Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83776 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
I reach Renzo’s office, and I’m tempted to run away, but I force myself to knock. “Come in, Stef.” Renzo beckons me from the interior and I picture myself wading into the jungle like in Heart of Darkness, halfway expecting to find Renzo waiting in some crumbling temple, a half-mad cult leader. That’s not too far off, although he’s in a fancy suit and sitting behind an expensive desk.
The Famiglia is sort of like a cult and he’s definitely the head of it all.
“What’s up, big brother?” I try to put a confident grin on my face, even if I don’t feel it at all, and sit in the chair across from him. My brother’s a big guy with dark hair going gray at the temples and a serious expression. His shoulders are slightly hunched, probably from all the stress he’s under, a guy with a thousand demands on his time and too much weight on his shoulders.
“You haven’t been coming around much lately.” He leans back and gives me that disappointed-yet-not-surprised glare of his and it still works, even after all these years.
I soften a little, feeling guilty. I didn’t expect this conversation. Because he’s right, I’ve been trying to separate myself bit by bit these last few years, going home to the big house less and less, getting involved in family life as little as possible. I have my own apartment and my own life, and while I work at a Famiglia-controlled law firm, I try to be as independent as I can.
Except we grew up as a close-knit unit, and it’s strange, not being here much anymore. I miss my brothers, their wives, and all the kids.
It’s just that I know if I keep visiting, I’ll never find the distance I desperately need.
“You noticed, huh?” I give him a sheepish smile. No sense in denying it.
“Everyone noticed, and nobody’s saying anything because it’s your life, but you’re still a member of this family.”
More guilt, but this time alarm bells ring in my skull along with big bright-red lights blaring all over the place. “I know I’m a member of this family, thanks for the reminder.”
Renzo straightens his back and gives me a hard look. This isn’t my brother talking then—this is Don Rossi.
“Our family isn’t normal, you know that. We’ve all made sacrifices—”
I hold up my hands, interrupting him. My heart’s in my throat now. “Sorry, hold up. You’re talking about sacrifices. I really don’t like sacrifices.” Because I’ve been making them my whole life, even if they’re invisible. My existence has been prescribed from the day I was born with narrow lanes and tall bumpers keeping me in place.
His face darkens. “I haven’t asked much of you. I’ve given you all the space in the world to do what you want, but now it’s time to pay the family back.”
I lean into my chair, too stunned to speak. We’re way off track now and I have no clue where this is going. Pay the family back? As if treating me like their sister is a debt I have to work off?
Renzo’s always been easy on me, probably easier than I deserve, and he’s right that everyone else has sacrificed for the Famiglia. Some more than others: Carlo practically killed himself to win the war they just finished against the Russians and the Irish, and Renzo’s best friend, Dante, literally did get himself murdered.
“I know this is going to be difficult and I understand that we’ve tried to keep you out of family politics, but this is extremely important for everyone, and I need you to step up and do the right thing. I won’t ask you not to hate me, but I will ask you to do what has to be done.”
I stand up. I can’t sit anymore. My body’s vibrating with terrified, nervous energy, and I feel like I’m going to throw up right here on Renzo’s very expensive rug.
“What are you saying?” I manage to ask, my hands trembling, my lips feeling numb.
This isn’t about the club. It’s about something much, much worse.
He opens a drawer, takes out a folder, and opens to the first page.
It’s a picture of a man.
He’s got dark hair and dark eyes, and I remember the feel of his stubble against my cheek. He’s extremely handsome and wearing an expensive, fitted suit. I can just make out the ghost of a burn scar on his left hand. In the photo, he’s standing outside of a building, speaking on his phone.
My palms go sweaty and I force my jaw closed because otherwise I just might scream.
The guy’s tall. I know he’s tall, because I’ve stood next to him. He smells like cinnamon and tree bark, and he tastes like mint mixed with whiskey. I know, because I’ve smelled him, and I’ve kissed him.