Of volume lineage

That's why I had to paint or else I would simply explode. I would erupt from this skin and bones like a powder keg. My fury and guts would coat the walls, ruining all my pretty artwork.

I could picture my mother surveying the mess of my insides all over my room, clicking her tongue and placing her hands on her hips. Sweet Isabella would never make such a mess, she would probably say. She was perfection.

Even imagining Maria’s reaction set off my temper again. I threw off my di

I had stashed a cigarette packet up here, as well as some raunchy books and a bottle of liquor. I hadn’t even cracked the sill of the whiskey, but I had enjoyed watching my father look for it and yell at my brother when he couldn’t find it. It had never occurred to Vitale that maybe his daughter had committed the crime.

The air was freezing, and it would get much colder as November ended and we were plunged into winter. All around me the sounds of the city thrummed, blurring together in a mix of Manhattan. The bite to the air didn’t stop people from going out, didn’t stifle the music or laughter or energy.

I lit a cigarette, leaning against the side of the roof and peered down below. Balconies jutted out the side of the building, each apartment belonging to someone in the Famiglia. I had grown up in these halls and never once seen anyone without ties to my father walking around. My father was incredibly anal about security.

My eyes wandered over the lines of the skyscrapers and streets, basking in the beauty. I had painted many Manhattan nights, but I had never been able to capture the marriage of melancholy and delight that darkness brought onto the city. It never felt like this during the day.

I could see people moving inside their apartments, the blue light of their televisions and the golden glow of their kitchen lights. No one else was braving the icy wind of their balconies or roofs–except for a single figure. I could see the outline of a tall man standing on his balcony, his shape illuminated by the lights inside his apartment.

I couldn’t be sure, but I could’ve sworn he was looking at me.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to spot him better but he remained a faceless smudge in the distance. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and suddenly I wanted to go back to the safety of my room.

Familiar footsteps sounded behind me. “Does your mother know you’re up here, fragolina?”

I didn’t turn around, just took another drag of my cigarette. “Does yours?”

Uncle Angelo leaned against the parapet, giving me an affectionate look. Since I was a child, I had been the apple of my uncle’s eye. He was the only one in my family who didn’t treat me like my sister’s reincarnation–a small but meaningful act in my eyes. He called me fragolina because he used to catch me stealing strawberries from his late wife’s garden.

He accepted the light I offered him, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, and blowing the smoke away from me. “What set you off this time?”

“A myriad of things.” I casted my eyes to my uncle. “I know something’s happening–I’m not stupid.”

“I hope you don’t believe I’m going to tell you anything,” he mused. “Just be glad you can sleep soundly at night, fragolina. Don’t go poking around in the dark looking for something.”

“What would I find?”

Uncle Angelo sent me a warning look. He looked like my father, only a few years younger. They shared the same olive skin, near black eyes and crooked nose. There was a pink scar reaching down my uncle’s cheek, warping the skin. I had asked thousands of times where he had gotten it, but he had never told me.

“Nothing good,” was his vague reply.

I rolled my eyes before flicking them over to the balcony where I had seen the shadowy figure. It was vacant.

“Are we being watched?” I asked.

Uncle Angelo stiffened slightly. I almost didn’t notice it. “We’re always being watched, Isabella. We are Lombardis.” He paused. “Why? Have you seen something?”

“No,” I lied. “Silly daughters don’t concern themselves with the matters of the men.”

He didn’t laugh like he usually did. I looked to him to find he was staring at the exact same building I had been. A crease formed between his brows.

“Something interesting?” I asked.

Uncle Angelo didn’t respond. Instead, he plucked the cigarette from between my fingers, put it out and then led me to the exit. “You’ll freeze to death up here,” he said when I began to object. “It’s late. Get some rest, Isabella.”

He deposited me in front of my bedroom door before going downstairs.

No one in the house got any sleep that night. Until the crack of dawn, the loud voices of my father and his brothers filled the hallways and echoed through the pipes. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they definitely weren’t discussing who was hosting Christmas this year.

Something was happening. Something is happening.