Page 13 of Sin & Sapphire

The chauffeur opened my door, and I stepped out into the Sicilian sunset, shades of orange and gold turning the scene magic.

“BellaAna,” he said, opening his arms to me. “Angelo has told me so much about you.”

He had? I hid my surprise by burying my face in my grandfather’s chest. Despite his age, he was still intimidatingly tall, strong like the peasants we descended from. You’d never know he was part of the Cosa Nostra, a man who’d trafficked in drugs and women and arms, and had murdered dozens himself in pursuit of power.

“Thank you for having me,” I said, falling back on my manners to push through the awkward moment.

“Always,” my grandfather replied. “Gio’s passing was a loss for all of us.”

He left unsaid the question—why was I in Sicily? Because Angelo wanted me to be. I was a useless girl child, no longer a virgin, with a master’s degree in finance instead of a suitably feminine bachelor’s in early childhood education or some drivel like that.

There wasn’t anything wrong with the mafia woman who walked that road. They didn’t have any more choices than I did.

But I wanted more.

I hadfond memories of my grandfather’s stable. He might be a brutal mafia don caught in a power struggle for the future of Sicily, but his estate included vineyards, paddocks, a working farm, and dozens of employees, many of whose families had lived in a nearby village for centuries.

The best way to get around was by horse, and I was determined to shake off my hurt and resolution before the reading of my father’s will tonight.

Marco, his stable master since I was a child, watched me saddle Limonata, a placid mare who wouldn’t give me any trouble. “You can have a feistier animal when I’ve seen you in the saddle,” he’d told me.

I smiled and told him that excitement was the last thing I wanted right now. Limonata suited me fine.

He’d harrumphed and handed me a brush.

“Will you be okay on your own?” he asked in Italian as I swung my leg over her back.

My Italian was rusty, but good enough to answer in the affirmative.

I nudged the horse’s sides with my heels, and she moved forward at a calm walk. Exactly what I wanted. Time to myself.

Calm.

Quiet.

Peace.

The warm breeze ruffled my hair as I rode, and I let my mind empty, focusing on the gentle thud of hooves against the ground, the rustle of the summer breeze through the grape leaves, and the trails of dust that blew through the air.

Men nodded their heads at me as I plodded by—they knew who I was. The entire village was in mourning for my father. We’d buried him yesterday, and the wailing and tears and rending of garments had astounded me. These people had no idea what a monster he had been. Did Nonno? My grandfather’s stoic demeanor told me nothing. I was too young, too female, and too American to be allowed into his inner circle.

Nonno had seen the bruises on my arms one morning when I came down for coffee in an elegant sleeveless dress. He’d simply raised his eyebrows and suggested I put on a cardigan, as the air was cool until the sun rose.

He’d yet to say anything about my engagement to Grégoire Tchérnov, but he would, eventually. My father would never have made plans to ally himself with another, powerful European family without informing my grandfather.

He also hadn’t said anything about the Russos. I supposed he didn’t care. Why would he, safe in Italy, with Angelo in the States to do his bidding? I held back a sniffle of self-pity. I missed my best friend. Sofia and I had known each other since we were children, and our friendship had solidified when she started her undergrad in Finance, and I TA’d one of her classes.

But my family had ruined that. I wouldn’t want to look at me either.

I hadn’t found any solutions when the sun began to set, but my heart had calmed. Whatever the future held, I would face it head on. I was Ana fucking Costa. My father beat me, locked me in closets, let men feel me up if it’d help seal a business deal, and sold me off in exchange for a shipping deal.

I could do anything.

And I would.

We gatheredin my grandfather’s study, full of old mahogany furniture, books in half a dozen languages, and a bar cart with bottles more expensive than most cars. Unlike my father’s imposing desk, my grandfather’s study was deceptively cozy and welcoming.

This was where he met with his captains, hiscapos, the men he sent out into the world to do his violent bidding.

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