Of volume lineage

Discussion resumed around Vitale’s younger brothers. Bartolomeo was Vitale’s consigliere while Angelo had never been promoted past capo. That didn’t mean he was less effective than his brothers. In fact, Capo Angelo was infamous for his viciousness and widely respected by not only his own mob but all around the United States.

The last honorable wiseguy alive, I had heard him described as.

“Neither of them have children,” Vincent said. “Or wives, anymore. We need to threaten their power and reputations, not their family.”

“I disagree,” Quintus argued. “We should bribe them. If they turn against their Don, then we’ll honor them with positions of power.”

A soft squeak caught my attention. I didn’t need to turn to see who it was but did anyways. My six-year-old daughter stood in the doorway of the dining room, peering at us with wide blue eyes. She was clutching her beloved purple dinosaur.

Marzia knew I wasn’t meant to be interrupted during a meeting, except for when the clock hit 7:30.

“Principessa Marzia,” my men greeted.

She smiled, revealing the gap between her two front teeth. “Hello, hello.”

“How’s your new school?” Quintus asked.

“It’s fun, Zio Quintus,” she told him chirpily. “Miss Baylis told me I was a clean breath.”

Miss Baylis had told Marzia she was a breath of fresh air, but my daughter’s mind had warped the words.

All the men made noises of agreement, none daring to correct her.

I stepped around the table. “Come now, my darling. It’s time for bed.”

She stretched her arms out and I scooped her up. Her little head rested in the crook of my shoulder, snuggling into me. One day, she wouldn’t want me to carry her to bed, but hopefully that day was still a few years away. I knew Marzia would eventually outgrow me–all children grew older–but I didn’t dwell on that.

My daughter was the only person in the world who could ever inspire such emotions in me; even my twin had never been able to make me despise time.

Marzia’s room was the most obnoxious thing I had ever funded. She had had free rein when it came to designing the space and it showed. A huge purple canopy bed sat in the centre of the room, the blanket patterned with different coloured tyra

I laid her down, tucking the blanket around her.

“What are we reading tonight?” I asked as I took a seat in the fluffy spotted chair beside her bed. It was meant for children and groaned beneath my weight.

Marzia dug a book out from under her pillow and passed it to me. The title read The Rise and Fall of the Ottoman Empire. I felt my lips twitch. My daughter had never been interested in picture books.

“This one, Daddy.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in the Ottoman empire,” I said. “When did this start?”

Marzia shrugged but the gleam in her eyes told me there was a secret on her mind.

I rose an eyebrow and she broke immediately.

“Mister Burrows said only the big kids can read big books.” Marzia scowled. “I am a big kid.”

“So how did you get this?”

“I stole it.”

“I see.” I cracked open the spine, turning to chapter one. “You know better than to steal, Marzia. If you wanted this book, I would’ve bought it for you.”

She burrowed herself into the plush of her bed, cheeks red as I scolded her. “I know, Daddy. I won’t do it again.”

“And you’ll return Mister Burrow’s book to him?”

She nodded.

“Good.” I held out the book and cleared my throat. “Chapter one…”

Marzia fell asleep a few pages later, muttering about the Ghazi thesis to herself. I watched her sleep for a moment, before kissing her forehead and leaving the room quietly. It was story time I would miss the most when she was no longer a child. Story time had only ever belonged to Marzia and I.

It had begun when I would return home in the wee hours of the night and find her wide awake in her crib. She didn’t cry, not because she was a calm baby, but because she had learnt quickly that her mother wouldn’t come to comfort her. I hadn’t been sure what to do with her. I didn’t want to leave her alone and awake, too aware of how my father had treated me, but I had also been a new parent and had no experience with children.

So I had begun to read to her. I read the newspaper, classics and even financial reports. A newborn baby couldn’t understand what I was saying but it did seem to relax her. Her eyelids would grow heavy, and she would try to fight sleep, but eventually my voice would soothe her into dreams.

After that, I tried to get home earlier. It wasn’t good for infants to be kept up. Sleep was important to her growth and helping Marzia thrive was my job as her caretaker.

She was my only weakness. The only failing I allowed myself.

Nothing would ever happen to her. Not while there was air in my lungs.

I needed to find Angelo and Bartolomeo’s air. I needed to discover what failings the Lombardis allowed themselves. Then once I did, I would destroy it.

I looked to Vitale’s building as I walked back to my men and spotted a shadowy figure walking over the roof. One of Vitale’s men, was my first thought as I stepped closer to the pane, trying to make out any sort of shape amongst the piercing lights of Manhattan. When the figure didn’t become obvious, I stepped out on the balcony, crossing to where Vincent had left the binoculars. The balcony wrapped around the left side of the penthouse, serving as Marzia’s personal royal gardens.

A woman, I realized as soon as I put the binoculars up to my eyes. She was leaning against the cement parapet. To my surprise, there was a cigarette in her hand. She wore a deep red dressing gown, but the feathery neckline hid her features.

I already knew who she was. Vitale Lombardi’s daughter.

I went to put down the binoculars, less interested in the shadowy figure now I knew it was only Vitale’s daughter, when another shape joined her.

Angelo Lombardi.

I watched as he joined his niece. She offered him a light; he accepted. The two stood side by side, smoking beneath the inky night.

It was unusual for a traditional Made Man to let his niece get away with smoking. Women in the mafia were not meant to engage with such masculine activities. Yet, the last honorable wiseguy joined his niece in her illicit behaviour, even seemed to encourage it.

My lips curled into a smile.

When I returned to the dining room, voices had risen in anger.

“Angelo’s niece.”

Eyes darted towards me, confusion fluttering over faces. “Angelo’s niece? Vitale’s daughter? Her name is…” Papers shuffled as they sorted through the information. “Isabella. Isabella Lombardi.”

I took my seat at the head of the table as Quintus passed me a blurry photo of Isabella. It was taken at an angle as she crossed a street. I rolled my eyes over her, taking note of her sharp features and dark hair. Beautiful, yes, but not in a classical or lovely way. Instead, there was a severity, a darkness, to her that had me unable to look away.

She looked like she had been formed from knives instead of a womb.

Isabella had an intriguing look on her face. Her brows were furrowed with anger, her lips pressed together in a straight line. She was dressed in all black like she was on her way to attend a funeral. I had seen plenty of unpleasant looks from women in my life but never one as captivating as the one on Angelo’s niece’s face.