Page 12 of Fall
4
Natalia
I wish I could cancel tonight.
I let out a jagged sigh after Vinny escorts me to my room and leaves me alone with my unopened luggage. Turning eighteen is a big deal within the Italian community, but there's a dark cloud hanging over everything, andit won't go away just because it's my birthday. Something's going on, but as usual, no one is talking.
I hate this shit sometimes.
Leaning on the inside of my bedroom door. I inhale a long breath. As I scan in the room, I take it all in again. My room. My home. Everything is exactly as I left it. I start to think I should've listened to my father when he suggested redecorating itover the summer while I was away. Somehow, the pale pink paint, soft cream four poster bed and matching dressers and decor, and all the toys, dolls, books, and gifts I accumulated during my childhood don't fit who I am anymore.
It's strange, having been away for so long and returning to find that nothing is different. I know I've changed. Traveling to where my family came from was enlighteningthis time. Our customs and traditions, our values and practices seemed so rigid before. I used to think that being Italian, and being the daughter of a mob boss was like living without choices or free will. Maybe I still believe those things, but on this trip, Nonna tried to set me straight. She's been working so hard on bringing me around. And a part of me wants to please her to be who shewants me to be. I'd make her the happiest woman in the world if I could start to think of my family's way of life as a comfort. It's predictable. Everyone knows their place. We understand what to say, how to act, who we are obligated to become, and what's expected of us in every setting and situation. Above all, we're crystal clear on consequences if we deviate from those expectations.
But I can’t.
I’m not like them.
I’m opinionated, headstrong, and willful.
Not the traits anyone wants to see in a young Italian woman.
Once in a while, Nonna tells me it’s because I grew up in America.
That could be true.
But maybe it’s because I grew up without her.
Stepping over to my vanity dressing table, I reach for the one thing I missed dearlyduring my entire trip away. I slip the delicate yellow gold necklace into my palm and run my fingers down its cool ridges to the one of a kind pendant, letting the memories of my mother come to the surface. The good moments. Like her smile. And the way her eyes would sparkle like diamonds whenever she was happy. Lifting the pendant, I kiss the shield and wish she was still here, my eyes pressedshut as I try to push back the tears threatening to form.
It’s been almost nine years since we lost her. Mother would’ve loved to see me turn eighteen. If she were planning this party, it would be a small affair. Immediate family members and only a few close friends. That was her style. Soft and subtle, elegant and stately.
I swallow hard as I let her solid gold family crest restin the middle of my palm. Mother never wore this piece of jewelry. She hung it across her dressing room vanity table just like I do now. A daily reminder of where we came from. She had this made based on her family’s crest. A flattened ancient gladiator’s helmet fused to a soldier’s shield with a dragon, an eagle, an olive branch, and a spear. And at its base, a ribbon with the family slogan.Non sine periculo vita y amor. Depending on who you ask, the Latin phrase is translated in a few ways. Mother used to say it meant life and love are worth the risk. According to Nonna, it means you can’t have a life filled with love without a bit of danger.
But Father, he’s got a whole different perspective.
He thinks it has only one meaning.
Love is deadly.
On thosedays when I used to unashamedly resort to begging him to let me have a life like a normal teenager, he would tell me that my love is his weakness. But after he said it to me, the ice in his eyes always melted a little, and those words were always accompanied by lighthearted chuckles and his warmest hugs.
A loud and firm yet familiar knock at the door pulls me out of my content memoriesto the reality that is my father.
“It’s open, Father,” I answer. Returning the necklace and family crest to its spot, I glance in the oval dresser mirror and neaten my hair. I quickly pull myself together before turning toward the door, replacing my pensive expression with as wide a smile as I can manage. He has this uncanny way of figuring out when I’m missing Mother, and I know it saddenshim to see me looking sad or vulnerable. He has enough on his plate, more than enough to worry about. Like so many times before, I want to do what I can to avoid adding to his woes. “You can come in.”
The door creaks open, revealing my father’s imposing figure on the other side. Paolo Romano. One of the most powerful mob bosses on this continent. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him inweeks, but I can’t get over how large he is. His broad frame fills the doorway and then some as he glances up before stepping inside a few feet. A welcoming smile relaxes his smooth, youthful face. Everyone swears he has some secret skin care regimen that keeps him looking young. No one believes he’s already fifty. Sometimes I don’t either when I see this smile he saves only for me, the one thatwarms his eyes and softening his buttoned-up, professional persona in those custom business suits he wears from morning until night.
“How’s my beautiful birthday girl?” he asks, spreading his arms wide for a loving hug.
"Good, Father," I say, and step into his arms. Resting my head on his chest, I'm reminded of our height difference as his embrace engulfs me. His six-foot-four bear-likebody dwarfs my narrow shoulders and five-foot-three athletic frame. But every time he holds me like this, I feel safe, like nothing and no one could ever do me harm. "I missed you so."
"I missed you more, princess. How was your trip?" He's the only person on the planet who can call me that and not cause me to flinch. I remember one of the girls in the neighborhood who went to my privateschool overheard Father call me princess. She was passing by his town car on the way into the school gates that morning. Before lunch, the whole school was calling mePrincess.
For weeks on end, they teased me incessantly with every variation of the nickname they could think up.Mafia princess, princess Natalia, lady Natalia, Italian princess, princess boss lady, evenprincess Leah, whichmade no sense to me at all. They were all hoping for a reaction as they goaded me relentlessly. But I gave them nothing, plastering on a cold facade to shut them down. Then it stopped as suddenly as it started, as the kids moved on to torture someone else, which is the way things usually are.
“Natalia?” his questioning tone as he utters my name pulls me from my silly childhood thoughts.“Are you doing okay?”
“Yes, Father.” I glance up into his steel gray eyes, somewhat darkened by his thick, black eyelashes and jet black hair. “Sorry, I must be a bit tired. Jetlag,” I tell him. “My trip was really nice. Nonna took me to see so much of your family. Oh, and your great Uncle Fulvio said to tell you hello.”
