Page 1 of Bartered Innocence

Chapter1

Isabelle

My cheeks burnas I feel António’s eyes on me, so I continue to chop without looking up. It’s his job to observe and correct if needed, but something about his stare has always felt off. As if he’s waiting for me to slip up, even after he showers me with compliments.

We’re trying a new recipe this evening, and I want to impress him and my father. They’ve been kind enough to teach me the ins and outs of my family’s restaurant that’s tucked away in a small neighborhood bordering Queens and Brooklyn. It’s been two years since I graduated high school, and my father decided against sending me to culinary school since the one I wanted to attend was overseas, so I’ve been grateful to work directly with António instead. Tonight is the perfect opportunity to showcase how far I’ve come and instill more faith in me taking over the restaurant someday soon.

Sometimes I wonder if I’d have to work myself this hard if I'd been born my father’s heir. My older brother Ricky chose to become a Made Man, a soldier for the Famiglia. It left me to help with the family business, which they were a little reluctant about at first. Traditionally, women in the Famiglia stay home with the children they’re expected to have. Everyone is begrudgingly adjusting to new times, but some men still sneer about it so I’ve had to work twice as hard to prove I’m meant to be here. Others may view my job as a consolation prize, a pity gesture since Ricky opted out. I don’t care because I’d take a shift at the restaurant over trying to become a part of the “society” and marrying the first eligible bachelor who expressed interest in my child-bearing hips. The Famiglia has come a long way from older traditions and I’m sure I could have pushed for college, but the only thing I wanted was to become a chef.

“Do you remember how to make the spaetzle dough?” António asks, setting the bowl of spinach he just wilted on the counter. His eyes roam over my preparation and he nods in approval.

I smile up at him, trying to ignore the admiration that flares in my chest. “I’ve been practicing since I knew you wanted to debut this recipe at Luca’s meeting.”

I try not to wince at the familiarity of his name falling from my lips. Luca is the son of the Underboss of New York, but I grew up knowing him as Ricky’s closest friend. Sometimes it’s hard to forget that others don’t see him as often as my family does, especially living farther away from the more prominent parts of the city.

He nods again, lingering next to me. “Perhaps we should do a test run before preparing the entire dough.”

Annoyance has me gritting my teeth for a second. I haven’t messed up the entire time I’ve been training under him, but he still doesn’t trust me to complete the steps without his help. I force the smile back on my face. “Of course.”

The patronizing grin he gives me in return is a reminder that he has more experience and I still have a lot to learn—or so my father would say. António is one of the better chefs for the Famiglia, and while it’s nothing compared to the chefs Luca’s family has employed in Manhattan or even Little Italy in the Bronx, I know that my family’s restaurant has bloomed with the help of António’s creations.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s attractive for an older man. His dark hair is peppered with some gray, and from what I hear his lean frame makes him quite sought after by widowed and single women. He’s been enthusiastic to teach me, which is more than I can say about some sous chefs we’ve employed. I owe a lot to António, considering the possibility of me working here hinges on his agreement. Over the past two years, I’ve grown more confident under his gentle, if sometimes condescending teaching, and I think of him as a mentor turned friend.

The door to the kitchen swings open and then slams shut. Some dishes on the rack closest to the dishwasher rattle from the force. We both startle and António takes a step back from me. There’s nothing inappropriate between us and my brother has cameras to ensure it, but it doesn’t stop the scowl spreading on Ricky’s face as he glances between us.

“Can I have a moment with my sister?”

I wipe my hands on the apron and untie it, glaring at him for addressing anyone but me with that question. He knows I hate when men act like that, especially when we weren’t raised in a traditional household that tried to indoctrinate that bullshit. My father held his tongue in public, but behind closed doors he was more lenient about voicing his opinions of the old ways.

“I’ll get the dough started,” António says as I follow Ricky out of the kitchen and into our father’s small office. It’s crammed with boxes of supplies, leaving enough room for a single wooden desk and the standing safe. It forces Ricky and me to stand closer than we usually would, and I try to ignore the scent of cigarettes and something far darker coming from him. It’s more of a sinister aura that lingers around most Made Men.

He waits until the click of the door lock, and then he guards it with crossed arms and stares me down with a suspicious look. “Anything going on with you two?”

I roll my eyes. “You would know if there is. I’m sure you check the cameras religiously.”

My brother grins because it’s true. He’s texted me more than once about how hideous I look with my face flushed with sweat and hair sticking all over the place by the end of the night. Rolling his shoulders, he glances around the office, not looking for anything in particular. His eyebrows furrow and his eyes shift for a brief moment with an expression I don’t recognize. He clears his throat and turns back to me before I can ask. “Luca is coming by tonight.”

“I know. That’s why we’re preparing already.”

My brother nods, but it doesn’t seem like he’s listening. He’s dressed casually in a black t-shirt and jeans. His unruly near-black hair, similar to mine, is unstyled so I assume they didn’t go into the offices. Most of the time when they’re in Manhattan they all wear suits. “Have you heard the rumors about Luca’s father?” he asks.

Tommasso Genovese, Luca’s father, is the Underboss of New York for the Cosa Nostra. He’s the head of the Genovese Famiglia, but he’s been scarce in public outings the past year and Luca’s presence has increased tenfold.

While my family may be low in the ranks of the Famiglia, Ricky became friends with the Underboss’s son at school. I know our father doesn’t mind him rising in the ranks of Made Men, but some nights I worry about the brother I once knew and the cruelty he’s probably seen and been a part of.

“Some. Are they true?” I reply, my voice lower than a whisper. Since working at the restaurant, I’ve been more privy to gossip than usual.

Ricky shrugs. “Luca is keeping quiet, even to us. But there’s something else.”

He swallows and my stomach hollows, knowing it must be bad. “He’s gathering all the eligible women. I think he’s going to arrange a marriage with Chicago or Jersey.”

“Isn’t that a good thing? Marriages can bring peace, can’t they?” If Luca arranged with Jersey, that’d be the shock of the century. There’s been war between us and the Irish for decades. It doesn’t help that our borders are so close to each other. I heard the Irish technically hold Philadelphia as their most prosperous city, but they seem to reside in Jersey more.

My brother flinches, running a hand through his hair. “He asked, Belle. I couldn’t lie, he would see through it.”

An uneasy ache in my chest has me grabbing his arm. “What did Luca ask?”

His eyes darken with despair. “He asked if you need to be removed from the book.”

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