Page 1 of Heritage of Fire

Chapter 1

Luna

The best thing to happen to our family was the murder of my uncle. When Luka Morozov ended Uncle Antonio’s life three months ago, it was a purging for the Cosa Nostra. His death was like a forest fire cleansing the wood and paving the way for new blood to thrive and grow. That new blood happened to be my father.

Salvatore Buscetta.

Despite being next in line to the boss, many in the Cosa Nostra already look to him as their leader. They require it. Because, let’s face it, my grandfather takes a rather passive role—content to hide in his secure castle and direct others to do his bidding.

“Luna,” Giulia, our housekeeper beckons, “lunch is served.”

The bookmark tucked into the last few pages of my book taunts me. I was hoping to finish this one today.

I remove my dangling foot from the pool and wait for it to dry before hopping up. Unfortunately, it’s not warm enough to swim yet, so for now I’ve been settling on dipping my toes while I sort out my newest thriller.

Spring is right around the corner. The lush gardens surrounding the estate endeavor to come alive, blossomsdecorating the once-bare branches of winter. I tilt my face to the sun, inhaling the balmy air, sweet with florals and—is that carbonara?

A stone pathway leads back to the outdoor kitchen where most of my family’s meals take place. My mother claims to favor eating outside because she loves the “harmonious blend” of natural textures and fine dining, but I suspect she prefers my father’s guests to be outdoors with their cigars and overflowing wine.

I scoot past the large wood-fired oven, then the raised garden bed of herbs and spices; the plants tickle my calves as I shimmy by. Rough-hewn granite stones form a large fireplace with cutouts on each side for chopped wood. The cutouts make great hiding places when they’re empty.

Burgundy brick sides our house, with lush greenery crawling up the sides. It stretches into a retaining wall back toward the inground pool. A white oak table is sheltered beneath a weathered pergola that’s choked with climbing vines and spring blossoms, its wooden beams extending over the entrance that leads into our indoor kitchen.

My mother is already seated. Her long, dark brown hair, a few shades darker than mine, is pulled into a sleek ponytail. Large hoops grace her ears—the yellow gold pair she wears most days. Her nails tap out a clicking rhythm on her phone; she’s no doubt texting my father for lunch.

My chair groans as I slide it out, drawing her attention. Her disapproving eyes scan my two-piece bathing suit and towel-wrapped legs.

“Go change, Luna. You know your father doesn’t like you to come to the table without proper attire.”

How could I forget? There’s usually something wrong with my appearance. Little looks from my mother and blatant commands to go change from my father. My overindulgentwardrobe is full of clothes to make me look ten years older than my actual twenty—all crafted to create the perfectprincipessa.

I tried to push back once. It didn’t end well.

“Yes, Mamma,” I say, pushing out of my chair and almost bumping Giulia as she sets my plate on the table. “I’ll be right back.”

I dart between the French doors that lead into the kitchen, then practically jog though the parlor and down the hallway to the main staircase. My stomach growls, prodding me to take the steps two at a time. At the top, my sister rounds the corner and plows right into me.

“Watch it, Luna!” Bella flings a nasty curse at me.

“Sorry,” I mutter before she gives me an eye roll and rushes off down the stairs.

I take in her outfit—a mini denim skirt and crop top, with large bangles wrapped around her left wrist—and wonder how my seventeen-year-old sister can get away with wearing these clothes when I cannot.

Not that her particular outfit is my style. I’m more of a sneakers and jeans kind of girl. Well, at least IwishI could be. But those clothing choices don’t speak highly of the well-mannered eldest daughter my parents seek to portray on my behalf. And so, knee-length skirts and heels pack the closet in my room because of it.

It’s only in the small box, shoved back and out of sight behind my red Prada luggage, that I keep my favorite pair of cream sneakers and two pairs of jeans.

The hallway I turn down is long, my bedroom buried at the end. But I prefer it that way; away from everyone else. There is solace here—in my room—that I don’t find on the rest of the estate. My father’s men roam the grounds at every hour of the day and night, sometimes for business, other times for the pleasure of the underboss’s company. Either way, I learned along time ago to be seen and not heard—except for here. Except in my room.

I swing open the door. It’s not much. A queen bed with a cream duvet, and dark oak furnishings my mother picked out, claiming my room needed to appear more adult. There was never an opportunity for stuffed animals or frilly pillows—not for the oldest daughter.

No. I’m required to have the personality of a doorknob. All so I can be presented as obedient and docile.

Despite my mother’s attempts to control the space, I’ve found ways to add small touches to make it mine. The stack of books in the corner by the window, the tiny glass jar filled with candy coated chocolates hidden in my sock drawer, and the mason jar of flowers picked from our gardens, adding the only true, natural color.

My mother reprimanded me once for picking a few. I was twelve and loved the smell of freshly cut flowers in my room, and after watching our hired gardener trim and prune our raised beds, I figured I could do the same.

When my mother caught me, she ripped the flowers out of my hand, demanding I tell my father what I’d done. Fortunately, my father didn’t seem to care, and he told my mother that if it made me happy then she should let me pick them.

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