white suit. He cuts a striking figure. In the amber light, I catch a glimpse of the handsome man my siblings and I found in the picture books hidden in our basement.
“You were better than Fredo.”
Better? I’m not surprised to hear my father has a hierarchy for his children, but my brain won’t process that I’m above my brother in it.
“What?”
“You were so powerful.” His eyes travel off into the distance, and with every word his voice deepens, and he stands taller like he’s taken over a lead role in an opera. “From the day you took your first steps, I could see your potential. You could play any part perfectly, and everyone in the room adored you. You were decisive, you stood on your own, and you laughed when we told you otherwise.” He turns his head to me, his eyes wide and fierce and burning with passion. “I saw myself in you, Isabella. You can charm anyone, you’re capable, you can be ruthless. Fredo is nothing but an imitation of those things.”
I shudder with every word. I’m nothing like my father. Yet, as his words sink in, I can’t help but think of my life. I charmed Sidorov Mansion, a group of sworn enemies, until they were cooking with me and playing the piano. I ran away from home and was ready to take the world on without a second thought. I shot the man I fell in love with because he betrayed me. Maybe I am the things my father sees in me, but I never saw them as coming from him. Those are parts of me, not parts of us.
“Why did you control me, then? Why?” I can’t control my voice, and pedestrians start to sneak glances at us.
He clasps his hands together like he’s about to pray, “Isabella, my darling. I didn’t want to corrupt my little girl.”
I can’t take another word of this.
“You treated me like a prisoner! You killed boys just for fucking messaging me. You wouldn’t let me live my own life. You disowned me!”
I’m ready for the tidal wave of De Rossi anger to crash into me, but my father doesn’t react. He stays still, wistful, even.
“When I was a young man, my father disowned me. You know so much, did you know that?” He only let the bitterness sink into his voice at the end, but it’s there, waiting to spread it's venom.
“What?”
I knew nothing about his younger years. Everything before he became Don Leonardo was a mystery people were terrified to talk about. A maid told Fredo about one of my father’s ex girlfriends when we were seven and eight respectively, and dad fired her the next day. It’s why we were so excited to find the book of pictures in the basement; even if there weren’t many pictures in there.
“He slapped my mama in an argument. I saw him do it.” His eyes go cold, the amber light of the sunset frozen out by the ice in his gaze. “So I cut all the fingers off the hand he used. He kicked me out, and we never spoke again. Said I was no son of his.” Dad spits into the water below, muttering a curse under his breath. He straightens up and burns his stare into me.
“Being disowned is what made me. I went out against the world and returned Don of a crime family. But I needed that severing to find my purpose. I lost everything, and it forced me to cut all the bullshit from my life. It made me understand power. I saw the path you were going down, my darling Isabella. Sneaking out, streaks of anger, belittling your brother.”
“I could have died!” I yell, cutting him off.
My dad sneers, narrowing his eyes at me. “You think I’d let Callum O’Shea send someone to kill you? My daughter? You were never in any real danger. I was teaching you a lesson because I saw myself in you, and that’s what I needed to become an adult. I thought it might do the same for you. You bitch at me about controlling you, but look at where we are. I let you make your own mistakes for once, and what happens? You dishonour yourself and come back humbled.”
My mouth falls open in shock. Shock and pain. This whole time, it was his idea? Even making my own mistakes was a calculated part of his plan for me.
“But I didn’t expect you to stay with that fucking Russian. And of all the Bratva, you chose that monster?”
“He’s not a monster.” I snap back instinctively. Even as the words leave my lips, I feel conflicted. If he lied to me, why am I still defending him? Why is a part of my body still so attached? I guess it’s all still fresh.
My dad laughs. “He wasn’t a monster.” My father’s correction shatters my heart and makes the lump in my throat swell until I can’t breathe. So he really is dead. It doesn’t make sense, but I felt like he was still alive, like our energies were connected somehow, so I knew he was still here. Apparently, that’s just my mind playing tricks on me to comfort me. “I suppose I asked for this. It’s only natural you’d choose the one path I didn’t want you to.” He shakes his head, sneering the whole time. “Nikolai fucking Ilyin.”
“Why couldn’t you just talk to me? You know, treat me like an adult and let me be my own person? Why does it always have to be these games for control?”
My father looks me dead in the eyes, all the warmth draining from his face. “If I let you decide your own path, you marry the wrong person. You take that Russian’s last name and then, when the time comes, I have to choose between the family name and slaughtering my own grandchildren.”
“What? That’s fucking insane.” I yell up at him, as much out of disbelief as rage. “We don’t have to go to war with the Bratva. You don’t have to divide and conquer.”
He looks at me in the way he looks at Fredo when he’s trying to lead.
“Power is absolute or not at all.” He shakes his head, as if my reaction has confirmed something in the back of his mind. “Isabella, why did you shoot Nikolai Ilyin?”
I gulp down stress. I knew questions were coming, but that didn’t make me feel prepared for them.
“He lied to me. He was trying to control me…” I search for more logical reasons, but the truth is far more messy.
He hurt me. I have a short fuse, and when emotions are that high, I lose track of myself. I’ve been that way since I was a little kid. If I was any different, I wouldn’t have given into the impulse to chase after the mystery stalker who came to every one of my performances. I would have listened to that crumpled note I took from Anastasia Volkov. I wouldn’t have dragged Bianca to The Tsarina and I wouldn’t have started all this mess.
“That’s all? He didn’t try to…” The disgusting insinuation lies sticky in the air.
“Dad! No. Nikolai isn’t like that.” I snap back. It takes another moment for his words to fully register. “After all this, all you care about is if your daughter is still fucking pure?” I throw my hands into the air and hurl a look of disgust at him. He doesn’t care one bit about my safety, just the image of the family name.
“You spat on our family name when I could see you. Why should I expect any different when you’re out of sight?” The mask drops and his nostrils flare. “Are you still pure, Isabella?”
I shake my head, holding in fire and tears. “Nobody in this family is pure.”
My father sucks in a deep breath before adjusting his hair and nodding to himself. “I see.”
He signals to someone over my shoulder and, in the blink of an eye, a black Mercedes appears next to us. Hands in black leather gloves snatch me from the street, pulling me into the back seat. Two huge men sit on either side of me, while my brother lounges in the driver’s seat.
“Hi, sis.”
“Fredo, what the fuck is going on?” I scream, kicking one of the trolls between the legs as he tries to grab me.
I struggle for another moment until they snatch my wrists into a pair of cuffs. The window rolls down and my father peers into the car. He sneers, as if an unpleasant odour is preventing him from fully leaning in.
“I was prepared for you to have thrown away your virtue, but I didn’t expect you to be so proud of it.” Every icy word drips with malice. “Just like your cousin, you need to be taught the value of virtue.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” I spit back, still kicking like a wild mule.
My father cringes as I curse, despite the fact he curses every third word when he’s alone with his capos.
He tuts as he adjusts his suit. “Call me when it’s done, Fredo.”
My brother nods as the dark window rolls up and the car takes off.