With fourteen bedrooms, eight bathrooms, and ten fireplaces, this place was a childhood fantasy come to life. So many places to explore. So many places to hide, with turrets and towers, and main living areas such as the dining room, library, and even an inner courtyard with a swimming pool. And while the place is under heavy surveillance, the cameras are trained on areas we’re most likely to be compromised or attacked. And I know every damn one of them.
There was a reason I became the expert on surveillance when I was younger. Now, we all know how to use the equipment to our advantage, and Romeo oversees the vast array of cameras in his office, but I know how to manipulate them well.
Uniformed staff walks about, dusting furniture and straightening area rugs, wiping down windows, while others take my coat to the coat room. Mama’s gone ahead to the kitchen to oversee the food prep and cooking, because in full Rossi family tradition, we’ll be feasting tonight because I’m home.
My heart warms. I’m home.
“Hey, there he is.” I don’t even know who says it, because when we enter the Great Hall, they’re all there. I don’t have much reason to smile and don’t much care for shit like emotions, but I can’t help but smile when I see my brothers.
Suave, wily Mario, with his charming looks and forked tongue that melts the panties off any girl he meets.
Big, burly Orlando, the group heavy, his eyes twinkling at me. He’s bigger than ever, between lifting and eating good food since he got married.
Stern, aloof, detached Tavi, the one I probably relate to the most.
One that’s noticeably absent is Leo. But his memory isn’t even worth the mental energy of conjuring it up. I mentally spit on his traitorous name and my gaze sweeps the room.
“Ah, Santo!” Nonna, portly and friendly with her ever-present black dress and apron, round face and twinkling eyes, waddles over to me to give me the biggest hug she can muster. I hold her, enjoying this little minute of comfort. The feeling of belonging that’s been absent since I was exiled to Tuscany.
“I make your favorite. Tosca can make you those little panzerotti, but I know my boy likes calzone.” She holds me tight, and my heart swells. “Tutto bene?”
I whisper back in her ear, “You know me well, Nonna. Thank you. And I’m good, thank you. How are you?”
She pulls back, but only enough so she can look me in the eye. Her aged, wrinkled face is lined with worry as her brows knit together. “Only okay,” she says with a sigh. Her gaze swings to Romeo, but she reserves judgment. For now. Though she and Tosca are likely the only ones who can ever speak their minds without repercussion, they rarely intervene in our affairs.
“Mangia,” she says, her voice a little softer and sadder than usual. She pats my belly. “You get skinny.”
I’ve been working my ass off in Tuscany and lifting. She thinks everyone looks skinny if they haven’t eaten vast quantities of her ravioli. I lift heavy in Tuscany, though. What the hell else am I gonna do? Harvest grapes?
I grin at her. “Maurice ain’t Nonna,” I tell her. He’s a damn good cook, but the truth is, food tastes better in good company.
I look around the room casually, hiding my eagerness to see the one face I need to see above all others.
There’s Vittoria, with her crazy auburn hair and petite features. She smiles shyly at me and gives me a tight wave before turning back to chat with Elise. Vittoria’s Romeo’s wife, and as loyal as they come. She upholds her husband’s leadership at all times, as she should.
Orlando’s Elise smiles at me and waves, then goes back to chatting with Vittoria. She’s always friendly to me, even if she did shoot me months back. Of course, she thought I was a traitor back then. I saved her husband’s life, and she’s thankful for that, though.
I told her not to think anything of it. It’s my duty.
They might not believe it, but I’d lay down my life for any motherfucker in The Family. Any of them—man, woman, or child.
Some days, I wish I’d get the goddamn opportunity. To prove myself.
“Uncle Santo!” I turn just in time to catch the whirl of pink taffeta, ribbons, and curly brown hair that buries herself in my arms. I close my eyes as uncharacteristic emotion wells in my throat. For years, I’ve learned how to deal when emotions surprise me that I don’t expect. Most of the time, I only feel anger, or a detached sort of cold apathy. That’s what’s familiar.
I remember the school psychologist stamping a label on me to my foster parents, before Narciso and Tosca adopted me.
Sociopath.
Sometimes synonymous with psychopath.
When he repeated it after I was adopted, I told him to fuck off, broke his nose, and got expelled. Mama cried, but Papa rewarded me with my first hunting knife. I still have it.