Prologue #2
“We should follow the others,” Mina states firmly. “We don’t want to get lost in the Romano’s woods now, do we?”
Matteo doesn’t say a word, but the way his dark eyes linger on me tells me everything I need to know. He doesn’t like me very much. My very existence seems to irritate him somehow.
I’ve never met this man before, yet in a single glance I’ve earned his hatred, his disdain. It confuses me. Most people don’t look at me twice, much less waste real emotion on me, even one as sharp as contempt.
Matteo throws me another scornful look before letting Mina lead him back to his other brothers and their father.
“Don’t take it personally,” Raffaele says with a light smile. “Matteo always has that grumpy look on his face.”
“I don’t think I made a very good first impression with him,” I mutter, immediately kicking myself for how self-deprecating the words sound.
“It has nothing to do with you. Trust me. He doesn’t like any Ro…” He hesitates, stopping himself mid-sentence, but it’s too late since I catch the implication before he can finish his thought.
“If he doesn’t like my family, then why come here at all?”
Raffaele’s eyes widen slightly, surprised by such a direct question.
When he sees there’s no malice behind it, only genuine curiosity, he answers honestly.
“We didn’t have much of a choice. When the Vincenzo Romano orders you to fly to Chicago to witness his successor take the omertá, refusal isn’t exactly an option. ”
My brows knit together as the word ‘successor’ settles heavily in my chest, eclipsing everything else he just told me.
Does Marcello know our father is telling everyone that he’s meant to be his heir apparent? Does Jude know?
I keep those questions to myself. Though I have no love for Outfit politics, I’m not foolish enough to share my misgivings with someone who could be considered an enemy to my family. That’s one code of honor I’ll never cross.
“So,” Raffaele says, breaking the silence that ensued, “are you going to show me around, or are you just going to stand there and stare at me all day?” His lips curve into a bright grin. “I’m okay either way. You’ve got too pretty a face for me to want to look at anything else anyway.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks in embarrassment.
“I… I could show you the den,” I offer quickly, bypassing his teasing remark. “No one should be there right now.”
“Sounds good to me. Lead the way.”
Before I can react, he takes my hand, threading his fingers through mine as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
I freeze in place, staring at my hand and how small it is in comparison to his. He’s so casual about it that I don’t even have the will to point out how wrong this is.
He’s a Cosa Nostra prince. I’m an Outfit principessa. Not too long ago, being caught holding hands would’ve been reason enough to arrange a marriage between our families, no matter how young we were.
Hasn’t anyone taught him acceptable etiquette?
“Hey? Are you okay?” he asks when my feet refuse to move, my eyes still glued to our joined hands.
God, I’m making such a fool of myself. Here he is, just trying to be kind, and I’m acting as if the world has tilted on its axis. To be fair, it has.
Aside from my parents and siblings, no one has ever touched me like this before, not even in something as innocent as holding my hand.
Being the youngest daughter of such a notorious family comes with its drawbacks.
Most people steer clear of me, afraid that getting too close might somehow shorten their lifespan.
Raffaele doesn’t seem to have that worry. I can’t tell if it’s bravery, foolishness, or simple ignorance that makes him behave this way.
“Sorry,” I murmur, offering him a weak smile as I force my feet to move.
We pass through the living room, where wives, foot soldiers, and lower-ranking made men remain while the heads of families have already been called away to witness the oath.
When we step inside the den, Raffaele’s eyes light up with unmistakable delight.
“Sweet!” he says, rushing toward the large TV, gaming consoles, and shelves of video games. “Do you know how to play any of these?” he asks, eyeing them as if they were a treasure.
I study his excitement, briefly wondering if he’s never seen a PlayStation or an Xbox before.
No. That would be ridiculous. He’s a teenage boy. Of course, he has.
“Not really,” I admit, since video games are more Lucky’s and Enzo’s domain than mine.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, “me neither.” A sheepish smile tugs at his lips, his blue eyes tinged with something sad enough to make my chest ache for reasons I don’t quite understand.
“You don’t have to say that just because I don’t know how to play,” I retort, eyeing him attentively.
Raffaele looks at me strangely, and then seems to lose interest in video games altogether. “What else do you have here?” he asks, scanning the den, his attention catching on everything at once.
The space is filled to the brim with every kind of entertainment kids our age could want.
Board games, puzzles, comic books. Mom makes sure the den is always stocked with the latest games and comics so the twins will spend most of their time here whenever we visit Big Sal’s mansion, rather than wreaking havoc around the house out of boredom. And the twins are always bored.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to play a video game instead?” I ask when I catch his eyes drifting back to the large shelf of video games, clearly tempted.
Raffaele doesn’t answer, but the way his gaze fixes on one of the controllers tells me he does.
I walk over, pick it up, and hand it to him. “It can’t be that hard, right?”
His smile widens, and I swear it nearly blinds me with how bright it is. He grabs my hand again and leads me to the couch, dropping onto it as if he’d done this a thousand times before.
“What are you into? Are you okay with gore?” he asks, half-turned away from me as he reaches back to flick through the video games lined up on the shelf beside the couch.
“No. Not really.”
“Driving games, then?”
“I’m thirteen,” I laugh. “Years away from taking driver’s ed.”
Raffaele stills with a game case clutched in his hand, and then lets it fall back into place. He shifts on the cushions, leaning back and turning fully toward me.
“Thirteen, huh?”
I nod, confused as to why he’s looking at me like that. “I…um… turn fourteen in March.”
“Wow, okay. I could’ve sworn you were older. You talk like you’re older, at least.”
“I do?” I maul on my lower lip, unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad.
“Hey, that wasn’t an accusation,” Raffaele says quickly when he sees my brows pinch together. “It comes with the territory. Thirteen in mob years is like eighteen for normal kids. Don’t sweat it.” He winks before giving my knee a little pat.
I’m not sure if that’s true, but then again, I don’t have much experience with other kids my age to know the difference.
Raffaele turns his back to me again, pulling from the shelf the same game he’d dismissed earlier. He slots it in and straightens as the console hums to life.
“How old are you?” I ask as the Grand Theft Auto logo fills the screen.
I guess even in games, we can’t stray too far from our mafioso roots. Still, as crimes go, stealing cars doesn’t seem like the worst one.
“I turned fifteen three months ago. That’s twenty-one in mob years.” He winks as if all this were a joke to him.
It’s not. Fifteen means that in a few years he will be taking omertá too. It means that he’s probably already doing low-level work for his own father for the Cosa Nostra.
Or maybe not. The twins are fifteen, and Mammà hasn’t let them anywhere near the family business yet. Maybe Raffaele’s mother is the same.
“So, what grade are you in?” he asks as we drive through the hills of what looks like California.
“Seventh. I got… held back a year,” I say, fighting to keep the controller steady as it vibrates hard enough to rattle my grip.
“Held back, huh?”
Since there isn’t really a question there, I don’t offer an answer either.
Officially, I was held back in kindergarten due to social anxiety. The nuns at Sacred Heart told my parents that I struggled to engage with them and the rest of the class. So they decided it would be better to give me another year to mature before sending me on to primary school.
The real reason behind my anxiety was harder to explain. Everywhere I turned, I didn’t see classmates—I saw cracked skulls and sliced bellies. My parents were worried, so the following year I made sure not to give the nuns any reason to keep me back again.
I still don’t interact much with my classmates, but my grades are too high now for anyone to use my detachment against me.
“I started high school this year,” Raffaele continues when he realizes I’m not going to say anything. “It’s okay, I guess.” He shrugs as his car plows through a group of pedestrians, forcing me to mentally remind myself that it’s just a game and not actual people.
“You don’t sound very excited about it,” I finally offer.
“You picked up on that, huh?” he says with a smile. His smile always seems to come so easily for him, even when his eyes tell a different story. “Everyone already knows who I am there. They’ve made up their minds long before ever meeting me. Maybe college will be different. Not high school.”
I understand him perfectly. It’s the same with me back at Sacred Heart. Everyone knows my family, or at least has heard the rumors of what we Romanos get up to behind closed doors to make their judgments.
The twins and Stella have used that notoriety to their advantage, wielding our name like a trophy to rule the halls and climb to the top of the social ladder.
However, it’s been an entirely different experience for Marcello and me.
Unlike our more extroverted siblings, we prefer to keep to ourselves.