Chapter One
SLY
“Papà! Mamma!”
The shrill sound of my six-year-old brother’s laughter rises through the fragrant air as we run around my parents, playing a game of tag in the kitchen while my mother cooks.
Mio padre sits at our kitchen table rubbing his temples as we race around him, my brother completely oblivious of the irritation that permeates off our father.
Tossing my hand out, I whip my fingers against his arm, just barely ghosting him as he lunges forward to avoid my touch.
“Ugh, Giulio! Sei un imbroglione!” You’re a cheater.
He laughs again and keeps running, tripping over Mamma’s feet. As he goes flying, skidding across the floor, she wags her finger at him. “I’ve told you the kitchen is not for playing, Giulio.”
My brother stands and starts to run again until Papà stops him in his tracks.
“Enough!” Papà’s voice booms as his fists hit the table. “My head is pounding, and your mother is cooking. Find somewhere else to play.”
Papà is a doctor. A world-renowned surgeon, I’ve heard Mamma say.
He works at the hospital that my bisnonno founded, and my nonno was a surgeon before my father.
Nonno died when I was five, but his picture still hangs in the lobby of the hospital, alongside bisnonnos, and mio padres.
Three generations of Lucchettis as doctors. Surgeons.
Papà says he looks forward to me becoming one, too.
Turning to my mother, his gaze softens as it lands on her. “Mia mogile, we have staff who can prepare the meals. You should be resting.”
His gaze falls to where her hand rests on her stomach, rubbing where my youngest brother grows. “I love to cook, Antonio. You know this.”
“Sì, bellissima. And you are so good at it. But your doctor?—”
“Shh, shh. I know my body, and I will rest when it tells me to.”
“C’mon, Sly, let's go upstairs!” Guilio pulls my attention from our parents as he retreats from the kitchen, his small, chubby hand beckoning for me to follow.
“No, grazie, I want to draw again.” Taking the seat opposite my father, I pick up my charcoal and pull my sketch pad toward me, resuming the drawing I was working on before we started our game. I’ve always loved to sketch, and Mamma says I’ve been improving greatly.
Our black lab, Polpetta, is the perfect muse for me to practice. Mamma and Papà got her when I was two, and they say my favorite food was meatballs then, so the name stuck. Nowadays, she’s old and lazy, looking as round as the food she is named after.
“It’s looking well,” Papà compliments as he watches me shadow the outline of her nose.
“Grazie, Papà.”
A loud, abrupt ringing makes me jump, shifting my charcoal into a harsh line against my page. Frowning, I look at the mistake, my shoulders sagging in defeat.
“Pronto?” my mother singsongs into the telephone.
The room falls silent as my father watches with intent while she nods her head, her hand flying over her mouth as she looks at my father.
Pulling the phone away from her ear, she holds it out, signaling for him to come take it from her. “It’s Gabriele.”
My eyes perk up at the mention of Uncle Gabriele. He lives in America, in a city full of skyscrapers and twinkling lights. The photos he brought during his last visit were magnifico, and I long to go see it for myself.
I also wish to see my cousin Lorenzo, who is the same age as I am. It makes me sad that my best friend and playmate is across the ocean, and even though I ask a lot, Mamma and Papà still have not taken me and Giulio to see them.
“Gabriele,” my father barks into the phone. “What is it this time?”
My father's expression morphs from irritated to infuriated, his golden-bronze skin turning red from his neck through his face.
“HOW?” he shouts, his eyes darting to Mamma before he lowers his tone. “How could you get yourself into that much trouble, Gabriele? I—no. No. Absolutely not.”
He turns his back, cupping his hand over the place where he speaks as though to shield his words. I don’t hear what he says before he slams the phone into where it rests on the wall.
“Sylvester, go to your room, please. Mamma and I need to speak alone.” I can hear the anger in his tone, see the quake in his shoulders, but he doesn’t look over at me as he commands my instructions.
I know better than to argue, so I collect my sketchbook and shuffle out of the kitchen without a word.
For the next two hours, me and Guilio sit at the top of our home's staircase, listening to Mamma and Papà argue. The sounds of heightened yet muffled voices and Mamma’s anguished sobs traveling through the polished surfaces of our house.
One of our housemaids tried to shoo us back to our bedrooms an hour ago, but instead, I tucked my younger brother under my arm and stayed put. We can’t hear what our parents speak of, but a twisting in my stomach tells me nothing good will come of it.
A gulp of saliva catches in my throat as I tilt my head back and look at the giant stone mansion. Mamma tucks my hand into hers, ushering Guilio and me away from the car that brought us here while it idles against the curb.
“Boys, you are to be on your best behavior. This is a business visit for your Papà and Uncle Gabriele. You are to be seen and not heard—it is of much importance. Do you understand me?”
“Sì, Mamma,” I answer for both of us.
It has been one week since we moved to America, and three weeks since the phone call from Uncle Gabriele that changed everything for our family.
That very same night Guilio and I listened to Mamma and Papà argue—they came into our rooms and told us Uncle Gabriele needed his family close and we would be moving to New York.
Eavesdropping on several of Papà’s phone calls taught me Uncle Gabriele made some bad decisions and owed someone a lot of money. And if they didn’t get it, they would do very bad things to him.
I still don’t understand why we had to leave our country to go help him, but at least I get to see Lorenzo more.
The steps leading up to the house make me feel like I am climbing a mountain.
The stone clicks beneath Mamma's pointy shoes and I look down at them for distraction. My heart races, and Papà’s hand engulfs my shoulder as he comes to stand behind me while we wait for the door to be answered.
Uncle Gabriele stands to his right, fidgeting, while Aunt Andrea squats to smooth the front of Lorenzo’s jacket.
When the door opens, a tall man wearing a suit greets us with an unfriendly look on his face. Beyond him, I take in the elegance of the house. Shiny marble floors, a grand staircase, sculptures and artwork—this place could be a museum.
“Come in,” the man says simply, then steps aside while holding the door.
I hear my uncle clear his throat as Mamma steps forward with me and my brother in tow. Once inside, a line of women in plain dresses stand, and one rushes to my mother.
Once the door closes, the loudness of the city disappears, and a cold silence takes its place.
“May I take your coat, ma’am?”
“Yes, grazie,” she says, letting go of our hands to shrug out of her coat. Papà steps forward to help before removing his own and hands both to the lady waiting.
“Gabriele,” a man says as he steps out of a nearby room. His hands are in the pockets of his pants as he moves slowly toward us, his eyes glued to my uncle. He walks like a hungry lion stalking a gazelle.
He looks mean. Scary.
Is this the man who is mad at my uncle? If he is, why are we here, at his house?
“Maurizio.” My uncle’s head dips as though he’s bowing. “Thank you for having my family at your lovely home. This is my beautiful wife, Andrea, and son Lorenzo. As well as my brother, Antonio, and his family.”
Giulio shuffles sideways until he’s hidden behind Mamma’s legs, but I stand straighter and move my shoulders back, trying not to seem as small as I feel.
The man my uncle introduced us to looks at us each and hums, scrunching his lips as he rubs his well-groomed beard.
My father clears his throat and takes a step forward, his hand extended. “Pleased to meet you, amico mio. Thank you for having us.”
“I wasn’t aware there was an us attending when I extended the invitation to Gabriele, but alas, our staff has prepared a large meal. We may as well break bread.” He never takes Papà’s hand.
I watch my father’s eyes narrow before he quickly stows the look away and masks it with a smile. “I see. Well, I hope there is no trouble.”
“Not at all,” Maurizio clips and turns to one of the women standing along the wall. “Please see to it that the kitchen places…seven additional seats at the table.”
“Certainly, Mr. Paladino.” She practically runs through a set of doors just a few steps away.
The man turns to my mother and aunt, his tone softening as he speaks to them. “My wife, Leighton, should be down with our daughter any minute. You can wait in the sitting room while I take the men to my office. Should you need anything, Capaul can assist you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Paladino,” Aunt Andrea says as she ushers Lorenzo through the archway in the wall and into the room to our left. Mamma does the same, steering Giulio and me right behind her.
The room is bright from the sun, with plush couches and fluffy pillows, and a small table with a neat pile of children’s books and grown-up magazines. It looks fancy, and immediately I am afraid to dirty it and get in trouble.
Lorenzo, on the other hand, takes a running leap onto the light gray sofa across the room, landing with a soft thud face down. His laugh is muffled as his mother scolds him.
“Enzo!” she hisses. “This is not the place for jokes!” Pulling him up, she pushes his small body until he’s sitting on the couch as he should be.