There’s a disconnect between us now. One that makes itself apparent in our phone calls. Whenever I mention the names of the family members who died, Vale clams up and changes the subject.
I know she’s hurting, and that’s how she copes. But in my head, the names play on repeat.
Carlo. Enzo. Renato. Bruno. Tito.
Cleo blows out a breath and presses the button to roll up the window.
“We need to have a word before we arrive,” Mamma says, her hands still patting her hair. “There are some rules.”
“When are there ever not?” Cleo mutters.
Papà rolls his shoulders back and casts Cleo and me a serious look. “Damiano De Rossi is about to marry your sister, and thus join our family, but given the circumstances of this arrangement, it does not mean we are immediately going to trust him or his people.”
The circumstances being that Vale chose her husband this time around.
“Technically, they’re already married,” Cleo pipes in.
I press my lips together. The elopement is a sensitive topic since Papà and Mamma weren’t invited to it. I was the only one who was allowed to come. When I returned home, I wasn’t asked a single question about it. Our parents are resolved to pretend it never happened.
“They’re married when I say they’re married,” Papà barks out. “Keep your wits about you. Don’t speak to the men unless it’s absolutely necessary. Don’t wander off the property. Under no circumstances should you entertain any questions about our family’s business.”
“Like we know much about it,” Cleo grumbles.
“You know more than you think,” Papà snaps. “No blabbering, Cleo. Your antics are tiresome enough while we’re in New York, but they won’t be tolerated here at all.”
My sister narrows her eyes, shooting daggers at our father. They barely speak with each other anymore. When they do, it usually ends in an explosive argument.
Papà smooths his wrinkled hand down his tie. “Most importantly, remember that we are the Garzolos. Our name means something even when we’re away from New York. Do not give anyone an excuse to treat us with less respect than is owed to us.”
Respect.
I’ve grown to hate that word over the last year, because I’ve seen the lengths Papà will go to ensure he still has it. From his capos, his allies, his enemies.
He fears that one day he’ll walk into a room and people won’t bow their heads to him in deference. But he’s never made an attempt to earn respect from us, his family. For him, our respect is a given. He takes it for granted, assuming we worship the ground he walks on. For a long time, I did, but not after how he handled the situation with Vale. Instead of admitting it was a mistake to give Vale to a man who should have been institutionalized, he blamed anyone but himself. His main concern was his reputation.
“What do you think they’re all saying about me? They’re saying I can’t control my daughters. If I can’t control three stupid little girls, how can I control the clan?”
So I can’t help it. At his mention of respect, I roll my eyes.
Papà’s gaze flashes with anger. He’s used to this kind of insolence from Cleo, but it’s unacceptable coming from me—the obedient daughter. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that at all.
An apology rushes out of my mouth, but I already know it’s too late. My palms turn clammy. His blazing eyes stay trained on me until the limo turns onto the driveway that leads to a familiar Spanish villa.
“There’s Vale,” Cleo says excitedly, tugging on the door handle before we even come to a stop. As soon as we do, she hops out and rushes to our sister. Mamma is quick to follow, leaving Papà and I in the car.
“Shut the door,” he growls.
My shirt sticks to my back. I know what’s coming, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
Papà raises his arm and backhands me across the face.
I yelp, and my teeth clank together. Pain blooms across my cheek. For a moment, time slows, and all I can hear is a familiar ringing in my ears.
“Don’t you roll your eyes at me,” he hisses, his spittle landing on my face.
I bring my shaking fingertips to my stinging skin and force myself to look at Papà.
He crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw a hard line. “You understand how you must behave here, don’t you?”
My head lowers in a slow nod.
“Rafaele has options. Don’t do anything to make him consider them.”
Another nod.
“I don’t want anyone else in the family to die. Ernesto was one of my closest friends. And Tito…” Papà sniffs and looks down at his lap.
He knows just the right things to say to make me feel the weight of my decisions.
If I can save more Garzolos from dying, what kind of a piece of shit would I be to not do it?
“Neither do I,” I whisper. My throat is bone-dry.
“Good.” Papà straightens his tie. “Let’s go.”
He slips out of the car, but I stay seated, anxiety engulfing me like a flame.
No one but Mamma knows Papà hits me.
No one can know.
I don’t know why I became Papà’s scapegoat, but it started a long time ago. At first, it was a ruler smacked across the back of my hands when I made him upset. Then a belt. In the last few years, he started slapping me across the face. Never too frequent or too hard, but enough to shock me into obedience.
One night, I overheard Papà telling one of his capos that I looked just like his ma.
Papà hated his ma.
Sometimes, his eyes get all weird just before he hits me, and I think maybe he sees her instead of me. He usually apologizes the next day. I accept the apologies every time, even though they don’t mean anything since I know he won’t stop.
It’s better that he hits me instead of Cleo. If he ever raised a hand to her, she’d fight back. Who knows how badly he’d hurt her then? At least I’ve learned how to manage Papà. It’s best to shut up and go along with whatever he says when he’s mad. It’s the quickest way to calm him down.
I dig inside my purse for my phone. I don’t have a mirror, so I have to check my reflection in the camera to make sure there isn’t an obvious mark on my face before anyone sees me.
The image flicks on.
Relief rushes through me. It seems okay.
Then the door is opened and I throw my phone back in my purse just as Vale’s face appears. “Gem!”
I paste on a smile and tumble out of the car straight into her arms. She laughs, clutching me around the waist and pressing kisses against my cheek.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she exclaims.
Her familiar scent nearly undoes me. “I know. God, how I’ve missed you, Vale.”
I tighten my grip on her, some part of me still worried about what she might find if she examines my face too closely. Sliding my chin on her shoulder, I cast a glance at where the men are standing.
Papà is greeting Damiano. They’re wearing close-lipped smiles, and I’m pretty sure that handshake is meant to crush a few bones.
My sister’s husband is the Don of the Casalesi, a powerful clan in the Camorra. He’s tall and intimidating even when he’s somewhat dressed down in only a dress shirt and a pair of dark slacks.