Trying To Heal

Chapter Fourteen

Derek Matthews

There is not much to illuminate the Aciernos. The seventh moneyed dynasty in the world. Like the Everstons, they had their own banking system. It explains how they managed to avoid tax. And, of course, their drama with Aunt Marlene is never blinked on. I hope to see Alessandro Acierno. It would be saddening if he did not attend. People like him give me a good boost to be kind.

The Summit is hosted in an Italian, limestone-bricked, four-storey villa. The gardens are sophisticatedly sheared into expressional humanoids. Humongous, luxurious pools. A river ten metres away, encompassing the building like a protective barrier. Sumptuous cars are parked in the vast, opened garage — the iconic old cars, the newest models. The environs are blank fields, no signs of urban visible on the horizons.

So far, to Luke's astonishment, members from each nine Families have arrived. He scrutinises Fawn Siao, the Allmother of the Singaporean Family. The second Allmother to exist, after mine. Her husband, Sir Cormac Siao, died recently.

"It's because the Matthews are here."

We lug our attention to the familiar verbaliser. One is a young man, nineteen, his jaw scuffled of a coiled, thick, forming beard, and eyes dark as jets with lashes thicker than skin whisking over. He is in a matching moonless thobe and bisht. Next to him, is a woman, twenty-one. I have never seen her without a niqab, although I am fairly certain their features are identical. Her striking silk merely reveals her beguiling eyes, blemished of twinkles, alongside a camouflaging silk burqa.

The man adds to his statement, "No one wishes to avoid a good opportunity."

I break into a grin. "Usman."

Usman Prosper mirrors the nostalgic comfort and smacks my held-out palm for a handshake, roughly wrenching me into a brotherly hug and hammering my back. "It's so good to see you."

"How long has it been?"

He breaks away, whistling. "Since your Dad's funeral, man."

Eight years. We take our time reuniting. I reach Taraji Prosper, raising my hands as a greeting. Some Muslim families prefer women to have interactions like this with the opposite sex. Her eyeliner-inked eyes squint in a smile.

"They say you changed," she says in a soft, raspy voice. "It seems it is true. You have the nerve to come here."

I told her once I will never come here, despite my curiosity. But curiosity killed the cat, and here I am. "Things have changed."

"Come on," urges Usman, excited and content. "We have a lot to catch up on."

Taraji inspects the Azrael and Xavier's Seraphim closing in. "Be close to us," she orders.

We follow the Prospers inside to a space opening up to a lack of a roof in the crowded hall. Instead, it is an octave of azur, blotched with elapsed birds and whites. The chatter deteriorates. Confused expressions echo the rest of the stares to us, their eyes enlarging in amazement. Brows pikes. Groans. Glares. Gossip.

"Like I said," mumbles Usman, "no one wishes to miss an opportunity."

"It is mostly Mother's doing," states Luke. We bypass banquets of mouth-watering Italian food. He distinguishes Cyril Everston in a corner, surrounded by his Seraphim. "She had histories with these peoples. For example—" He eyes a woman. "—Alroy Quintero was the Allfather of the Quintero Family. He had feelings for Mother and tried to form a bond. It did not turn out well. You know how Mother could be. She was picky with her men. Alroy was also misogynistic, and Mother always had a fun time putting diabolical men in their place." He adds the last in German, "Alroy was not a good man. He was not good enough to live, or so Mother believed. That woman there is Salome Quintero, Alroy's wife. She is the third Allmother of the Decagon."