Page 6 of Captured Fantasy

It wasn’t terrible.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed there was a white envelope on the windowsill with my name written on it. Frowning, I tore open the top. There was a thin slip of paper inside with masculine script scrawled across it and for a moment my breath caught. Hadheleft a note for me?

I blinked and the words came into focus and disappointment twinged through my chest. It was just a note from the underboss over Gino’s jurisdiction, Federico. He must have left it yesterday during the repast. I flipped it over and skimmed the words.

Lorenza Russo,

Carlo Romano requested that I meet with you to set up a guardianship to ensure the proper handling of your late husband’s affairs and property. Please be at my office, tomorrow the twenty-third, to meet with me at ten in the morning.

Federico Antonucci

The name was followed by an address. A slow, cold rage seeped into my bones.

How dare they question my right to receive my husband’s money and property. And a guardianship? My God, I was thirty and I’d spent twelve years managing the house without Gino’s help. I didn’t need the outfit monitoring me as if I were a child. My throat tightened again and my fingers clenched around the paper, crushing it in my fist.

I stood over the sink for a moment longer before going to the trashcan and throwing it inside. The slam of the lid was faintly satisfying.

There was no way around the situation. I had to go or they would come to me and I didn’t have Gino to protect me anymore.

Upstairs in my room, I put on a tight sundress with a little flare above my knees. The sleeves came down to my elbows, but the neckline was wide and left my shoulders completely bare. For a moment, I stood looking at myself in the mirror.

I went to the closet and got a tall pair of heels and slipped them on. That was better. I needed some height to give me confidence.

In the garage sat Gino’s vintage Cadillac, the black exterior coated in a layer of dust. My father had never taught me to drive, but my husband allowed me to learn so I could pick up his prescriptions and cigarettes. I was one of the lucky few women in the outfit who was allowed to leave the house without a man breathing down my neck.

From the tone of Federico’s note, I had a sinking feeling that my freedom might be drawing to a close.

I settled in the Cadillac, setting my trim, black leather purse on the seat beside me and turned on the radio. I unwrapped a stick of gum and put it between my lips, biting into the sweet minty flavor. Surrounded by the familiar, it almost felt like nothing had changed. Like I was on my way to the pharmacy where I would pick up blood pressure medication, stop for an iced tea on the drive home, and find Gino watching television when I returned.

There was a pack of cigarettes in the dash, leftover from the last time Gino had driven the car. I never smoked, but for some reason, today I wanted to. I paused at the end of the driveway, my foot on the brake, and took one of the cigarettes between my lips. I’d seen Gino light a smoke more times than I could count and I knew the flick of the lighter and the little inhale better than my heartbeat.

The smoke poured into my mouth and I coughed once, my lungs clenching at the prospect of drawing it into my body. I knew how bad it was for me, pulling all those carcinogens down my throat, but I did it anyway.

I put the cigarette between my lips and backed out into the road, turning the Cadillac, and headed into the city.

The outfit’s downtown office was on the northern side of the city, about thirty minutes from my house. The office was in a renovated historic house, which made parking difficult. It took me a moment before I finally found a place to pull the car in along the road and gathered my things.

There was a squat bulldog sitting on the front porch and a sign warning against solicitors on the door. Hopefully they heeded the sign as I could see any one of the made men leaning out the door and pistol-whipping unsuspecting Bible salesmen just for daring to knock. Made men could be incredibly unpredictable and easily irritated.

My stomach turned.

I straightened my shoulders and walked up the sidewalk, waves of heat rising beneath my feet. The bulldog on the porch lifted its head, foamy drool spattering the ground as it struggled to its feet. I liked dogs, although Gino had never allowed me to have one, and I knelt down, holding my palm out. The dog stumped closer and allowed me to stroke its bristly hair.

“Can I help you?”

I jumped, rising to my feet and clasping my purse. Amadeo Calabretta stood on the other side of the screen door, his gaze fixed on me over the glass in his hand. He was a tall, slender man with the look of an old Hollywood star, like a young Gregory Peck. Out of all of the underbosses, I felt the most comfortable around him because he had kind, almost soft, dark eyes.

He pushed the door ajar and stepped out.

“Oh, right, you’re here for Rico,” he said.

“Federico Antonucci,” I said.

He waved me through the door. “Yeah, Rico.”

I stepped into the hall, my heels clicking loudly, and paused just inside to allow him to pass me. The interior of the house was powerfully masculine and smelled of whiskey and cigarettes. At least the scent of smoke on my hair and clothes would be masked.

Amadeo led me up a wooden staircase to the upper floor. The first door to the left was wide open and I followed him through, stopping short as a wave of discomfort washed over me.

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