“Help the ladies inside with their things,” I tell Vinny over my shoulder.
He steps out of the driver side and pulls open the passenger door for Natalia. “Sure thing.”
“And take one of the men with you,” I add, and hear the unexpected tension and urgency in my voice. “Keep your eyes on them at all times, even while they’re here at home.”
“Will do,” he answers calmly, helping Natalia as she takes his offered hand and climbs out.
There's nothing more I'd like to do than be there for this girl I've protected for many years, but I need to be smart. Everyone may see these visitors as event staff, but to me, each one is a potential threat. Sure, we vetted all the companies before they were hired, but given the boss's new concerns, I can't be too careful. Someone could've slipped through the cracks. If anything happens to anyone tonight, on my watch, it's on me.
And no one’s getting close enough to hurt Natalia.
I’ll be damned if I let anyone near her.
Over my dead body.
This is where the rubber meets the road.
Because when someone is gunning for you, the best way to protect the people you care about is to put yourself between them and the danger on the horizon.
4
Natalia
I wish I could cancel tonight.
I let out a jagged sigh after Vinny escorts me to my room and leaves me alone with my unopened luggage. Turning eighteen is a big deal within the Italian community, but there's a dark cloud hanging over everything, and it won't go away just because it's my birthday. Something's going on, but as usual, no one is talking.
I hate this shit sometimes.
Leaning on the inside of my bedroom door. I inhale a long breath. As I scan in the room, I take it all in again. My room. My home. Everything is exactly as I left it. I start to think I should've listened to my father when he suggested redecorating it over the summer while I was away. Somehow, the pale pink paint, soft cream four poster bed and matching dressers and decor, and all the toys, dolls, books, and gifts I accumulated during my childhood don't fit who I am anymore.
It's strange, having been away for so long and returning to find that nothing is different. I know I've changed. Traveling to where my family came from was enlightening this time. Our customs and traditions, our values and practices seemed so rigid before. I used to think that being Italian, and being the daughter of a mob boss was like living without choices or free will. Maybe I still believe those things, but on this trip, Nonna tried to set me straight. She's been working so hard on bringing me around. And a part of me wants to please her to be who she wants me to be. I'd make her the happiest woman in the world if I could start to think of my family's way of life as a comfort. It's predictable. Everyone knows their place. We understand what to say, how to act, who we are obligated to become, and what's expected of us in every setting and situation. Above all, we're crystal clear on consequences if we deviate from those expectations.
But I can’t.
I’m not like them.
I’m opinionated, headstrong, and willful.
Not the traits anyone wants to see in a young Italian woman.
Once in a while, Nonna tells me it’s because I grew up in America.
That could be true.
But maybe it’s because I grew up without her.
Stepping over to my vanity dressing table, I reach for the one thing I missed dearly during my entire trip away. I slip the delicate yellow gold necklace into my palm and run my fingers down its cool ridges to the one of a kind pendant, letting the memories of my mother come to the surface. The good moments. Like her smile. And the way her eyes would sparkle like diamonds whenever she was happy. Lifting the pendant, I kiss the shield and wish she was still here, my eyes pressed shut as I try to push back the tears threatening to form.
It’s been almost nine years since we lost her. Mother would’ve loved to see me turn eighteen. If she were planning this party, it would be a small affair. Immediate family members and only a few close friends. That was her style. Soft and subtle, elegant and stately.
I swallow hard as I let her solid gold family crest rest in the middle of my palm. Mother never wore this piece of jewelry. She hung it across her dressing room vanity table just like I do now. A daily reminder of where we came from. She had this made based on her family’s crest. A flattened ancient gladiator’s helmet fused to a soldier’s shield with a dragon, an eagle, an olive branch, and a spear. And at its base, a ribbon with the family slogan. Non sine periculo vita y amor. Depending on who you ask, the Latin phrase is translated in a few ways. Mother used to say it meant life and love are worth the risk. According to Nonna, it means you can’t have a life filled with love without a bit of danger.
But Father, he’s got a whole different perspective.
He thinks it has only one meaning.
Love is deadly.
On those days when I used to unashamedly resort to begging him to let me have a life like a normal teenager, he would tell me that my love is his weakness. But after he said it to me, the ice in his eyes always melted a little, and those words were always accompanied by lighthearted chuckles and his warmest hugs.
A loud and firm yet familiar knock at the door pulls me out of my content memories to the reality that is my father.
“It’s open, Father,” I answer. Returning the necklace and family crest to its spot, I glance in the oval dresser mirror and neaten my hair. I quickly pull myself together before turning toward the door, replacing my pensive expression with as wide a smile as I can manage. He has this uncanny way of figuring out when I’m missing Mother, and I know it saddens him to see me looking sad or vulnerable. He has enough on his plate, more than enough to worry about. Like so many times before, I want to do what I can to avoid adding to his woes. “You can come in.”
The door creaks open, revealing my father’s imposing figure on the other side. Paolo Romano. One of the most powerful mob bosses on this continent. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him in weeks, but I can’t get over how large he is. His broad frame fills the doorway and then some as he glances up before stepping inside a few feet. A welcoming smile relaxes his smooth, youthful face. Everyone swears he has some secret skin care regimen that keeps him looking young. No one believes he’s already fifty. Sometimes I don’t either when I see this smile he saves only for me, the one that warms his eyes and softening his buttoned-up, professional persona in those custom business suits he wears from morning until night.
“How’s my beautiful birthday girl?” he asks, spreading his arms wide for a loving hug.
"Good, Father," I say, and step into his arms. Resting my head on his chest, I'm reminded of our height difference as his embrace engulfs me. His six-foot-four bear-like body dwarfs my narrow shoulders and five-foot-three athletic frame. But every time he holds me like this, I feel safe, like nothing and no one could ever do me harm. "I missed you so."
"I missed you more, princess. How was your trip?" He's the only person on the planet who can call me that and not cause me to flinch. I remember one of the girls in the neighborhood who went to my private school overheard Father call me princess. She was passing by his town car on the way into the school gates that morning. Before lunch, the whole school was calling me Princess.
For weeks on end, they teased me incessantly with every variation of the nickname they could think up. Mafia princess, princess Natalia, lady Natalia, Italian princess, princess boss lady, even princess Leah, which made no sense to me at all. They were all hoping for a reaction as they goaded me relentlessly. But I gave them nothing, plastering on a cold facade to shut them down. Then it stopped as suddenly as it started, as the kids moved on to torture someone else, which is the way things usually are.
“Natalia?” his questioning tone as he utters my name pulls me from my silly childhood thoughts. “Are you doing okay?”
“Yes, Father.” I glance up into his steel gray eyes, somewhat darkened by his thick, black eye
lashes and jet black hair. “Sorry, I must be a bit tired. Jetlag,” I tell him. “My trip was really nice. Nonna took me to see so much of your family. Oh, and your great Uncle Fulvio said to tell you hello.”
“That’s nice,” he answers, resting a hand on my shoulder as he pulls from our short hug. “Listen, beautiful. There have been a few developments today…”
“What kind of developments?” I ask before he can finish verbalizing his thoughts.
“I decided to scale back the guest list of your party tonight. It’s already in the works. Just family. Plus your two best friends. And your aunt insisted on keeping your hair, nail and makeup appointments, so they’ll be here in a few hours.”
I study his face as he looks at me intently, probably expecting some resistance from me. But I don’t mind. The event was turning into a circus, mostly because he put Aunt Francesca, his sister, in charge of setting it up. The woman only has one approach to life. If you can’t go big, go bigger.
Resting my hand over the one he still has on my shoulder, I give him a reassuring squeeze. “That’s not a problem. As long as I’m with you and Nonna, I’m happy.” An unexpected peal of laughter bursts from his lips. “What’s so funny all of a sudden?” I ask.
“I was just remembering that year I tried to braid your hair for your birthday,” he explains.
“God, that was something. I’m so glad you didn’t try that again.” I lift closed fists to two spots at the top of my head, mocking him a little. “They were like two ram horns,” I giggle, letting the rush of comfort wash over me.
He did his best after Mother died, trying to be both mother and father to me. Nonna still calls those his soft years, because, in her opinion, he made a lot of unnecessary concessions within the organization. She thought that he put too much energy into legitimizing his business holdings and making peace with too many of his past rivals. I'd hear them arguing at night sometimes, when they thought I was asleep. Nonna is one of the rare former mob wives who knew every detail of her husband's operation back then. As first, she didn't like the way my father changed things when he took over from my grandfather. But eventually, she calmed down.
No one complains when money is flowing.
Because no one turns up dead during the good times.
“I’m no hairstylist,” he groans out a chuckle and lifts my hand and his own off my shoulder, kissing the inside of my palm sweetly. “Excellent. This is why I love you so, princess. You’re just like your mother.” His eyes lift from my face to a spot behind me, and right away, I can tell from the sadness that washes over his face that he’s looking at Mother’s family crest. Whenever he catches sight of it, for a split second he shows me a side of him that he keeps hidden from everyone else. That loving vulnerability peeks out at me, reminding me that even ruthless mob bosses have a soft side.
“I’m good with a quiet sit down dinner,” I say. “It’ll be perfect.”
He smiles and begins to turn toward my door. “Very good.”
“So… you’re not going to tell me what made you decide to change it, are you?”
There's a coldness in his eyes as they lock with mine this time, a look he seems to have a hard time dismissing, that he struggles to push away but won't leave him as readily, now that I've broached the topic. "It's nothing you don't need to worry about, love."
“I’m eighteen now, Father. You don’t have to shield me like you did before. I can handle it.”
“I know. You’ve always been strong, princess. You get that fighting spirit from me,” he chuckles. “But don’t you worry about a thing. It’s your birthday. All I want for you today is to make happy memories.”
“But,” I start.
“No, Natalia,” he says, his voice resolute as he takes a step backward toward the door. “Everything is going to be fine. Try to get some rest before your aunt arrives. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”
“Yes, Father.”
As he opens the door to leave, my eyes lock with Antonio’s in the hallway. He stands there, arms folded, in quiet consultation with Vinny, who will be guarding me when they leave to make plans.
“Let’s go,” Father tells Antonio, and I have to wonder how much he’s heard of our conversation. My father trusts him completely. He doesn’t make a move without bouncing it off of Antonio.
Feeling the weight of my jetlag and the heaviness of their unspoken uneasiness, I stretch out on one side of my bed and close my eyes. Hopefully, Father won't do anything drastic about whatever is going on. I've heard horror stories from Nonna. This family was cold and unforgiving, hard and merciless, calculating and ruthless back when my grandfather ran things. There's an untold number of bodies that lie in my late Nonno's wake.
As I drift off, I pray that Father doesn’t restart the cycle.
And more than anything I wish that Antonio can temper every option with a dose of logic, which he’s usually great at.
Because if we’re not careful, we can all wind up dead.
5
Antonio
I lean forward in the leather button-back armchair at one end of Romano’s central office, bracing for the news he has for us. He’s called his mother into this meeting too, so it must be big. He never involves her in anything unless it’s coming down from the famiglia. Nonna Romano’s first cousin, Mauro Xanto is the big boss. The top guy. The boss of everything, she would say if you asked her. He runs his global operation from Calabria. Which goes to show that even my boss has to answer to someone for his actions.
Nonna Romano sits silently, her eyes fixed on the grounds and Olympic sized pool at the back of the Romano property. She hasn't said a word since she sat down. I follow her gaze toward the two-party decorating staff outside. One is holding a tall ladder while the other hangs a string of lights in a criss-cross pattern over the pool. It's such a waste, because we won't have the numbers that were on the original plan for tonight. Natalia and the guests will be lucky to look outside, let alone enjoy the temporary decor. The boss has already given strict instructions to keep everyone indoors and leave all blinds closed, just in case.
In case of what exactly, I still don’t know.
But we’re about to find out.
Romano steps out of his private side office, his aging dog, Lupo tottering at his side. It’s a tiny room no larger than one of the walk-in closets in the massive house, a space that no one but him is allowed to enter. His face is drawn, emotionless, and his gray eyes have never been darker. When he lowers into his swivel chair and laces the fingers of each hand together, head cast downward, there’s no doubt in my mind that something has gone horribly wrong.
“Tell us, son. What happened?” Nonna Romano says after a brief pause. Her voice is tired and weak, yet her tone commands as much respect as always.
The boss takes a heavy breath and looks up. He places his elbows on the marble office desk in front of him and rests his chin on his interlaced hands. “It’s Cousin Prisco on Papa’s side… he broke ranks. He went against Mauro on a private arms deal he was supposed to broker.”
She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and shakes her head with disapproval, then reaches into the handbag she carries around twenty-four seven, even when she’s here at home. “Oh my God. That boy never listens. Your papa couldn’t keep him in line either. What did Mauro do about it?”
The boss turns to me. “Arrangements are in the works. Natalia, Nonna and I are going to Argentina for a few months. We’re flying out in three days. I’m going to leave you here in charge of my affairs until we’re safe.”
“Safe from what?” Nonna Romano asks before the update has a chance to sink in.
"Cousin Prisco's dead, Mama," he breathes out in a strained voice, as though each word is harder to form than the last.
“What? No, no, no… no. Dio Mio." She can hardly hold back her agitation as she grips the side of the armchair tightly, steadying her body. "Why didn't Mauro come to me first? I could've talked some sense into the boy's head. He's stubborn, but h
e listens to me... Why did no one talk to me?"
The boss shakes his head, somber. “I don’t know, Mama. I don’t know.”
She releases the armrest of the chair and pulls out a neatly folded handkerchief from her bag. “You father’s brother will not stand for this.” The way her voice cracks is telling, and when she dabs one corner of the hemmed square of fabric onto the inside of each eye, I know the news has hit her hard. “What did Mauro say to you? I need to talk to him before this becomes a war.”
“It’s too late for that, Mama,” the boss informs her.
“What did Mauro say?” she repeats the question. “Tell me what he said.”
“The Romanos are no longer under his protection unless I resume the deal on Prisco’s behalf. I turned him down. We’re not in that business anymore.”
“Dio Mio… Dio Mio, Paolo! Why did you refuse him? Your father, God rest his soul… he would never refuse an order from the top.”
The boss turns to me. "Listen to me, son. I'm not one to give lectures, but what's happening with Mauro is the kind of thing I like to call a teachable moment. This business has changed. Every shop under Mauro has to operate according to what's accepted practice. And here in America, well, we're nothing like the mob in the old country. They can still pull a big score in some lawless third world shithole corner of the planet where presidents are still drug lords and kingpins. We can't do that shit here and stay alive. So yes, Mauro might see us as weak and floundering. The idea that we've adapted with the times and made our holdings legal makes the big bosses mad as hell. The margins are smaller. We have to work at it, you know? But the boss, he'd be happy to see us continue along like the animals we once were. Half of my job today is justifying what we do here."
"I understand what you're saying, boss, and I agree," I tell him. I know exactly what he means. Drug and gun running don't work as a long game in America. If Romano had continued the kind of operation he inherited, he'd probably be in jail, or dead by now.
Fall (A Mafia Crime Family Romance) Page 4
