Page 14 of The Golden Hour

I nod, then gesture to the bench. “May I?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he scoots down—way down—until most of the bench is empty and he’s perched on one corner. He’s gone back to staring at the horizon, a clear indicator that whatever I have to say won’t affect him. Probably true, but I have to try.

Settling on the bench, I shift to face him, my gaze wandering shamelessly over his chiseled profile, the generous lips currently pressed into a thin line. Why does he have to be so tragically beautiful?

It takes effort to pull my gaze away, to focus my thoughts and decide what to tell him. I haven’t spoken of the past in so many years, it feels odd—and frankly, frightening—to tell the truth.

A memory swells, hitting me like a wave.

“When I was eight, my uncle took me to visit my father in prison. My father was livid when he saw me. We—his children—weren’t allowed to visit him. I thought it was because he didn’t want us to see him in a position of weakness, but looking back I realize he was afraid. He and my uncle fought in the way they did—in hushed, rapid Italian. I didn’t understand most of it, but what I did hear was the threat. My father told my uncle to be careful on the slippery road.”

“Where are you going with this?”

Tucking my shaking hands in my pockets, I continue, “Three weeks later, my uncle was dead from a supposedly senseless drive-by shooting.”

More memories—the suited men showing up at my school, pulling me from class. The sympathy in my teacher’s eyes. My stunned classmates. The flashing lights of paparazzi outside as I was guided into a car. My stepmother, waiting inside to break the news… and the small white envelope she handed to me, with two, one-way plane tickets inside.

A message that even at eight years old, I understood.

“No one talked about his death. There was no wake, no funeral, no reading of a will. One day he was there, and the next he was gone. Erased from the family.”

“If your point is that the Avellinos are dangerous, you can stop talking. In case you’ve forgotten, they killed my dad.”

Each word is a little zap of pain to my chest.

“I’m sorry, Finn. Truly I am.” Looking up from my lap, I meet his stormy gaze. “I have three uncles, but Uncle Anthony was everything to me. He died because he was going to take me away, and he was arrogant enough to think no one would figure out what he was planning. After he was killed, I knew I would do everything in my power to get far, far away from them.”

“Why did your uncle want to take you away?” The question is angry, like he’s annoyed he feels compelled to ask.

Swallowing hard, I remind myself he can’t possibly know how hard this is for me, to talk about the life I left behind. He wants answers, and rightfully so. But unfortunately, I don’t have the ones he wants. The whys and hows.

“There are certain, um… responsibilities for the firstborn child. Old-world, traditional stuff. Maintaining the family’s pedigree through marriage, ensuring continued alliances, et cetera. Maybe Anthony knew I wasn’t cut out for all that was expected of me. He was always saying I was too soft.”

His gaze spears me. “They really are the mob, huh?”

“I don’t really know. That word was never spoken, and God help you if you used it in my father’s hearing.” I pause, surprised by the twinge of longing for my father’s gruff voice. “I think that’s part of what makes them so dangerous—the idea that their power and wealth puts them above the law.”

“Yeah, I’ve looked into their financials. The public stuff, anyway. Finance, oil, and real estate. All above-board.” He scoffs. “But they’re not, are they?”

Thinking of my uncle, I whisper, “No,” then clear my throat. “And before you ask, I don’t have some magical USB drive packed with incriminating evidence against my family. My stepmother never trusted me enough to include me in any of the family’s business dealings.”

“Why not?”

I should have known the question was coming, but it still surprises me. Also surprising—the ease with which more truth spills out.

“I’m a spitting image of my mother, who died from an aneurism when I was a year old. My father loved her deeply. On her birthday every year, he’d get drunk and lock himself in his office for hours to look through old photo albums. A few times, he let me join him. Vivian put a stop to that. God, I still remember the yelling when those albums went missing.”

Finn’s lips part, and for a moment I expect him to offer sympathy. But then his gaze hardens.

Before he can speak, I tell him, “Behind her smiling, motherly public persona, Vivian is the worst of them all. If I hadn’t been there when my father had his heart attack, I would have suspected she killed him.”

“And now she wants to be a governor.”

I nod, swallowing hard. “I wasn’t shocked when the news broke. She’s always had high aspirations. She likes to be seen and heard. And since she’s head of the family now, she runs everything, can do whatever she wants.”

“Your other uncles…” He trails off, but the question is clear.

“Sheep,” I say, repeating what Uncle Ant told me long ago. “Raised to follow, not lead. No wives, no children. They’re married to the family.”

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