Page 2 of Third Degree

It was always about the family business, of course. Most things were. It controlled my every living moment, from the time I ate dinner to the type of school I was allowed to go to, the type of friends I was allowed to have, and the lack of boys I could kiss.

Everything was always controlled. I was on a hamster wheel under the strict protection of my papa, among his many bodyguards andcugini(cousins).

I flipped out on them when they told me the news last month about Northern Cali. My older brother was allowed to stay home and live with my cousins, so why couldn’t I?

Their words were simple: “Oh no. We cannot leave our precious daughter in the care of other people.”

I was merely a trophy they would eventually marry off to the next Mafia man who would solidify some deal for them. So, they needed to ensure their trophy was shiny, bright, and not tarnished.

I will never forget the conversation I had with my father.

“Please. I am begging you, Papa. I want to stay here with my brother.” I knew immediately that something was happening in my chest. This happened to me so often, especially when I was surrounded by circumstances that pained me.

“No. You are coming with us. In la famiglia, it is important that an unwed daughter stays with their father for protection at all times.” His word was above even God’s. What he said was the end of the conversation.

But this feeling inside my chest felt like it was going to explode. I ran up toward my room, where I threw myself on the bed in a fit of tears.

It was at the moment when my father ruined my life that I ultimately decided I could not let him affect me again. I hated the feeling of my chest concaving, of being unable to catch my breath. Even more so, I hated it when I felt so weak that I cried.

“It will be good for your condition,” my mother had told me. Ever since I was a kid, I often found myself in a “fit”, so to speak. My parents took me to a doctor when I was younger who told me that I had anxiety and depression.

I’d suffered from mental health issues ever since, but becausela famigliadidn’t “believe” anxiety was a real thing, I was always treated like some outcast.

I now walked around the halls of one of our distant cousins’ mega-mansions on the cliffs of Northern California. Being from Chicago, I thought this place was unreal. It was an Italian-style house with three different wings. The best part about it was that we were mere steps from the beach. Aprivatebeach. Why I wasn’t raised in this part of the country was beyond me.

“Hey, cousin! We are off to the beach. Want to join us?” the older of my cousins asked. My two brunette girl cousins, who were around my age, came waltzing into view as I meandered around the house.

“We are going to see if any of the boys are playing volleyball out there.” The other one perked up.

I forced a smile I didn’t feel. “No, thank you. I am going out to the garden.” My only safe space away from home.

They ran away, and I felt loneliness creep in again. I pushed myself away from others purposefully, not letting myself get close to them. The closer I got to people, the more often I felt like they disappointed me. The more disappointed I felt, the more the sadness crept back into my inner world. It was a shield I’d learned to use at an early age. Don’t let people get close to you.

I didn’t dress like a typical Mafia princess would look purposefully, so I never connected with them. I liked vintage band shirts and skinny jeans.

It was easier for everyone else around me to say things like, “Gianna is just the outcast,” instead of addressing the mental health struggles I continued to have.

The one thing that helped me ground myself, especially when I felt the sadness and the aching pain creep in, was gardening. I’d learned that I much preferred solitude.

I walked down the hallway to large wooden double doors that I had to really use my entire body to push open. The garden was the first thing I stepped into. I must have grown up in the olden times or been a grandma in my past life because I loved the way plants made me feel. The smell was just the bonus—floral notes of rose, lavender, azalea.

I loved how you planted this teeny-tiny seed, and suddenly, with just some water and the photosynthesis stuff they teach you in school, you had a blooming flower.

“Your papa wants you ready for dinner in an hour,” Tomas, my personal security, grumbled behind me. I could swear the man was allergic to the sun. He was the most Negative Nancy you could ever imagine.

He sent me a warning look, and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at him. Tomas was in his forties with a very big chest, tall intimidating stature, and piercing green eyes. His dark hair was always slicked back and he always, I mean always, wore a crisp tailored black suit.

My papa, however, was an older man. Much older than my mother. She was the epitome of the perfectly made woman, wearing tight dresses, drinking too much red wine at dinner, and knowing how to cook lasagna like a pro.

We were part of the Ricci family, of which my father was a capo. My mother had been a gift to my father, barely a day over eighteen, and nine months later, my brother came flying out of the chute. Less than a year after that, I unfortunately decided to join the party.

But maybe this was just the depression talking. I did a lot of research in my time alone, where I looked at different natural cures for the painstaking sadness and the debilitating anxiety I felt at times.

“He’ll be fine,” I mumbled back at Tomas, adjusting the flannel over my waist while I grabbed some of the shears and pruned a few leaves off some of my new plants.

“You know we have people for this,” Tomas’s annoying voice echoed from behind me.

“What, are we living in Bridgerton? I am not Queen Charlotte. I can tend my own freaking garden.” I snapped the shears at him, but his stoic face didn’t even flinch. Whatever.

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