. . .
Dante Valentino
"She's a bastard," Giovanni said in Italian. "This whole country is dangerous for her." He took a sip of my scotch. "What was the reaction to your unnecessary announcement?" He asked.
"No reaction, as expected," I said, pouring myself a drink. "Pietro's son is useless. We can't let him become the underboss."
"I can't think of anyone else for the position," he said.
Neither could I. Till we could think of anyone else, Pietro's son would hold the position. The boy was eighteen - too young for this. His mademen would chew him alive.
Giovanni left soon.
My house was silent. I didn't have clocks. I liked the quiet.
I set the empty glass on the glass counter and made a call.
"Boss."
"Pietro's bastard daughter," I said. "Keep an eye."
"Yes, boss."
I hung up. The thought of her dying unsettled me a bit. She had just entered Italy.
I just wanted to make sure she'd like her visit.
. . .
Lily Jenkins
"I will sell it," I said.
The whole family looked at me like I was insane. And perhaps I was. But I had no intention of staying in Italy, and the mansion was probably worth millions.
I looked around the living room. The man who had read the will slowly slid out of the room. There was not one thing I liked about this mansion. The too-bright colors hit the eyes like a knife. Everything in here also belonged to me - all of which could be sold for a lot of money.
"You can't sell it." Pietro's son, Aldo, said. He, in no way, looked like an eighteen-year-old. He had the same dark hair as our father, the same dark color of his eyes, and the same ability to piss me off with a look.
"I can. It's mine. Even you guys honour wills." I sat back in my cushioned seat. "No?"
"You know nothing of honour," Viola hissed. It seemed to be the only thing she could do. My arm still hurt because of her grip earlier today.
"I would like you to leave my house," I said as I stood.
. . .
I knew for a fact that I could die when I came here. My mothers had begged and said that there had to be another way. But I didn't have a choice.
The master bedroom was nothing but a luxurious bed, bland walls, and too-expensive modern furniture. Pietro never stayed here. He stayed in some other house he owned - that was where he had died.
This was his ancestral house.
I couldn't find it in myself to care.
I took a hold of my phone, calling Henry.
"How did it go?" He asked as soon as picked up.
I stared into the darkness while I answered. "He left the mansion for me."
"That...doesn't make any sense."
"Maybe he felt guilty."
"He was an underboss, Lily. Guilt is not an underbosses' strong suit."
I hummed, closing my eyes. "I'll go somewhere after selling this house."
"You think it's a good idea?"
"I'm not giving this to those snakes."
"Selling it won't settle well with them. Stop trying to destroy yourself."
I hung up.
. . .
With the mansion came a batch of staff. The maids were quiet. It didn't take long to realize their tongues were cut out.
Was I surprised? No. This was the kind of brutality I had expected from my father - the man of my mother's constant nightmares.
I spent the day in the mansion, moving things around and trying to find something to keep myself busy with. All the sensitive information from my father's office seemed to have been removed.
Marchetti family must have somehow removed everything.
And it wasn't like I could do much. The police were under the bosses' thumb. It would take a lot more to destroy the mafia.
I didn't have any intention to do that - because that would have been suicide. I was self-destructive. But not suicidal. At least, not anymore.
I found myself sitting in a gazebo which was in the middle of an artificial pond. The weather in Sicily seemed to have chilled overnight. The dark sky cracked constantly with threads of white, leaving an echo I had found soothing since I was a child.
I looked down at my laptop. The last time I had been able to write a thing and be happy about it was...years ago. Being a writer, I was wired to hate myself till I didn't write something that I liked.
I thought the death of my father would provide me the remedy, but he was deep in some fancy graveyard, and my words refused to arrange themselves on my blank screen.
I felt the weight of his gaze almost instantly.
The sky held its breath and when my eyes fell on him, standing a few feet away from me...
The sky screamed.
. . .
(3/6)
