The Mafia Heir I Shouldn’t Love

Prologue

“Romy!” I hear a familiar voice. As I step out of the car, a female figure approaches me, a smile lingering on her rosy lips.

“Vittoria?” I say, incredulous. The last time I saw her was over a year ago, during the summer, when we crossed paths on the sands of Verona.

She throws her slender arms around me in a hug; I close my eyes for a moment and return the gesture. I catch the scent of her perfume—a light hint of lavender that surprises me. After all these years, she’s still wearing the same fragrance.

“How did you know I was coming back?” I manage to ask once we pull apart. I look her up and down, trying to spot the changes I’ve missed.

Her blonde hair, which she had once refused to let grow, is now quite long; I could swear it reaches nearly to the middle of her back. She has styled it into a braided headband and, from what I can see, she has also slimmed down considerably. She’s wearing a pastel green dress paired with a coral pink bag and heels—and her makeup makes her look bright and fresh. She looks enchanting.

“A little bird told me,” she says with a smile, glancing back toward where my father is standing. I deduce it was him who told her, even though I had explicitly asked him to be discreet.

A smile spreads across my lips, reflecting how happy I am to be back and to see my loved ones. I step away from Vittoria and walk toward my father, who opens his arms as I approach and pulls me into a hug.

“My girl,” he says affectionately. I pull back slightly to get a better look at him.

His hair, once jet black, now has streaks of white dulling its color; his mustache, once trimmed short, is now thick and unruly. But even though it seems so much has changed, I want to believe that, in some way, they are still the same people I left years ago.

“How was the trip?” He examines me too. The last time I saw him was six months ago, at Christmas; because of university, I can only visit twice a year, and since then, my brown hair has grown a bit longer.

“Excellent, Papa,” I agree. The train ride is smooth enough; the only discomfort is when it ends and I have to stand up after being seated for more than six hours.

“I’m so glad, dear. Why don’t we head inside?” He gestures for the servants to take my belongings from the trunk and, presumably, carry them up to my old room. Vittoria joins us, and my father escorts us inside.

We climb the stairs toward the main entrance. This house has always seemed beautiful to me, yet far too large—though if I remember correctly, the first time I thought so was the day my mother died. We finally enter through the great wooden gate; my father used to boast that it was the original door from the old manor, from a long time ago, of course, before even my grandparents were born; before, as my father often mentions, my family emigrated from Verona to Milan.

It was during the 1920s that my family took the initiative to return to their city of origin and settled here, in the beautiful villa of Lungadige, on the banks of the Adige River. From here, one can see part of the gardens that once belonged to the Giusti Palace, as well as the dome of the Sanctuary of the Madonna di Lourdes. From here, you can see all of Verona.

As we enter, the house staff, lined up in a row, bow their heads slightly at the sight of me. Then each of them—those I remember and who I know have been around since I was a baby—offers me a smile.

“Signorina Romy,” they greet me. The older women, who once served as nannies when mine didn't know how to handle me, intercept me to give me a hug. It’s good to be home.

“Buongiorno,” I reply, even venturing to give them a kiss, though I don’t linger since my father and Vittoria are waiting for me; that will have to be for another time.

Instinctively, I look up toward the stairs, where the portrait of a young woman hangs—a woman I resemble quite closely: my mother. I stop for just a second; I’ve seen that portrait a thousand times in my life, but every time I see it, it’s as if she is welcoming me back with a joyful smile.

Vittoria takes my hand, perhaps in an attempt to lead me away and avoid further distraction. She gives me a smile, and we both walk on, following my father’s tall figure. We continue down the hallway to the dining room, where, surprisingly, I am greeted by a small cake decorated with various fruits. It has a tiny banner held up by two wooden toothpicks that reads: "Welcome home, Romy."

I turn toward my father and Vittoria; they both smile at me, and given their surprise, I feel compelled to thank them for the welcome. It might not be the most ostentatious gesture, but I value the company of those who love me far more.

“Thank you for this,” I tell my father, grateful for such a lovely gesture; I certainly wasn't expecting anything like this. After Mama died, there was no more joy in this house; it’s strange that after all this time, he wants to celebrate something.

“Forgive me that it wasn’t a grand party,” he says, as if luxuries mattered to me. And though I grew up surrounded by them, material things have never interested me much.

“But that’s why I’m here, to brighten your afternoon,” Vittoria chimes in, reminding us she’s still there. “How about after we have a slice of cake, we go to the Piazza delle Erbe?”

“But I was hoping to rest for the rest of the day. How about we go tomorrow?” I suggest, but Vittoria furrows her brow in disapproval.

“No, no, no, no,” she protests, shaking her head. “I’ve already made plans to go out; besides, it’ll only be for a little while. How long has it been since we’ve seen each other, Romy?”

I consider her proposal. It’s true that it’s been so long since we went out; we need to catch up on everything and, though I feel somewhat tired from the trip, I also want to distract myself for a while.

“Alright,” I agree, “but please, not to a club or anything like that.”

“A club?” she questions, frowning, looking somewhat bewildered. “Romy, is that what you were doing in Rome?”

She bursts out laughing while my father takes a seat, though he seems to be paying attention to the conversation.

“No, of course not,” I reveal, though I doubt Vittoria believes me. I join them and sit next to my father’s chair, while my dear cousin and friend sits across from me.

Vittoria tells me a bit about Verona and what she’s been doing since she finished university. Her voice is clear and pleasant. While she speaks, my father listens and I cut three slices of cake, one for each of us. My friend chooses the plate with a cherry on top, which brings back memories of those birthday parties where we used to fight over the cherry, regardless of whose birthday it was.

After an hour of chatting, my father, bored by Vittoria’s conversation, stands up from the table.

“Are you leaving already?” I ask, feeling a bit distressed, but after this conversation where Vittoria has been the only one talking, I imagine he must be tired of her voice; it’s not easy to live with her, especially when you don't know how to be patient.

“I’m afraid so, my dear Romy,” he says, looking somewhat apologetic. “I wanted to cancel all my appointments, but today I must go to the cellars to do an inspection, and if I don’t, the product won’t make it onto tomorrow night’s shipment.”

“Don’t worry,” I comfort him; I know very well that his work and his employees have always been his safe haven. “We’ll see you tonight.”

My father leaves immediately and, once we are alone, I shoot my friend a look of disapproval.

“Why did you bore him like that?” I complain, taking a piece of cake to my lips.

“Because otherwise we wouldn't be able to talk peacefully,” she justifies, admitting she brought up topics too irrelevant to discuss with a man—especially with my father, who hasn't heard feminine fussing in a long time.

“I’m listening,” I say, not entirely satisfied, but curious enough to hear her out.

“There’s a masquerade ball tomorrow night,” she reveals triumphantly. Now I understand her insistence on going to the square in Verona this very afternoon. “We have to go dressed in the style of the Venice Carnival, though not necessarily in extravagant costumes; but at least we need to find a sophisticated dress and a mask.”

“Are you inviting me or do you just want me to help you look for a costume for yourself?” I ask, somewhat confused.

“Don't be silly, of course I’m inviting you,” she says, throwing her cloth napkin at me as a reprimand. “How could I go alone to that kind of party?”

Her attitude makes me burst out laughing.

“You were going to go whether I came back or not,” I accuse her. Since we were teenagers, she used to abandon me at parties, and though they were always the same, Vittoria knew how to persuade me.

“Of course not,” she says, crossing her arms, “but now that I have a companion to attend with, I don't think my mother will forbid me from going out.”

“Twenty-two years old and still asking for permission?” I tease her.

“Please, you do the same thing,” she replies, forcing me to remember embarrassing moments from our adolescence. We both laugh about it, but though it’s fun to mention, it’s not entirely funny, especially given our family’s situation.

“So? Are you interested?”

The truth is, I’m not interested at all, but I know perfectly well that if I refuse now, Vittoria will keep insisting until my patience runs out, and I’d rather avoid the whole ordeal before it happens.

“I suppose I don’t have another choice, do I?”

Vittoria flashes a smile and gives little hops of joy in her seat.

“Where is the party?” I ask, feigning a bit of interest. I take a bit of cake; the sweet flavor dances on my taste buds. “Is it hosted by someone we know?”

Vittoria puts her hand to her chin, as if hesitating to tell me. My first thought is that it might be an ex-boyfriend or something similar, but those boys who once fascinated me... I suppose they don't matter to me anymore, and I have no interest in remembering what happened in the past.

“You see...” she mentions in a nervous voice, “it’s on the other side of the city.”

I narrow my eyes and set the small fork back on the cake as I try to process her words.

“The other side of the city?” I press for confirmation. She nods nervously while shoving a giant piece of cake into her mouth to cover it. “Vittoria, you know we can’t go over there. Don’t you remember?”

“You sound just like my mother when you say it like that,” she says with a touch of complaint.

“Maybe so, but I have reasons to sound like your mother. Going there could be dangerous...”

“Dangerous for whom?” she interrupts once she manages to swallow the mouthful. “This absurd struggle belongs to our parents, not us. I’ve been crossing over there for a year now and nothing has ever happened to me.”

“The fact that nothing has happened to you doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. You said it yourself, this struggle belongs to our parents, and therefore, if they hurt you, it won't be because of you—it’ll be to hurt my aunt and, by extension, my father too,” I venture to lecture her, but Vittoria looks at me like a child who wants to turn a deaf ear to my words.