“I’m sorry, vespetta. I have to take this,” Rafael says as he gently lowers me to the ground, then snatches the phone from the offering hand and starts yelling at the caller.
During his menacing tirade—I can tell by the tone of his voice—that lasts for at least two minutes, Rafael keeps his free arm wrapped around my waist, basically crushing me to his front. I put my palms on his chest, feeling the vibrations deep within him, while trying to gather my senses.
Rafael De Santi kissed me.
And I kissed him back.
My God, I’ve lost my fucking mind.
With one last bark, Rafael throws the phone onto the table, and his hand slides to the small of my back. Giving the waiter another glaring look, he quickly ushers me toward the exit.
I don’t say a word as Rafael helps me inside the car, completely shaken by that kiss. By my reaction to it, really. I’m both excited and appalled. My heart still hasn’t stopped its mile-a-minute race by the time he gets behind the wheel.
“So . . . trouble in hitmen paradise?” I ask as casually as I can muster. Maybe we can pretend that earth-shattering kiss never happened.
Rafael cocks an eyebrow at me, then starts the car. “No. It’s something . . . let’s say it’s personal.”
“Will that personal matter require a Remington, as well?”
“Maybe. Calogero Fazzini’s men rarely learn their lesson without it.”
My eyes snap to him. “The don of Sicilian Mafia?”
“Yes.” He nods. “And also, my godfather.”
I blink in confusion. “But you said you’re not a member of Cosa Nostra.”
“I was never initiated into the Family. When I was fourteen, I fled to the States with Guido.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother broke the omertà.”
I suck in a breath. Omertà is Cosa Nostra’s code of silence. The basic principle is that one must keep their lips sealed, especially when dealing with legal authorities or outsiders. It’s an extreme form of loyalty—a code of honor and conduct—that places importance on solidarity against government involvement, even if upholding its tenets includes one’s mortal enemy or a personal vendetta. Within the Mafia, breaking the omertà is punishable by death.
“Cosa Nostra killed your mother?”
“The previous don, Mancuso, did it himself.”
A shudder runs down my spine. “Why did you come back to Sicily?”
“So I could kill Mancuso.” A small smirk pulls at his lips. “My godfather took over the Family less than forty-eight hours after I slit Mancuso’s throat. We struck a deal then, Calogero and I. He rules the west coast, and I control the east. But it seems he’s trying to break that agreement now.” Rafael stops at a red light and turns to face me. “And I always make sure people fulfill their promises to me, Vasilisa. Do keep that in mind.”
I nod and shift my gaze to the ribbon of road in front of us. The temperature in the car seems to have dropped, or maybe it’s just the feeling of dread brought on by Rafael’s warning. I wrap his jacket tighter around myself and spend the rest of the journey staring at the dark landscape visible beyond the windshield.
Chapter 11
25 years ago (Rafael, age 14)
Taormina, Sicily
“The body of a man that washed up near Palermo has been identified . . .”
I put the dinner leftovers into the fridge and glance into the living room. My brother is perched in the middle of the sofa, eyes glued on the TV screen and the anchor who is relaying the news. “Turn that off, Guido.”
“They found a dead man!” my brother exclaims with wide eyes.
“Now!” I bark. “Go brush your teeth, then straight to bed.”
“No. I wanna see. Mamma, please.”
Our mother looks up from the dishes she’s been washing and points her sudsy finger at Guido. “Listen to your brother. Upstairs. Quickly.”
My baby brother mumbles a pretty nasty curse word and, throwing the remote on the sofa, dashes across the room.
“Watch your mouth.” I lightly slap the back of his head as he passes me by. “Next time, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”
“You say it all the time!” he throws over his shoulder, then runs down the hallway to our bedroom.
Our house is becoming too small for the three of us. Mom really wants Guido to have his own space, a proper bed—not the pull-put sleeper chair he currently uses. She also figures I deserve some privacy and tried giving up her own room to me. Right. Like I’d ever let my mom sleep on the living room couch. We just have to hang on for a bit longer, and then we might be able to move. Once I’m sixteen, I can finally be initiated into Cosa Nostra. For now, the small jobs they have me do from time to time bring in a little to help pay our bills, but when I’m an official member, that’s when the serious money will start to roll in.
I shake my head and reach for the remote when a crash sounds behind me. Spinning around, my attention lands on my mother. She’s standing utterly frozen in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wide and brows pulled up into a worried furrow. Pieces of a shattered plate cover the floor at her feet.
“Mom?”
“Turn up the volume,” my mother chokes out, her stare is panic-stricken and fixed on the TV screen.
