by Anna Ray
“Oh, that brings back memories,” I say, my thoughts drifting back to my childhood. “We used to take vacations to Sardinia, too. We never went out fishing, but I loved roasted red snapper. Will you ask Alfred to make it sometime, please?”
“I’ll do you one better. I’ll teach you how to make it yourself,” Massimo promises, and I feel my cheeks heat. “I mean, it is only fair after you teaching me how to make cake.”
My stomach flutters in a curious way that’s hard to ignore, and I’m reminded of the first time Massimo and I met and how we talked for hours at the bar. I had put it down to the fact I’d drank so much — alcohol often makes me chatty — but even now, without cocktails flowing, I find it so easy to open up to Massimo.
“Tell me more about your vacations to Sardinia. Did you ever visit Cagliari to climb from Piazza Della Costituzione to Bastione Saint Remy?”
Massimo grins, and I find his smile captivating. “We did. It was Bianca’s idea. We always did what she wanted on vacations. One year, she was obsessed with seeing all the architecture. We visited Bastione Saint Remy, Nuraghe Su Nuraxi, and Santa Cristina Nuraghe and the holy well.”
“We went to the holy well!” I say, excited by the memories mentioning the archaeological attraction evokes.
As the ciambella bakes in the oven, we continue reminiscing about our childhoods. “My father taught me to swim in the Algerian basin. How about you?” Massimo asks.
“Oh no, I had private lessons before I was even allowed anywhere near the ocean,” I say, mixing powdered sugar with lemon juice and lemon zest to make a glaze for the ciambella.
“More lemon?” Massimo asks with a raised brow.
“It’s to balance out the sweetness of the glaze,” I explain. “If we just used powdered sugar and milk or water, it would be too sickly.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He peeks through the glass door of the oven and asks, “Is it almost ready?”
I glance at the timer. “Five more minutes. Then it has to cool before we glaze it.” Massimo pouts in a way that causes me to burst out laughing. “Oh my goodness, the man who can wait around for hours to catch his own fish doesn’t even have the patience to wait five more minutes for some cake?”
“What? All that mixing made me work up an appetite.”
“You’re terrible.” I laugh and shake my head. “So, what else was your childhood like? You know, aside from swimming in the Algerian basin and catching your own red snapper for dinner every night?”
“We only did that once a year on vacation. The rest of the time it was pretty standard stuff. Father worked a lot, as you can probably understand. I imagine your father was always very busy, too?”
It feels strange to be talking of my father in this way, knowing he possibly killed Massimo’s family. But then, we both grew up with fathers in the mob; that’s an experience not every person shares. Father tried to encourage me to befriend the “Mafia Princesses,” but I found many of them superficial and shallow. I say as much to Massimo.
He snorts in response. “I imagine you had the conversation about arranged marriages, too?”
I roll my eyes. “We’re still having that conversation. My parents want me to settle down with a nice man from a proper family.”
“Do you want to get married?” Massimo asks.
“Someday, yeah. But I’m only twenty-one. I haven’t even finished my degree yet, so marriage is the last thing on my mind.”
“I’m twenty-nine, and marriage is the last thing on my mind, too. For the last ten years, my focus has been work.”
“That must be tough,” I say, sympathizing. It feels like for the past seven years my focus has been on school, my grades, and making sure I was always top of my class.
“It is, but it’s all I’ve ever known. My whole life, they were preparing me for this.”
“Doesn’t it frustrate you feeling like your life is already planned out for you and you don’t have a choice?”
Massimo heaves out a breath. “You know, you’re the first person to ask me that. Everyone is always so focused on how lucky I am. I grew up in luxury, wanting for nothing.”
“Money doesn’t buy happiness,” I say as the oven timer goes off and puts a stop to the conversation. As we wait for the ciambella to cool, Massimo doesn’t push me to explain what I meant about money not buying happiness, and I know I’ve touched a nerve. If the amount my father makes is anything to go by, Massimo likely has millions, maybe even billions, stored away in the bank or in assets. But no amount of money will bring his family back.
I feel a twinge in my heart knowing the man who raised me, the man I looked up to and love so much, took Massimo’s family from him. It’s hard to reconcile the two versions of Stefano Giuliani — the loving father versus the murderer of an innocent fourteen-year-old girl — in my mind. I want Massimo to get justice for his family, but I don’t want my father to die because of it.
Feeling like there isn’t a happy way out of this situation makes me lose my appetite for ciambella, and once it’s glazed, I no longer want any.
Massimo cuts himself a slice and then offers me some, but I shake my head. “What’s wrong? We just spent an hour making this cake and you’re not even going to try a bite?”
“I’m not feeling very well,” I say, which isn’t a lie. Suddenly, my stomach is tight and my head hurts. “I’m going to lie down for a bit. Hopefully, I’ll feel better by dinnertime.”
Before Massimo can say anything else, I leave the kitchen and head up to my room. I flop down on my bed, my head a jumble of confusion. Along with trying to reconcile the two versions of my father, there’s the strangeness of being around Massimo.
He’s keeping me prisoner here, intending to use me as leverage against my father, and yet, there we were, baking together and talking about our childhoods like we’re friends.
My mind flashes back to the night we met and the feel of our bodies pressed together as we danced. When I woke up the following morning and realized I was at Massimo’s home, I was glad. I actually started thinking maybe we could spend some time together and get to know each other better.
It’s ironic that’s exactly what we’re doing now.
I long to speak to Taylor so she can tell me I’m crazy for feeling this connection to a man who is holding me in his home against my will, but without my best friend to talk sense into me, I can’t help but view the situation in a positive light. It’s not like Massimo is some monster keeping me chained in the basement. He’s the perfect gentleman. Hell, after today, I’d even go as far as saying I enjoy spending time with him.
I grab the pillow off my bed, cover my face with it, and scream into the void.
Isn’t it just my luck that I meet a hot guy who I have similar childhood experiences as, and I can’t even entertain the idea of being with him because my father killed his family. And now he’s keeping me prisoner?
9
Massimo
For a couple of days after teaching me to bake, Alessandra is quiet and withdrawn. I ask Alfred to cook her favorite foods and try to tempt her out of her room by asking her to teach me to bake something different, but when those things fail, I know I have to up my game.
I’m not sure if it’s the boredom or the fact her father still hasn’t called me back that’s getting to Alessandra, but given I can only control one of those things, I decide to go out and get some things for her to entertain herself with.
A couple of hours later, I return to the house with a gaming console and a variety of games and a selection of books in different genres. Surely something among my purchases will convince Alessandra to come out of her room.
I knock on her door and when I receive no answer, I tentatively push it open. She isn’t asleep, but instead, staring blankly up at the ceiling.
“I brought some things for you,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. She doesn’t even look my way, so I elaborate. “About a hundred books, the latest gaming system, and a load of games. Come on
, they won’t play themselves.”
I’m greeted by nothing but silence, and not wanting to waste my breath any further, I slip out of the room, close the door, and head downstairs.
In the lounge, I decide to set up the gaming system just in case Alessandra does come down and wants to play something. Then, I find myself getting sucked in by the variety of games. It’s been too long since I took time off work.
I lose myself in an online shooter and don’t even notice she has entered the room until she says, “Don’t you have work or something? For a hotshot mob guy, you’re always here with me. Doesn’t your boss care?”
I quit the online match to give her my full attention. “My second, Donte, is handling things while I keep an eye on you,” I say. “Besides, didn’t I tell you the other day, it’s been ten years since I had any proper time off? Think of all the games I’ve missed.”
She laughs and sits down beside me. “Come on then, hotshot, show me what you’ve got.”
She picks up the controls to the game with surprising ease, and I’m slightly frustrated when she’s whipping my ass. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
“When you go to enough college parties, you pick up a thing or two.”
“Yeah, I suppose you do.”
She snorts. “When I was younger, I wanted to work with my father. I idolized him and thought he was so rich and powerful. I love my mother, too, of course, but her life always seemed kind of… I don’t know… boring. Yeah, she went to these lavish lunches and out on shopping sprees with other women, but a lot of the time, she was in the house alone. I never wanted that. I wanted to be out in the thick of it, like my father.”
“What changed?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Well, nothing really. The only thing that’s changed is what I want to do with my life. Once I became aware my father was involved with the mob, I wasn’t so eager to follow in his footsteps,” she started. “The criminal life, especially the dark side of it, never appealed to me. It was the business side I was drawn to. I like the idea of money and power, just through legitimate means. I worked my ass off in high school, knowing we could easily afford for me to go to whatever college I wanted. Convincing my father to let me go was a little tougher, but eventually, I talked him round. How about you? Did you ever want to do something different?
I laugh at the ridiculousness of the question. For me, there is no doing anything different and because of that, I’ve never even allowed myself to think what I might do instead. “Not really. From an early age my father and Carlo made it clear I was to take after them.”
She frowns. “Wasn’t that a lot of pressure? Knowing you had no choice in what you did for the rest of your life? And knowing you’d be forced into a career where you’d have to kill people and could end up in prison?”
I shrug. “I didn’t know any difference. That’s just the way it was. It’s all I ever knew…”
“How about your grandparents? Were they involved in the mob, too?”
“I didn’t know my grandparents. My father emigrated from Africo, Italy to America when he was sixteen. There were hardly any opportunities in Africo, and unemployment was high. He got a job on a ship and never looked back. Unfortunately, America wasn’t any more profitable for him, either.”
“So how did he end up working with DeLuca?” Alessandra asks, our video game now forgotten as we once more discuss our lives.
“Through my mother. They met and fell wildly in love. She was from a rich Italian-American family who didn’t approve of their daughter dating someone of a lower class, so they made her choose — them or my father. She picked my father.”
“That’s kind of romantic,” Alessandra says, and I glance over to see a dreamy look in her eyes.
“Romance doesn’t pay the bills,” I say, snapping the conversation back to reality.
“So how did they afford anything?”
“My mother and Teresa DeLuca were childhood friends. They were inseparable, almost like twins, so of course, when my grandparents disowned my mother, Teresa offered to help. She was already married to Carlo by then, and well, the only type of work he had to offer was mob work. So that’s what my father did. By the time I was born he was in the thick of it, and as the DeLucas couldn’t have children of their own, I became the heir.”
Alessandra lets out a low whistle. “Whoa, that’s a lot. Doesn’t it drive you crazy sometimes?”
I shrug. “What else can I do? All I know is the mob.”
“Sure, okay, but that must come with its own skill set, right? I mean, it isn’t all shootouts and stuff. From what I’ve seen of my father, a lot of it is boring work. Business meetings, schmoozing with people... making connections.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That’s exactly what it’s like. It’s far less glamorous than the movies make out.”
“Isn’t everything?” Alessandra says with a smirk. “But business meetings, schmoozing with people, and making connections are staples of a legitimate business, too. Surely with the money and experience you have, you could get out and go clean?”
It’s not something I’ve ever considered before. It’s not something I’ve had to consider. But Alessandra’s question makes me think, and as I do, an answer immediately becomes clear. “Carlo wouldn’t allow it. I’m his heir. Without me, he has no one to give the business to. And you know how important family and heirs are in the mob.”
Alessandra huffs. “Oh yes. I’ve always been aware of this shadow hanging over me. I’m female, and by mob tradition, I can’t be my father’s heir. Not that I even want to be. But I know he’s disappointed he didn’t have a son.”
That comment makes me wonder if that’s why Giuliani hasn’t agreed to my demands yet. But surely a father — even one who's a cold-blooded killer — wouldn’t abandon their daughter to a rival, right? No, there has to be something I’m missing, some other reason Giuliani hasn’t called me back yet.
She picks up the game controller and challenges me to another match, and that seems to put an end to our conversation. But I’m too distracted, and she beats me easier than before.
I can’t help but wonder what my life would be like if I did have a choice. I love the money and power, but she is right: if I could give up the killing, violence, and the possibility that one day, this might all come crashing down around me and I’ll end up in jail, I would. It’s tiring, constantly looking over your shoulder and questioning who you can and can’t trust.
That’s another reason I haven’t dated much. What I said to Alessandra about being focused on work is true, but I also find it difficult to connect with women. I’m suspicious of those connected to the mob, in case they’re using me to get some advantage or as a power play. And dating anyone not connected to the mob just causes too many awkward questions when things get serious, so I keep to casual, non-committed relationships.
But it’s not what I really want. Even if there wasn’t pressure from the DeLucas for me to marry and have kids someday, I know I want to settle down and have a family. To have the type of childhood I had, full of love and laughter, is the dream.
I glance at Alessandra, who is focusing so much on the game that she’s biting her bottom lip and has shoved her long, curly hair behind her ears. She’s easily the most attractive woman I’ve ever been involved with, and the fact we both grew up in mob families makes things easier.
It’s just a shame her father killed your family, I remind myself, pushing the thought of Alessandra being more than just leverage out of my mind.
Still, it’s been a long time since I was last with a woman, and seeing Alessandra’s shapely, tanned legs in her little sleep shorts isn’t helping with matters.
I place down the controller and say, “I best call Donte and check in with how business is going.”
She is so focused on the game that she doesn’t even look up, and I’m secretly glad I don’t have to meet her gaze.
10
Alessandra
Massimo wen
t into work today, but since he brought the gaming system, games, and books, things here haven’t been so bad. Honestly, the break from working on my degree is welcome, and it’s nice to be in a house by myself without my parents constantly checking up on me. Still, I miss them, and Taylor, too.
When Massimo returns home in the early evening he looks to be in high spirits, and a smile covers his face as he enters the living room.
Why is he smiling like that? Is there someone at work who's been putting him in a good mood? I wonder with a pang of jealousy.
“What are you looking so happy about?” I ask, trying to make sure my tone doesn’t sound accusatory.
“I have a surprise for you in the kitchen,” he says, his blue-green eyes sparkling.
“Oh?” I rise from the couch, my interest piqued, and follow him through to the kitchen where a package, wrapped in brown paper, sits on the countertop.
“Go on, open it,” he prompts.
I tear into the brown paper, already half-expecting what’s in there, and laugh as I reveal two red snappers. “You remembered?” I say, genuinely touched he hasn’t forgotten his promise to teach me how to prepare and cook the fish.
“Of course, I remembered. And I’ve given Alfred and Peggy the night off so we can cook. I also brought extra lemons so I can make ciambella for dessert.”
“You’re going to bake?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
“Sure. I think I remember all you taught me, and you’ll be here if something goes wrong.”
“Okay, let’s get to it,” I say, tying my hair back and rolling my sleeves up.
Massimo shows me how to remove the fillet of red snapper from the skin using a long, thin fish knife; once both are skinned, he also instructs me how to debone the fish. With the right tools, it’s a surprisingly easy process.
“Okay, next you want to get a baking tray and some aluminium foil,” he tells me.
Following Massimo’s directions, I lay the foil on the baking tray and cover it in butter. I place the fish in the center of the foil; then I season the cavity with garlic, lemon juice, and seafood seasoning.