Page 7 of Little Rabbit

I just have to hope I threw Alessio off my trail enough to give me a decent head start. I’ve always been cautious. I have back-up plans for everything. Some might call me a control freak, but they can suck it because in this instance, I’m definitely proving my point. I was able to ditch the SUV in a parking lot before I walked a mile along a little known trail behind it to the garage where I store my car. Then I headed for the airport. I purposely bought a ticket to London and let myself be seen on the airport cameras before I headed back out to retrieve my go bag, and then made a beeline along the edge of the building toward the hangar that houses our small private plane. The very one I called to have fuelled and ready to fly the moment I arrived.

Sometimes having money is a damn good thing. The other good thing is the plane was purchased by one of my father’s friends, so it’s not in our family name, or on our company’s books. He might own it on paper, but it’s ours. I’m sure Alessio will figure out the connection, but not before I was halfway across the country. But being on such a long flight gave me time to really think through what Alessio had told me.

If anyone would have told me I come from a fucking mafia family, I’d have laughed in their face. But after yesterday, well, is there any reason to deny it? I mean, it’s not like a Caruso shows up for no reason. Hell, if they do, one of two things is going to happen, if rumors are to be believed. Someone is going to die, or someone is about to be in a world of hurt. Whether or not they burn your house to the ground depends on how badly you pissed them off.

Fuck. What kind of mess have I been thrust into? Apparently, I have a huge ass family, including a sister and brother-in-law, and now a pissed off mobster after me. Short of changing my name and appearance, I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. But I can’t be on the run for the rest of my life And none of those options include marrying Alessio Caruso. I don’t give a damn about what my so-called brother, father, or uncle promised. I’m not for sale.

Though I doubt he’ll want me now that I’ve beaned him with a coffee cup. I know he’s not dead, but I’m almost hopeful I’ve left a mark. One that will remind him every time he sees it in the mirror not to underestimate me. Or any other woman, for that matter. No, now he probably wants to kill me, or send me back to my family with a note that says he’s rejecting their offers. I suppose there is also the possibility that he’ll rape me before he kills me or ships me back, but I’ve never heard of the Carusos exacting that particular punishment. The others? Fucking right, but the Carusos seem to have a code where women and children are concerned. Still, he’s a criminal, and I’ll never underestimate him or anyone else. Including the members of my biological family.

I looked up the De Lucas on the plane, and the moment I saw the pictures of them, I couldn‘t deny the family resemblance. I get my eye color from my father, who looks like an imposing man, and the dangerous power underneath bleeds through the dead eyes staring back at me through the computer screen. He’s clearly a man that has done and seen things that would horrify any normal person, and he revels in it. My uncle is much the same, but there’s something else about him that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something that tells me he’s almost worse than my father. Maybe it’s the cocky look on his face, the kind that comes from holding on to secrets to use against people for his own gain. I was able to find pictures of my brothers and cousins, and the resemblance between them all is clear. But any pictures of my mother or my aunt were from too far away for me to get a good look at them. They were tucked behind bodyguards in most of them, which I imagine was done on purpose. And interestingly, there is no mention of Giulia De Luca online or anywhere else.

The only other information I could find were reports and newspaper articles of some of the things members of their organization were arrested for. Their alleged crimes ranged from selling drugs, guns being found in their warehouses, assaults, and other acts of violence. It only makes me more determined to not have anything to do with them. I may be a De Luca by blood, but that’s where the connection ends.

I’m the daughter of Lou-Anne and Dennis Harris, and that’s who I’ll be staying.

I finally pull into the long drive that leads to the cabin that overlooks the sea, and I let myself relax as the gate closes behind me. You can’t see the house from the road, which means we have lots of privacy. When I get to the top, I pull up next to my parents’ tiny Fiat and climb out.

I love this cabin. Growing up, when we were on this side of the world, I loved to spend my free time here. The cabin is a small building with only two bedrooms, though they each have their own bathroom; a rustic kitchen that opens into the living room, and a porch that overlooks the sea. It’s our slice of paradise away from the pressures of the business and anything else that might creep up.

I grab my bag from the trunk of my car and head inside. As soon as I walk in, the aroma of freshly made bread surrounds me, and I smile. My mother has always loved to bake, and when she’s stressed, it’s her way of coping. Both her and my father are in the kitchen working together, and they look up at me, smiling.

“Hi, baby,” my mother says excitedly. Growing up, I was often told how much I look like my mother, despite us both knowing it’s pure coincidence. My mother has the same long, thick, dark hair as me—though hers has streaks of gray in it now—and we both stand at five-seven with our curvier figures, but that’s where the similarities stop. Her eyes are a bright green, and the rest of her features are softer than mine.

My father is the complete opposite. He’s tall, standing at six-three, with blonde hair that’s going silver as he ages, bright blue eyes, and a lanky figure. Nowadays he wears a pair of black glasses to complete his look, but somehow it suits him. He gives me a smile as well and says, “Hope the drive was okay.”

“It was nice,” I say as I set my bag down before I shut and lock the door behind me. Can’t be too careful. “That smells delicious.” I love the scent of homemade bread. I approach the tiny island they’re crowded around, careful not to touch anything. That’s a hard and fast rule my mother put in place when I was young, and I’ve never gotten past it.

“Well, I was in the mood,” Mom says flippantly. “Now, get yourself a drink and start talking. If something is wrong, we don’t have a lot of time to deal with it. If we have to hide a body, we’ll need to call in some favors.” She grins at me, though I can see the worry in her eyes.

I quickly pour myself a cup of coffee before taking a seat at the island. Though I can’t help but smirk at the sight of the cup, almost identical to the one that I threw at Alessio. Yeah, I think that will be a core memory for me, and one that I’ll look on fondly. “What’s with that look?” my dad asks.

“It’s part of the reason I’m here,” I tell him, instantly sobering. They both do as well, and wait patiently as I tell them all about Alessio’s visit, and the information I now have. While I’m talking, I also watch the emotions running over their faces. The shock, the worry, the fear, then the guilt. When I finish, I take a breath. “But I guess you already know most of that. Did you know who my birth parents are?”

Mom and Dad look at each other for a moment, and I can all but see the indecision on their faces. Like they’re not sure they should tell me anything. Finally, they turn to me, and my father says, “Yes, Sienna, we did know. We were sworn to secrecy, and as far as the De Lucas are concerned, you don’t exist. Though, I guess now you may, but we were careful to make it appear as an adoption of a little baby girl left in the foster care system.”

I don’t say anything for a moment. It’s a shock, but also not unexpected. “So how did I actually end up with you?” I finally ask.

Mom gives me a sad smile. “You know I was raped at fifteen, and the man who raped me also beat me so bad that I needed a hysterectomy. When I met your father, I was certain he would never want me, since I couldn’t give him children. His parents were desperate for a grandchild. But he refused to set me aside and promised me a beautiful life with just the two of us. But, after a few years and realizing we wanted a child to share our life with, we started looking into adoption. Few, not even you, know that I have a half sister from my father’s affair with another woman. She’s always hated me because she felt it was my mother that split up her family not our father since he chose to stay with us and not his mistress, but she somehow heard about us looking for a baby to adopt. She told us she knew someone who was looking to adopt out their baby, but that it would have to be a closed adoption.”

“We readily agreed,” Dad continues. “We just had to be patient. But a couple of months later, she disappeared, and we figured it was all a way for her to get back at your mother. We were devastated. Not to mention, we gave her a large sum of money, but that was secondary.”

“But then, a month later, she showed up at our house in the middle of the night with a woman and a baby carrier,” Mom jumped in. “The woman with her was a social worker, and the two of them were jumpy and constantly looking over their shoulders. That was when my sister told us the woman who wanted to adopt her baby out was a powerful mafia wife. We couldn’t tell anyone where we got the baby, or the story, or we and the baby were dead. We were horrified and not sure that we could do it, but my sister all but told us we had no choice now. One word from her to the right people, and we’d be killed. But then you cried, and I knew I couldn’t let you go. I told her we would take you. She told us to get out of the city, out of the state. Out of the country. The social worker said that as far as the adoption was concerned, it was already done and that the story would be we adopted you out of foster care. We didn’t ask too many questions. Not even when my sister gave me fake legal documents for everything, including the name of someone who could get you a passport. That was the last time I saw her, and we did what she said. We got you a passport with the documents she gave us, registered you as ours in all the legal ways we could, and took you to London. We raised you there for the first ten years of your life before we made the calculated decision to bring you back to California.”

“We figured it was far enough away, and no one had ever come looking for you, so we felt it was the safe,” Dad finishes. “It was quite a few years before we stopped looking over our shoulders, but your name was never mentioned, and you were barely days old when you came to us.”

“So how did you figure out it was the De Lucas?” I ask, my head spinning with so much information.

“That was by accident. There was an article when you were seven that reached all the way to London about some kind of mafia war in New York, and how people were dying every day. They showed pictures in the papers of the two families, and one of them was the De Lucas. And in that photo was the Don and his wife,” Dad explains. He gives me a small smile. “Seeing her face was like looking into an older version of yours. There was no mistaking it. We were terrified that once people saw the picture, that they would make the connection to you.”

“Wait, that was the year you sent me to that camp in the Highlands,” I exclaim, the pieces clicking into place. “And that was also the summer you finally let me dye my hair that awful blonde and get those colored contacts that were in back then. You were letting me change my look.”

They both nod. “Normally we would never have done that, but we knew we couldn’t take the risk, so we let you do what you wanted, and sent you to the art camp. We were worried you would hate us for sending you away, but you had so much fun that it worked out alright,” Mom says with a smile.

“It also gave us the chance to watch and wait to see if anyone made the connection before it blew over,” Dad finishes. “It was the last we ever heard of them and we finally let ourselves breathe a sigh of relief. In your early teens, there were a few more worried moments when we were in the states, but they never amounted to anything.”

“That’s why you never let me travel much in the US,” I summarize, standing and pacing, too restless to sit anymore. “And also why you pushed me to go to college in California or in Europe.”

“You were talking about going to Harvard, and it was just too close to them for comfort. We probably should have told you when you turned eighteen, but we didn’t want to worry you,” Mom explains. “And, honestly, we couldn’t chance you letting it slip. We know you would never do it on purpose, but when you’re young and partying or out with your friends, things are said, no matter how well-intentioned you are.”

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