Dynasty: A Mafia Collection

by Jen Davis

  “I’ll catch you at school Monday.”

  “Yeah.” Scoffing, I go to hit the END button. I hear some talking in the background that sounds a heck of a lot like, “I feel bad for her.” I click END and shove the phone in my pocket.

  There’s a tap on my shoulder. I freeze, then breath out into a smile. Without turning I say, “Francesca.”

  She walks in front of me and hugs me. “You remembered, bella?” Her voice is thick with an Italian accent, as most people in our family have.

  “Of course I remember,” I whisper into her hair, embracing her.

  We had drifted apart after she left for Italy but every time we meet again, it’s as if no time has passed. Every year though, I’m scared she’s changed, grown, and forgotten about me.

  This year is her senior year, just like me. And for her, it was better and easier because she doesn’t have so many targets on her back. Everyone is pretty well off in our family, but the only billionaires are Mom and Dad.

  Finally, we break apart from our embrace and slide down the floor, facing each other, sitting crisscross, like we did when we were kids.

  Fran is tall with reddish brown hair that she cuts very short. It is similar to Mell’s style. Her face is strangely enticing, with huge brown eyes and plump lips.

  I stand at kid height, five foot three. Probably why the whole world looks gigantic.

  I’ve always been a small child, which is probably why everyone in my family feels okay calling me a kitten. They treat me like I am breakable.

  Although Fran had told me when were small, “It has more to do with your Dad. He’s the…” She looked away. I hadn’t questioned it because my seven-year-old mind had been distracted by the cookie dough Nana had put in front of us.

  But I knew there was something off about that.

  “How’s high school?” I ask.

  At the same time, she asks, “How are you dealing with all of this?”

  I sigh, peeking out and looking at all the adults in the living room. “Honestly, I can’t think right now. Like what’s happening?” I turn back to Fran. “Why are they making such a big deal of a divorce?”

  Fran looks at me for a second before she says, “It’s not a divorce.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s…” She looks at her mom in the living room. Fran’s dad died in combat years ago and she lived with only her mom. And she was really strict.

  Fran finally turns away, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter. You’ll find out soon enough, maybe even today…I mean you have to. How long can they keep it hidden from you?”

  Chapter 36

  Caterina

  I growl. Why is everyone speaking in code to me?

  Why am I not being told anything? I glare at her. “Why are you hiding things from me, Fran? And I thought we were closer than that.”

  Her face falls. “We are, amore. But I can’t. I…There are things that you’re better off not knowing. Especially you.”

  I snarl, my face contorting. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her face turns soft and she puts a hand over mine. “You have a beautiful heart and a kind soul. You are soft.”

  I realize somewhere in the back of my mind that that is supposed to be a compliment but nothing about that feels like a compliment to me. I scowl. “I’m soft? I know how to kill someone in like ten ways and I can handle a gun like a pro.”

  She shakes her head as if I’m not getting it. “That is not it, Kit. Just because you know how to kill doesn’t mean you will. And there are many reasons why someone would kill, and not everyone does it because they’re too rich for their own good…just take it from the girl who lived in a ghetto in Italy for two years.”

  My eyes widen. “You lived in a ghetto? When?” How could Mom and Dad allow that?

  Fran’s eyes glaze. “In this family, betrayal is taken as the biggest offense. And my father…he…”

  “Your father died in combat, I thought?”

  Her face darkens. “He—”

  “Francesca!” Fran’s mom comes toward us, her hawk eyes watching me and Fran on the floor, disapprovingly. “Perché stai seduto sul pavimento, ragazza?” She scolds her in Italian. She has just asked why Fran is acting like a child. Fran quickly rises from the floor, unfolding her long legs.

  She offers me a hand and I hop up. I give a smile to Catherine. “Hi, Auntie!”

  She looks me up and down and nods. “You are very grown, Caterina. Is that why you cannot offer your zia a kiss anymore?”

  I blush and come forward. “I’m sorry.” I kiss her on the cheek. I quickly withdraw when she stays very still. She turns to Fran and nods to her. She turns around and starts walking and Fran follows beside her. I follow behind like a third wheel.

  Why is my aunt being so cold toward me?

  Fran doesn’t look back at me as we file into the living room. I can see Mom welcoming everyone. She yells out in Italian, “Dinner will start in fifteen minutes!” She ushers people into the living room. I can see more than ten of the maids setting up the long table with utensils. Usually, Nana and Mom and my aunts do it, but today there are too many guests.

  People start trickling in, talking amongst themselves. Aunt Chloe is helping the little ones settle into the kids’ table. And Uncle Ken seems to be trying to…help her but is looking lost in what to do.

  I smile. Aunt Chloe is like that. She would ask us for help but when we tried to she would insist that she do it herself because we “wouldn’t get it perfect” like she would. But usually, her and Uncle Ken work well together. He knows what she needs, and she knows what he needs. They fit perfectly. The giant and his short, but energy filled, queen.

  But today she is shouldering him away harshly. Finally, he growls and walks away from her. He looks angry, which isn’t rare with him, but never with her. And usually, he never shows his anger publicly. He is normally silent and it just shows in his eyes. But now, it’s as if he can’t be bothered.

  I sit myself down near Fran, trying to catch her eyes. We are in the far back of the table. She leans in when her mom looks away and says, “You cannot sit.”

  “Uh…yes I can.”

  “No, you cannot sit here. I mean—”

  “Why not?”

  “It is…never mind.” She plays nervously with her bracelet again.

  This is not the Fran that I remember. Now she is like everyone else. Walking on eggshells around me. Anger folds itself into my body like a winter wind. I have no one here but her. And now she is gone too. I fold my hands in my lap and move slightly to let the maids put the food on the table. It smells delicious and I feel guilty that my mouth waters.

  Mom roams around making sure everyone has a seat and that food is being put in the correct place. She ruffles my hair as she passes by.

  “Is everyone comfortable…how are you, Cathy…and you, Vic…do you need…”

  Yup. That’s my mom. Tending and catering to everyone’s needs except her own.

  Except it isn’t really ever a problem because Dad takes care of her.

  Finally, after several minutes, everything is done and there is nothing more Mom can do. I watch as she moves quickly around the room. She hasn’t sat down yet. She is the only one. Even the maids have disappeared somewhere.

  I realize that two people are missing and that is probably why the dinner hasn’t started.

  Dad and Uncle Smoke.

  Actually, three: Aunt Raven.

  I look at Fran for reassurance for what’s about to happen. She squeezes my hand under the table. No one is making a move toward their food or toward praying. Even the children have gone absolutely still. My eyes flicker to the dining room entrance. We are waiting for the two men to arrive. After about ten minutes I am getting restless.

  I get up and go to Mom, like I always do when I’m bored or just need to be near her. Even if I don’t have anything concrete to tell her, just being around her calms me. And she usually knows what’s aggravating me be
fore I even say anything.

  Mom superpowers.

  I whisper in her ear, “What’s taking so long?”

  She smiles at me, but there is a nervous flutter in it. She kisses me on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it, baby.”

  “I’m not worried, I’m hungry.”

  You’re always hungry.

  Shut it. I’m trying to feed you.

  She chuckles. “Go get something from the kitchen.”

  I narrow my eyes at her and sigh. “Okay, fine, I’m worried. But why shouldn’t I be? Something’s wrong isn’t it?”

  She gives me a hopeless look. She won’t tell me. She tucks her blonde wavy hair behind her ear and her other hand trails to her stomach.

  Instantly guilt washes over me.

  Mom has the uncanny ability to do that without even knowing.

  “I’m sorry, Kitty—”

  I interrupt her, wrapping an arm around her waist and resting my head for a moment on her chest. She has comfortable boobs.

  That’s what Dad says, at least.

  “Never mind. I’m fine. Just take care of yourself, okay?”

  She smiles down at me. “Don’t worry about me, baby.” Her blue eyes are shining.

  It sinks into me that I never tell her that enough. She is an incredible mom but I’ve never appreciated her enough.

  Before I can say anything more, the whole table goes into complete silence. And just like that, I know the missing men have arrived.

  ***

  Giving Mom one last look, I hurry to my seat next to Fran. But as soon as I sit down, everyone rises.

  I follow quickly, nearly tripping.

  How does one trip getting up you ask?

  Well, my name is Caterina, the girl who tripped up the stairs. Yes, up. So…anything is possible ladies and gents. Anything.

  Dad walks to the head of the table and Uncle Smoke follows, standing near him. They’re both dressed impeccably in black three-piece suits. This isn’t unusual for them at work, but at dinner, they usually wear white button downs or regular t-shirts.

  Uncle Ken stands on the other side of Dad. Across from him is his wife.

  Across from Uncle Smoke the chair is empty.

  I can see his eyes looking longingly at the seat reserved for her. As if staring at it long and hard will make his wife re-appear.

  I look around and see everyone’s head bowed.

  I understand being respectful but I never really realized until now how abnormal this is. I grew up with this, but it sinks in now that most families do not have a designated man of the house.

  My family is different. More than different, really strange.

  Or unique, as they call it.

  Unique is a perfect way to say, “that’s weird but I’m not going to say that’s weird because that would be rude…”

  Dad turns and just like that, his hardened face softens as he takes in the sight of Mom. Standing at the edge, alone. He takes her by the elbow and gently leads her to a chair next to him. I smile. She’s not across the table or below him. She’s right beside him. At the head.

  He once told us, while she was blushing and hitting him to stop: “She is my queen. An angel given to me to redeem my soul. And as my queen, she is my equal. Never anything less.”

  He whispers something into her ear now. She blushes from head to toe and glares at him. I can see the faint smirk on his face, only seen when you knew all his features.

  He slowly sits her on the chair. She shakes her head and I see her mouth, “I’m fine, I’m not tired.”

  He growls. “You should not have been standing this much. Sit. Now.” His fingers grip her shoulders firmly and he forces her down. She looks up at him and something in her face makes his own brighten up and change.

  Then he straightens up and grips the back of her seat, looking at all of us, his family.

  Dad’s eyes suddenly catch mine. His voice is low but carries. “Caterina, you sit at the front. Not at the back.”

  Oh. This is what Fran meant.

  But instead of moving quickly like I know I should, and like everyone is expecting, I defy his gaze. I intertwine my hands behind my back and softly ask, “Why? I’m still sitting among my family, right?”

  Did you just sign your death sentence or…

  Like, don’t even look at Mom right now because she’s about to slap the disrespect out of you!

  There are small sharp inhales around the table. I feel Fran pinch my arm hard. I know it’s to tell me to move.

  But my body won’t. Why am I made to sit at the table while Fran has to stay at the back? She isn’t lesser than me. I glance at Mom, kind of terrified.

  I catch mixed emotions on her face. On one hand, I know she wants me to move. But on the other hand…there is some pride in there. She’d always taught me that I wasn’t better than anyone because of the money my family had.

  Duh. Of course I’m not.

  I have a feeling everyone is waiting for Dad’s anger. But he doesn’t get angry. It isn’t a surprise. He rarely gets mad at me. Maybe disappointed, but never angry.

  You’re spoiled, Cat.

  He smiles slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Caterina…”

  I cock an eyebrow back, imitating him. “Dad…”

  He takes a breath. “Can you please do what you are told to do for once?”

  Okay to be fair to him, I never do what I’m told. To be fair to me, I don’t do it to be a brat.

  “Not when I don’t know the reason why.”

  Mom starts to speak. I don’t know if it’s to reprimand me or to reprimand Dad, but he puts a hand on her shoulder and she stops.

  But her eyes…they tell me I’d better move my arse…

  But my brain says no.

  Maybe this is me being petulant and childlike. Maybe the more traditional members don’t like it. But Mom always taught me I was neither above or lower than anyone and I was going to stick by those principles.

  To move would be to concede. It would be to say: Yes, I’m better, richer. Yes, Fran, I live in a mansion while you lived in a ghetto, so what?

  Dad’s eyes warm like they only do when we have an inside joke. I bite in a slight smile. I know he’s amused, and maybe even a little proud of me, but he won’t show it in front of these people. He always said I got my defiance from Mom and my stubbornness from him.

  “Do you want us to eat dinner, my daughter?” He looks down at the dishes. “They look very good.” He looks up at me. “Mouthwatering.”

  I narrow my eyes and ground myself. “I do, Father. So are you going to allow us to sit, pray, and eat?”

  Suddenly one of the men across the table speaks, harshly and lowly. “Girl, listen to your father. Stubbornness does not become you.” His voice is stern, on the edge of demeaning. He says something in Italian, scowling.

  I clench my fists by my sides and bite my tongue to keep myself from saying anything. My parents have always taught me to respect my elders. I’m not going to talk back. I think that Dad will agree and scold me. But instead, he does something I do not expect.

  His eyes flash angrily. He speaks in low rapid Italian, the dialect so rough that I can’t translate it much more than, “…my daughter…watch yourself…”

  The man quickly lowers his head.

  Dad’s eyes turn toward me, as patient as ever. I’ve never realized how different he is with me than with other people. Everyone used to tell me he was a volatile and impatient man before I was born. I have never experienced that so I never really believed them.

  Finally, I decide to compromise, not wanting to be the reason why people aren’t eating. “Okay, Dad. Can I bring Fran with me, though?”

  There’s a slight smile on his face. He straightens his cuffs and nods. “That is permissible.”

  I beam at him and nod eagerly. His face softens.

  I turn to Fran and pull her along with me as I make my way to the head of the table. He’s smiling down at me and in a way that makes me feel really preciou
s and happy. There are affection and feelings that can only come from a father you know would do the world for you. Most rich kids, I know, feel deserted by their parents because they’re too busy earning money.

  Never my parents. I have never once felt that in my life. Not with them. Mom had to force Dad to take time off every couple of weekends because he was a workaholic, but he always, always, has time for me.

  I don’t know how, especially considering he runs a global corporation, but he’s been at every milestone of my life. From when I first started walking—I was a late bloomer—to when my first tooth fell—in which, even though he was the most logical and strict man, helped my mom sneak money, exactly one dollar as forced by Mom, under my pillow. He took me to the park, theaters, plays, musicals, and to Italy once when he had to leave on business for two months.

  But the reason why I trust and depend on my dad so much is that he’s been Mom’s rock since I could remember. It was hard to be a husband to a wife who had depression that relapsed.

  It was the opposite for my parents.

  It seemed like every time the period occurred, he loved her even harder. Loved her more to make her stay. And when it was apparent she was gone, he held her longer and kissed her more gently and softly and passionately and gave her exactly what she needed to rise again. I’ve never seen anyone have a love for another human being as deep as my dad has when he looks at my mom.

  He is her rock. He knows her inside and out; every part of her.

  And during those periods, he took care of me, filled in her position and his. He rarely left me alone, even with Nana. He woke me up in the morning with some Italian song being blasted, he made breakfast and made me laugh until I couldn’t breathe.

  I love him to bits and pieces. He is the only man I know for sure I will love.

  I love Dad like any little girl would love her father. He protects me and treats me like a princess. And yeah, maybe that makes me spoiled, but Mom has always been there to make sure that I don’t turn into a brat.

  “Fathers are supposed to be the disciplinarians of the house,” my arse.

  Whoever said that needs to come to my house.