The Crimes of Love and Hate

Prologue

SERAFINA ROMANO had a birthright. To a plethora of people, the understanding of such a birthright was skewed. To the Romano 'clan', or mafiosi, the brunette was to be a bridge between worlds, and the stitches to mend a deep wound. To the average customer of a New York classic restaurant, Romano's, Serafina was a fiery teenager with a shadowed bloodline, who seemed to bask in causing scenes at her family's elegant Italian establishment. But Serafina was not one to allow her family to define her. Unfortunately, the ocean of the mafia was not only vast, but the ship was sinking, and the storm never cleared.

Serafina's father, or her padre, was a busy man. After the death of his wife, the Romano clan leader and his three children were left to take care of themselves and each other. The leader of a New York Mafia clan, or mafioso, is almost like the head chef of the city; a fitting metaphor for a restaurant owner like Raphael Romano. He barks orders, but the majority of 'cooking', or dirty work, is done by his subordinates. With a head chef like Raphael Romano, his son Matteo would be the most dutiful sous chef to ever step into New York. Every command, wish, or whim that twisted itself from his father's widowed mouth was carried out meticulously. As if anyone would mess with the formidable Romano clan. Serafina found her older brother a dreadful example of why she was so different from her family. Matteo was responsible and respectful, with eyes that were powerful, yet painfully dull. Although he was only eighteen, three years her senior, he had an air of power that could only have been inherited from his father. Her uncles, who were often not even related to her, had postures so stiff that dictionaries could be balanced on their immaculately cut, thinning hair. Even her youngest brother, Giovanni, was a drag. Although he was a year younger than her, the boy scolded Serafina for skipping chores or sewing lessons. He scoffed at her elaborate pranks on the kitchen staff, claiming they reeked of immaturity. Serafina's only response, though, was to tell him to drown himself in the bathtub.

Serafina's father simply wished for her to be a proper young woman. Poised, polite, mature, but most of all, appealing to the rival clan. She was to marry a man five years her senior, whom she had never met, as a marriage between two opposing members could end the feud that plagued the Romano clan. It soon became Serafina's life goal to prevent herself from being forcefully married to the son of another Mafia boss. The worst thing Serafina could imagine, though, would be the mindless obedience that Matteo possessed.

But the day-to-day life of Serafina Romano seems more tortuous than the prospect of her inevitable marriage. The Romano family lived in a beautiful mansion, just beyond New York City. Gorgeous paintings and pristine landscaping hid dozens of servant girls scurrying through each hidden corridor. But hidden away in a tight little room, Serafina and her oldest maid were confined to their needlework and misery.

POPPY RYAN had no birthright. Not to her dead parents. Not to her poor, innocent brother, Seamus. Not to her future. And certainly not to her survival.

As far as she was concerned, her odds weren't good. After her parents died in a house fire, Seamus and her became poor orphans. From poor, sad, Irish immigrants to poor, unlucky, miserable orphans, Poppy was the gum on the bottom of the rich man's shoe. They slept in alleys and begged for scraps. What choice were they given? People pitied them, but not enough to actually help them. For around two months after the fire, people at least pretended to care. But the insincere whispers of pity from wealthier neighbors were not currency on the New York streets. The only thing that would ever mean anything to their survival was the jangle of coins and the feeling of cold metal in her satchel.

The alley where they slept was constantly damp and moldy, and the skittering of rats was the only thing that stirred the heaviness of the New York night. Poppy never felt at home there. After all, the coppers would find them soon, and they would be on the move again.

At sixteen and fourteen, and with heavy Irish accents, they were not taken very seriously by anyone. It didn't help that Seamus was missing two of his fingers on his left hand, and was unable to do most types of manual labor. All Seamus could do was sing. Poppy knew Seamus was good, and he seemed happiest as he sang. But singing for passersby didn't provide enough to sustain them, and Poppy's odd jobs and begging weren't enough either. Something had to change for the Ryan's to survive.