CHAPTER 1
Tavi
I stare at the cracked tile that leads to the altar of Saint Anthony’s and remember how it broke. I wonder if anyone else here does. Not everyone can say they recall the way their father body slammed the alter server on their first Communion day.
Why’d he do it? Who the hell knows. The kid probably looked at him funny or showed my father what he thought was a form of disrespect.
I can still see the way my mother’s face grew cold and impassive, her typical response to my father’s fits of rage. Unless his fury was aimed at one of us. Then, we saw another Tosca Rossi, one whose own face and body bore the brunt of his fury and anger when she came between him and us. My father was, after all, a psychopath. He bled out over a year ago on the very property where I was born.
We didn’t try to save him. It was time.
I wonder sometimes if mental illness is genetic. I wonder if it knocks on my own door, but I refuse to answer it. It’s the age-old question I think most men ask themselves at one point in their lives.
Will I become my father?
I fold my hands and listen to the gospel readings, chosen by my sister-in-law Angelina for the special occasion of her son’s baptism. My niece Natalia fidgets uncomfortably in her seat, and when she looks at me, I put my finger to my lips to remind her to be quiet. I soften the correction with a wink to show her I’m as bored as she is. With a sigh, she turns around and obeys.
Elise catches my eye. I feel my body go rigid, a coldness suffusing my limbs. She blinks and starts as if struck, then turns to Angelina and whispers something. Angelina hands her the sleeping baby dressed in the traditional white gown used for every Rossi family baptism.
Elise is my betrothed.
Elise and I didn’t choose this. Few of us in The Family ever do.
I think of every sacrament we endured within the walls of this church. While I was way too young to remember my own baptism, I remember Mario and Marialena’s, my younger brother’s and sister’s. I remember how Mama bought us small, matching tuxedos, and how my father made us polish our shoes. I remember my older brother Romeo making me and Orlando sit still when we fidgeted. I remember first Communions, a few of my cousins’ weddings, and the somber funeral for my father, probably the only funeral I’ve attended where not one person shed a tear. Romeo ordered champagne for the funeral brunch.
As I remember the sacraments we’ve celebrated here… I know why that broken tile’s never been replaced. Romeo himself probably ordered it kept there, since he’s the church’s largest benefactor and has a say in all repairs and projects. But that tile… it’s a stark yet subtle reminder of the power the Rossi family holds.
I’ve looked over my family’s bookkeeping for years. We singlehandedly support this church. There’s a reason why Saint Anthony’s is the most affluent in all of Massachusetts.
My brother Orlando clears his throat and wiggles his eyebrows at me. The whole church is silent, expectant, even the organ still as he waits for me. I’m baby Nicolo’s godfather. It’s time.
I stand and join Orlando, who beams as he walks to the altar beside his beautiful wife Angelina. They both smile at me, but I don’t share their joy. Angelina nearly threw my family into ruin. She forced my hand in ordering the execution of a man I never wanted to kill. It’s because of her I’m marrying the woman beside her.
“Come, godfather,” my future wife murmurs. “You’re supposed to stand beside me.” I don’t like her telling me what to do in even the most innocuous way, so when I give her a look that seems to startle her, she softens her tone. “Please.”
She bends her head toward the baby and nuzzles Nicolo’s soft, fuzzy head. His white satin bonnet has fallen to the side, attached loosely to the traditional gown with a matching satin ribbon. I watch as she kisses the baby and still doesn’t meet my eyes.
Beautiful, proud Elise Regazza walks by my side to the altar. A foreshadowing of things to come? We’ll walk this same path in only four weeks. But today, we’re the chosen godparents for Orlando and Angelina’s baby, so we take our place where we belong.
Elise Regazza may be many things—spoiled, headstrong, and materialistic, to name just a few—but the woman is lovely. Stunning, really. Shorter than me by about six inches, she still stands tall in chunky heels. She has the same light brown hair as Angelina, the one character trait that allowed them to pull a temporary identity switch at one time. Now, however, Angelina’s highlighted her hair lighter, making Elise’s look slightly darker in comparison.
Her hair is long and straight, and hangs well past her shoulders. Her beautiful, deep amber eyes, framed in thick lashes, catch my attention. I know she wears contacts mostly but occasionally glasses, though she’s never let me see her wearing them. She hides the fact that she does, but I know everything about her.
I’d like to see them on her. I imagine she’d have the sexy librarian look going on, but she’s too proud.
Her gently rounded face would make her look almost girlish, if not for the wild defiance in her deep amber eyes, the color of a shot of amaretto. A gentle smattering of freckles and a dimple in her chin complete the fetching, nearly girlish look, but her full, light pink lips and curvy, hourglass figure are all woman.
What my family knows, that no one else sitting in this church does, is that Elise Regazza is my prisoner.
I allow her some freedom, at Orlando’s suggestion, because his wife Angelina is her best friend. But I don’t trust either of them. Those two were, after all, guilty of conspiring against my family.
They’ve paid their dues, some would say—Angelina is now married to my brother, after a lengthy imprisonment of her own. Because of their marriage, she’s now a full-fledged member of our family. And Elise has been under lock and key for months.
She’s allowed to take walks, and to travel to the shops within ten miles of here, but I track her every move and insist she have three high-ranking bodyguards on her at all times. It’s nothing short of walking confinement. I don’t regret it.
I don’t think she’s dangerous. She’d like to think I do. But no, I don’t keep a tight leash on her because I fear her escape. I want her to remember she’s my prisoner and will be until we take our vows and consummate our marriage.
I had a GPS tracker embedded under the skin of her left upper arm, the exact place where one would implant birth control. I know wherever she is when she’s not directly in my line of vision.
She also wears a thick, gold cuff bracelet fitted with GPS as well, one connected to the apps on my phone. It heats and generates a warming sensation across her wrist, when I want to issue her a warning. It also shows me her constant whereabouts, as well as her vital signs—her heartbeat, her body temperature, and even when she’s waking or sleeping.
I know when she’s doing yoga, when she’s jogging, or when she’s resting. I watch her more closely than most wardens monitor prisoners.
But Elise has behaved herself. She’s comported herself with the dignity befitting a mafia princess, just as she was raised, and as she’ll soon learn to become once more.
“Welcome,” Father Richard says, smiling benevolently at the large, well-dressed group of family members that have come after mass to witness Nicolo’s baptism. Nonna and Mama sit up front, Mama dressed in a form-fitting black dress, and Nonna wearing her own traditional black dress and sensible shoes as well. But among those in the congregation are my sisters, my brothers, the sworn brothers of The Family and their own loved ones, as well as my cousins, aunts, and uncles. Nearly every pew in the church is occupied with someone dressed in black or gold, like an Italian mafia photo shoot for a travel guide.