But it’s not his height or the clean-shaven face that has me pausing—it’s his glower. I’ve seen it before. Somewhere. Blue, dark pools of water that might submerge you into its depths and drown you without missing a beat. But there is something different in it, too. My memory must be playing tricks on me, but I remember a similar glare being playful and twinkling in mischievous delight. These eyes are bitter, and maybe even a little empty in their loneliness. My heart squeezes in empathy for this young man who holds such dejecting profoundness in his stare.
“Selene!” I hear my father bark out, and by the tone of his impatient voice, it’s a sure sign I’m in for of a big tongue lashing, as well as the whipping of watered-down rags on my hands—if I’m lucky, that is.
“Shit,” I cuss, and then bite my tongue when I realize I’ve just cursed out loud in the—supposedly—holiest of places; and in front of this stranger, no less.
Damn it all to hell!
But when I hear a low, amused snigger, I’m taken aback at the unexpected reaction from such a churlish figure. Confusing still, is witnessing his indigo eyes gain a bit of engrossed light, out-casting their previous dimness, at my use of the profanity. Such a dazzling range of color do they hold with that small speck of light—far surpassing any of the elaborate glass windows of this cathedral. And I’m yet again questioning to myself its familiarity when I’m certain I’ve never met this man before in my life.
“Selene,” my father cautions, now side-by-side with this mysterious visitor, while not once giving him the courtesy of acknowledging his presence.
The flare in dear old Papa’s nostrils is unmistakable, and it serves me right for not having made one attempt to hasten my step the first time he beckoned me. I guess long dresses are what awaits me for the next couple of days. No way am I going to be able to wear jeans with a belted ass since I can tell crippling my hands will no longer suffice his wrath.
“Bianchi. It’s been a while,” the unfamiliar parishioner remarks, his entertained stare still locked on mine with an added little tug of his lip. It seems his sense of decorum is just as faulty as my father’s, with his lukewarm greeting.
“I’m sorry, have we met?” my father questions, taking stock of the man for the first time.
The smirk on the stranger’s face disappears as he turns to face my father head-on.
“I would think so since you were the one who put me on a plane the last time I was here,” he answers with the same taint of bitterness I had caught in his eyes. “Or do you make it a habit of ripping infants away from their mother’s arms?”
“Ciro. I heard you’d be making an appearance today,” my father rebukes, scrunching his lips and nose as if the air just became too foul for his liking.
“I’m sure you heard more than that, Bianchi. I bet the moment I touched Chicago soil, you and mastrolindo were well informed,” Ciro snaps back, crisp as a cold morning wind on a winter’s day.
The iciness in his voice sets alarms off in my head, but it’s the suddenly maniacal and pleased smile on my father’s face that makes my skin crawl. His sneer, however, doesn’t seem to have any lasting effect on Ciro, though.
“News tends to travel fast, especially the undesirable kind. So, school’s out, is it?” my father taunts with a malicious grin.
“If you’re referring to the prison you sent me to in Napoli, yes. It’s out. Finished with,” the defiant Ciro replies stoically.
“Hmm. I see. Any plans after this little family reunion of yours?”
“That all depends on what you and my father decide, isn’t that so?”
My father’s snarl reappears, and there is no question as to how much he enjoys the prospect of having this young man in his hands somehow. Maybe he’s one of Big Sal’s new capos. He might look too young for it but the way he’s handling my father, not once backing down to his provocation, tells me he might be older than I gave him credit for. He sure talks like a man.
“Today is a day of celebration. Your beloved cousin’s, no less. Tomorrow we’ll arrange a meeting to discuss your future in more detail. I’m sure you have expectations of your own,” my father counters abruptly, sounding already bored with this conversation. But I’m too fixed on the revelation that Ciro is Vincent’s cousin to not have a million more questions I’d like answered.
How can this Ciro be Vincent’s blood, when it’s a known fact that most of the Romano lineage perished long ago? The only family in the Romano line that still has a pulse, aside from Vince, is Big Sal and Pietro.
“You’re not wrong,” Ciro interjects, a menacing aura all around him.
I try to discreetly examine his every hard edge and angle, without revealing to either party of how my curiosity is off the charts with this vague back and forth. From the tips of his dirty blond hair, to the allusive reference of tattooed skin peeking out from under his white, ironed collar, to the designer slacks and Italian shine of his shoes, I scrutinize every detail to see if I can come up with the answer of who this man really is.
“Selene, we should find your mother. We wouldn’t want to be late, now would we?” my father exclaims, giving me his arm to walk me out. The small maneuver might look fatherly to the untrained eye, but in reality, it’s nothing but a measure taken that will ensure I do as he commands without further delay.
“Is this your daughter, Butcher? What a lovely flower in such ugly hands,” Ciro ventures and I cringe, not only at the use of the cruel—yet well earned—nickname but also at the attention Ciro has brought onto me with such a callous remark.
“Hands do not have to be pretty to garden, Ciro. Some seeds need to have a rougher treatment to make sure they bloom correctly,” my father cajoles gravelly, turning his back to Ciro and putting an end to their odd pleasantries.
“I’m very aware of your skill sets. Just remember that every rose comes with its thorns, and even the most experienced gardener bleeds,” I hear Ciro snicker behind us.
My spine goes stiff as I feel my father’s nails on my arm bite through my flesh. I grind my teeth until his hold loosens, not wanting to aggravate him further with the escaping echo of my pain surfacing amongst so many witnesses. He prefers my cries to be done in private, but since I’m bound to be the bearer of his frustration tonight anyway, my wayward tongue sees no reason not to pry some answers from him while in his most vulnerable state.
“Papa, who was that? Is he really Vincent’s cousin?”
My father huffs out, disgusted at my petulant question, and just when I think I won’t get an answer, my tormentor speaks.
“That was Salvatore’s bastard. Pay the boy no attention this afternoon, if you know what’s good for you. I won’t have it be said that my only daughter socialized with someone as beneath her as Ciro LaSpina. You’re worth more than that,” he quips back sternly.
“Yes, Papa,” I reply, feeling deflated with his parting endearment, as I’m far too aware of how much worth I have for my father.
Hmm. So, Salvatore Romano has an illegitimate son. A discarded child who, it seems, has been living in Italy for the majority of my life since I had no idea of his existence. Thinking back to his blank stare, I finally recognize where I saw someone with similar characteristics once.