3. Trilby

T rilby

Black paint splatters in raindrops over the canvas. If I tilt my head and narrow my eyes, it looks like a shower of bullets.

There's no escape.

It's even seeped into my art.

The visions that haunt me every night were bound to work their way into my paintings. It was inevitable. What I wouldn't give for a peaceful night—one where I don't startle awake repeatedly, gasping for breath, or surface feeling like I haven't slept at all because my dreams have exhausted me.

Last night I shunned Sera's offer of a sleeping pill—further proof she knows more about my tortured sleeping pattern than she's letting on—because I didn't want to wake up even groggier than usual. But after Papa delivered the news I was to marry a Di Santo, my nightmares were filled with more darkness and destruction, so I guess the joke's on me.

I drop the paintbrush into a pot and sit at my dressing table. As I smudge some highlighter onto my cheeks, something sparkles in the corner of my eye. I open the ballerina jewelry box Mama gave me as a kid and pull out the hair comb I usually only wear once a year. Its clusters of crystals shine up at me, a glimmer of light in a sea of gray.

I remember the first time I saw Mama wear this comb in her hair. It was my parents' tenth wedding anniversary, and they were heading out to dinner, leaving me and Sera with Papa's sister, Aunt Allegra. I was six years old. I begged Mama to let me wear it one day. I remember how she laughed. I don't know if her laugh really did sound like silver bells in the wind, but I certainly remember it that way.

I was asleep when they returned home, but when I awoke the following morning, the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a cluster of crystals on my pillow. I folded my small hand around the comb and clutched it to my heart. It was then—and still is—the most precious thing I own.

I scoop my hair up on one side and tuck the comb in to hold it in place just as the doorbell rings.

It doesn't take me long to reach the door. My apartment is small, but it's all I need. It was converted from a garage attached to the main house just before Mama died, and I made such a fuss about wanting to move into it so I could grieve in peace that Papa didn't have the heart to deny me. It also meant that when Allegra moved in to take over the care of me and my sisters, she could have my old room.

Unlike most Italian women in our community, Allegra has never married or had children. She's always been a doting aunt, though, even if she sometimes has a funny way of showing it.

As soon as I open the door, Allegra struts past me, curling a lip at my painting outfit and brandishing a hideous pair of shoes, which she promptly places on my bedroom floor. "Trilby, please change out of that sack. We have to leave in five minutes."

I take a steadying breath and step out of the paint-splattered overalls.

"And put these on." She points to the shoes and huffs impatiently. "Now is not the time to be arriving fashionably late."

I arch a brow and peer down at the beige kitten heels. There'll be nothing fashionable about it in those. Only late.

"I'm not in any hurry to marry the Mafia," I say, slipping my feet reluctantly into the ugly shoes.

She yanks a strap a little too hard. "Honey, you're not marrying the Mafia. You're marrying one man."

"One man who happens to be head of the biggest crime family in New York." The thought still makes me shudder. I find it ironic that as someone who detests violence in all its forms, I have to marry perhaps the biggest source of it this side of Chicago.

"Come on, Trilby." Her tone's tight, and I can tell I'm testing her patience. "If you cast your net wide enough in this neighborhood, sooner or later you're gonna reel in a made man."

"He's a little more than a made man," I mutter.

Allegra glares at me, sympathy morphing into despair. "We live in modern-day New York, and your father is one of the family's most trusted associates. Marrying a Di Santo man was practically inevitable, and to marry the don himself is the highest privilege of all."

"And a death sentence to boot," I add under my breath.

"Don't be such a pessimist." Allegra folds her arms defensively and nods pointedly at the shoes. "Now look—they're not so bad, are they?"

I'd prefer to take my chances and argue, but it's clear nothing will get me out of wearing these godawful heels. "These aren't really my style."

"They're chic, Trilby. They're befitting of a sophisticated Mafia wife. You're going to have to get used to wearing?—"

"Beige?" I cock my head to one side.

Allegra rolls her eyes and stands back to take a good look at the beigeness that is, apparently, my palette for the foreseeable future. "You won't be wearing neutrals entirely," she says with narrowed eyes. "It's a funeral, dear. You're wearing black today."

She reaches behind her and presents me with an outfit only a widow from the 1800s would be seen dead in. In fact, many were probably buried in such a garment. It's calf-length, with an A-line skirt in starched cotton, and a blouse buttoned up to the neck.

I stare back at Allegra, feeling my brows caressing my hairline. "I'm not wearing that ," I say without thinking. "It is neither chic nor sophisticated."

For a second she looks at me as if I've slapped her. Then I realize my mistake.

"I mean, I'm sure it was sophisticated and chic once upon a time, but, um ... it's not really the style anymore. I may not want this marriage, but I'd at least like to feel comfortable enough to make a good impression. I'm sorry, Allegra."

She puts the dress back into a suit bag and mutters under her breath something about it being good enough for her grandmother.

I shuffle in the hideous heels to my closet and pull out a 1940s black lace shift dress. This one's also calf-length, but it's pencil cut, with a fitted bodice, long, tapered sleeves, and a sweetheart neckline. It's demure, classic, and subtly sexy.

Allegra rolls her gaze up and down the dress and gives a begrudging nod. "I'll see you outside in five minutes. Please stop drinking coffee ..." She glares at the half-empty mug on my desk. "It makes your teeth yellow. And don't be a second late. This is the funeral of the century—I will drag you there naked if I have to."

Crowds line both sides of the street as we drive to the church. The atmosphere is disconcerting. Some people lower their eyes and their hats in respect as we pass; others raise a glass of grappa and dance about in celebration.

New York hasn't seen a funeral like this in decades—absolutely not one for a member of the mob. I even spot a policeman or two among the crowd, singing along to the Toreador Song, Gianni Di Santo's favorite opera aria.

When we arrive at the church the mood outside is decidedly more somber. We step out of the car wordlessly and file up the stone steps. Sera slips her hand into mine, and we walk through the double doors together. A man in a Catholic robe directs us to the left-hand side and tells us to sit in row nine.

"I thought this was a funeral, not a trip to the movies," Bambi whispers behind me.

"Oh, sure, didn't you know?" Tess replies in her signature monotone drawl. "It's a special showing of The Godfather ."

I keep my lips tightly and politely sealed, but I can see what she means. Before us is a blanket of black suits, black hair, and bulges in black jackets where guns are tucked into waistbands. A few women are scattered about sobbing into handkerchiefs, their faces hidden by black satin veils.

I shuffle along the pew and settle at the farthest end from the action. It's intentional. I want to remain anonymous and hidden for as long as possible.

I don't miss Allegra's glare when she ends up with the aisle seat.

Papa continues to the front and greets some of the black suits. I've encountered made men over the years due to the nature of his agreement with Gianni, but none of them have made a memorable impression.

"Oh my lord," Bambi mutters—then she's abruptly scolded by Allegra for using God's name in vain. She lowers her voice to a whisper. "Is that the body in there?"

We all look to the front of the church, where there indeed is the coffin. One advantage of being fourteen is Bambi has been spared from most of the funerals our family has been invited to over the years. Seeing an open coffin is an understandable surprise.

"Of course it is," Allegra snaps. "His family and associates will want to pay their respects."

Tess grimaces. "But do they have to see the dead body to do that?"

Bambi makes a quiet retching sound. "I think I might be sick."

"Can you see Savero?" Sera whispers beside me.

I shake my head. "I don't know who I'm looking for."

"You haven't Googled your future husband?" she asks, aghast.

"No, I haven't had time." I've actually had lots of time—another lovely side effect of nightmare-induced insomnia—but I can't bring myself to face my future yet.

She leans in to my ear. "There he is."

My blood pumps erratically. "Where? How do you know?"

"I did Google him," she whispers. "I want to know what kind of person my sister will be spending the rest of her life with."

"And?"

"There. To the right. Papa's approaching him now."

My eyes narrow on the man my father is weaving his way toward. When Papa stops, my gaze pans to a tall figure, slim but solid. From the back, he looks like every other man in the church, albeit a couple of inches taller. But when he turns his head to the left, I see sharp, prominent features, a strong Roman nose and hooded brow, and lips that are full but slightly downturned. He's not unattractive, but he doesn't make my pulse race. Then again, I haven't even spoken to him. He might have a glittering personality.

"He's ... quite handsome," Sera says, but her attempt at enthusiasm falls flat.

"Yeah, if you like that same old suited and booted Italian greaseball look." I pop a mint into my mouth and suck it to stop any more incriminating words leaving my lips.

"Hmm," she muses. "He doesn't look as greasy as some of them."

I scan the other black suits and tip my head to one side to assess Savero from a different angle.

"Is that him?"

I turn to see Tess staring at my future husband. Her top lip is curled and her face partially turned away as if she's recoiling in horror. She's never been one to conceal her true feelings.

"Thanks a lot, Tess," I mutter under my breath, while Sera elbows her in the ribs.

"Owww." She spins toward us, then her face falls. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make that face out loud."

"You've really got to learn to be more expressive," Sera says. She leans into me. "He's a Gemini sun. Without his time of birth I can't work out the rest of his chart, but I wouldn't be surprised if he has Virgo somewhere."

"How do you know?"

"Smart, understated. Obviously a perfectionist."

"Aren't Geminis supposed to have split personalities?" I whisper.

She doesn't get a chance to reply before Papa and Savero turn and look over at us. My blood heats from chest to cheek. I hate being the center of attention at the best of times, but like this, I feel like a prize cow being sold at market.

There's no flicker of interest in Savero's eyes when he narrows them in my direction. In fact, they're ice shards perusing me.

"Jeez," I mumble. "Could he at least look like he's pleased at the prospect of marrying me?"

Sera rests a hand on my arm. "Remember, it is his father's funeral, and he's now the boss of New York's biggest Mafia family. He probably has a lot on his mind."

I sigh. It's a fair point, but it doesn't make me feel any less uncomfortable.

The service ends far too soon for my liking. Six of the men who were sitting in the top two pews lift the black lacquered coffin, with its ostentatious gold trim, and carry it down the aisle to the exit. Then what I assume to be actual family, as opposed to Mafia family, follow next.

I glance sideways at Savero as he passes, but his gaze doesn't flicker my way. It makes me feel invisible and anxious, like I'm about to fall into a deep, deep hole from which no one can rescue me. I look down before the rest of his family passes because I can't face any of them yet. After today, I'll have a lifetime to get to know them. Right now, I want to bathe in ignorance a little while longer.

Papa stands and ushers Allegra and my sisters toward the exit before turning his expectant gaze to me. He finally seems to notice my outfit, and I can't tell from his tight huff whether it's a good choice or bad. No matter—there's no way I could have embarked on this day in the dress Allegra picked out for me.

"Remember what we talked about." Papa's stern warning comes out of the corner of his lips. "Give him your full attention. Only speak when you're spoken to. And always be polite and courteous."

I sigh despondently. "How else would I be, Papa?"

He wraps a hand around my elbow and walks me to the exit, where Savero is talking to the priest. Beyond the church building, the coffin is being carried across the lawns to the cemetery, where it'll be lowered into the ground.

We stand to the side of the aisle and wait. Papa may think this is polite, but I think it's weak. I hate the way we're already walking on eggshells around the man who is basically robbing us of our family business.

Finally, the priest nods in our direction, and Savero turns around. His gaze finds me instantly and rakes over my outfit before clawing its way back up to my face. His expression barely moves.

"Mr. Di Santo," Papa says, making me step forward. "Meet my eldest daughter, Trilby Castellano."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," I say in my most polite voice. "And I'm so sorry for your loss."

My offer of condolence makes him pause, and for a second a flash of sorrow crosses his face. But just as quickly, it's gone, and his eyes lick me up and down as though I'm an appetizer he hasn't ordered but will, with some reluctance, eat anyway.

"Likewise, Miss Castellano. And thank you . "

Only a few people remain inside the church, but they all watch our stilted first meeting with ravenous curiosity. I feel self-conscious and slightly sick. This is the man I'm going to marry. The man I'll spend the rest of my life with. The thought hollows my stomach.

"It was a beautiful service." I lapse into my default state of trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"Yes, beautiful," Papa echoes. "Thank you for the invitation to the church."

Savero looks back at me, his features stoic. "It made sense. We would have had to bring our families together to celebrate our impending union at some point—why not kill two birds with one stone?"

"Well, it's an honor," Papa says, while I refrain from rolling my eyes into the back of my head. I hate seeing Papa suck up to this man knowing everything he's doing to our family.

Savero shrugs like it's nothing. "We'll be having a simple buffet afterward at The Grand, followed by a toast to my father, then we'll announce our engagement."

"Perfect," Papa replies, patting my arm.

Suits move around us quietly, preparing for the next part of the funeral: the burial. One of them is halfway past us when Savero thumps him on the back. Hearing my father's instructions echoing in my ears, I dare not look away from Savero—but then something otherworldly draws my gaze to the right.

The "back" turns around, and the frigid air heats up.

" Fratello , meet my fiancée . . ."

It takes no more than a second for me to recognize the man. Then my breath leaves the building.

I've seen those Barolo-colored eyes before. They swim somewhere between the desire to remember and the need to forget, swaddled in blue lagoons and dark stares.My brain claws around for details until they fly at me thick and fast. Joe's Bar, the dark-eyed stranger whose gaze burned my skin and whose words probed at my story.

"... Trilby Castellano." Savero's voice sounds faraway, as if I'm traveling through a tunnel toward it.

I'm pretty sure my face has drained of color. Those full-bodied eyes betray no emotion as shame floods my veins. In this moment I can read his thoughts. He's looking at a drunk. Someone undeserving of his family name. Of his brother .

He lifts his hand. "Miss Castellano," he drawls. "It's a pleasure."

I blink. We've met before, but he's chosen not to divulge that.

"This is Cristiano, my brother," Savero says.

I slip my hand into Cristiano's, and he wraps his fingers around it until his grip is firm and mainlining fire down my arm.

"Cristiano," I say, weakly. "Pleased to meet you."

Those deep, dark eyes watch me with indifference while blood rushes back to my cheeks. Seconds pass, and he doesn't let go of my hand. His skin warms me like a faint memory, and the sensation of being caught in his arms makes my bones soft.

I try to pull away, but he holds my hand fast, a small smile curling one corner of his lips. Just as I sense Papa's gaze zeroing in on the contact, Cristiano lets go.

My hand feels suddenly cold. I already miss the heat of his grip.

"Excuse me sir... " A portly man with a bald head and searching eyes pushes his way towards us. "The service is about to start."

Savero's right eye ticks before he pans his gaze to the man. His jaw is like steel, his body alarmingly calm. Which is why what happens next makes my heart stop.

"What did I say about interrupting me, Franco?"

Instantly, the bald man flinches as though he's been physically hit.

"Um, I'm sorry sir. I, um..."

Savero is unfazed by his blustering, and continues in a patronising tone. "And what don't I like to do?"

Franco swallows, and because the church has fallen silent, I can hear the movement in his throat.

"Um, repeat yourself, sir."

He takes a step backward and hits a pew. Raw fear fills his face.

In the blink of eye, Savero pulls something from his jacket pocket. My gaze catches on a flash of silver before a blade is driven into the side of Franco's neck, then dragged down his chest to his sternum.

Franco's eyes widen in shock. He's alive, yet, he's just been sliced open.

My breath stutters and I snap my lips together. I anchor my focus on Franco's face because that's the only visible part of him that isn't pulsing out of his skin.

Someone hands Savero a crisp white handkerchief which he uses to wipe the blood off the blade before sliding it back into his jacket. I can feel the tension vibrating through Papa as we both hover like reluctant spectators.

Franco's legs buckle and the wooden pew creaks beneath his weight. Before he can slide to the floor, Savero puts a hand to Franco's throat, plunges his fingers inside and pulls out his jugular.

I finally find the strength to avert my gaze. I don't turn my head—something tells me that if this was a test, turning away would get me an instant fail—but I direct my attention over Savero's shoulder. I don't see anything though. My focus is turned inward, working overtime to stop the tears that want to fall. My mama's face flashes across my lids and I bite down hard on my lip, drawing blood. A frozen chill wraps around me raising all the hairs on my body.

In the distance, I hear Franco's body thud against the flagstones, and the gurgling eventually stops.

It's only when my face warms that I realise my gaze has settled on Cristiano. He's staring back at me, his stance primed, his eyes full yet narrowed. I hold onto that stare like a life raft, half conscious of people moving around us, stepping over Franco's body as though he's roadkill.

I sense Savero hand the bloodied cloth back to one of his men, then he turns to me and Papa.

"Please excuse me. I look forward to seeing you at the hotel."

I drag my focus back to my future husband and ignore the nausea crawling up my throat, burning up my chest. He is eerily calm, as though he extracts body parts from only partially dead people every day of the week—even Sundays.

"Of course," Papa replies. His voice is hoarse.

We both watch Savero leave.

Papa's arm has turned to stone; he doesn't feel the heat of Cristiano's hard gaze like I do, and something in me knows we have to at least appear able to take this kind of shit in our stride. I squeeze his arm tightly. Imperceptibly.

Papa inhales beside me and I feel the blood pumping defensively beneath his skin. "We should get going," he says. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Cristiano. You're looking well, and more like your father than ever. You were just a boy when we last met." I close my fingers around his arm to stop him from rambling.

My eyes flick back to Cristiano who smiles stiffly. I try to imagine him as a boy, but I can't get past those sharp cheekbones and strong jaw or his sheer height. He's overwhelmingly there , as though his presence has wrapped itself around me, blocking out all the light.

"I'm not sure that's a good thing, but thank you," he replies, smoothly. Too smoothly.

Papa straightens, snapping back to his more professional demeanor. "Well, it's good to see you. I hope we can speak again soon."

Even through the haze of shock, I can tell Papa genuinely likes Cristiano. I know when he genuinely likes someone, and when he doesn't but knows what's good for him.

"That would be nice."

I hear the "but" in Cristiano's tone and dart my eyes toward him. He drapes me in a loaded gaze that weaves a trail of fire from my head to my beige-clad toes.

"But this is only a fleeting visit. I'm not staying."

I feel my heart drop an inch—probably in relief. I don't know how I'd be able to cope living under this man's glare while married to his brother. His sick, callous, murderous brother.

What would Savero do if he knew I'd been out in the city alone, drinking and talking to men I don't know? I hope Cristiano doesn't breathe a word about it, because if Savero can tear someone's throat out in the middle of a church no less, at his own father's goddamned funeral, in front of his future wife and father-in-law, without so much as a blink, for simply interrupting , I don't stand a chance.

I hear Papa bid Cristiano farewell as though there isn't a dead bald guy at our feet and blood pooling around our shoes. I don't respond. I'm not even engaged yet and I'm done with the tests.

As we walk, numbly, away from the church, oxygen returns to my lungs, along with the strange feeling that I've left something behind.

I check for my purse. It's hanging from my shoulder. I check for my sunglasses. They're on my head. I smooth down my dress. It doesn't help. There's a burning sensation on the back of my neck, and I hope I'm not coming down with the flu.

I turn around on impulse, and all those feelings disappear.

Cristiano is standing on the edge of the circle of mourners, his back turned to them all. He's not paying any attention to the burial taking place behind him, nor to the sobbing women to his left and his right.

Instead, he's staring. Dead ahead.

At me.