Page 3 of Of Oaths and Secrets

My mother used to be full of life and dreams—scarily like me, without the limitations I suffer from. We look a lot alike—we both have blonde hair and blue eyes, and we’re both vertically challenged, as my father always says, since she’s five-two and I’m five-one. She is lithe, though, like a gymnast, something she was back in high school before the reality of our world, the mafia world, forced her to choose marriage and family.

It wasn't the marriage that broke her. No, her smile was genuine in her wedding photos, her eyes shining with so much hope that it makes my heart squeeze.

The issue is my father.

Well, not him as a person. Even given his lifestyle, he's not a monster. He’s loving to me and respectful to her. Despite all her antics, he’s never hit her or even raised his voice to her. No, the problem is that my mother loved him—desperately so—when they got married, but he never loved her back.

I shake my head. No, I will not let any darkness spoil my day.

I am finishing my filling when my father enters the kitchen.

“What is smelling so good?” he asks, patting his stomach, causing me to give him a genuine smile.

My father, Maurizio Falcone, is a striking man in his early fifties. His hair, once a deep black, is now generously streaked with gray, giving him a distinguished appearance. He’s tall and well-built, with a strong jawline and piercing green eyes. His charm and good looks have only improved with age, making him look like he stepped out of an old Hollywood movie. And though we share genetics, we don't look much alike.

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” he says, pulling me into a warm hug. The scent of his cologne mixes with the sweet aroma of the cake batter, creating a comforting blend of familiarity and love.

“Thanks, Dad,” I reply, hugging him tightly. “I’m making my Tropical Delight Cake. It’s a new recipe.”

He releases me, looking genuinely interested. “Sounds amazing. What’s in it?”

“It’s a coconut and chocolate base with a hint of cardamom, layered with mango puree and passion fruit curd, and finished with a light coconut frosting and toasted coconut flakes,” I explain, my excitement bubbling over.

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You always know how to make something special.” He ruffles my hair gently. “Well, I can’t wait to taste it. You know I’m your biggest fan.”

I beam at him. “I know, Dad. You’re home early.”

“I wanted to give you this.” He slides a jewelry box on the counter, his smile widening. “And I thought I could finish the day at home. I have amazing news for you.”

“Oh, you do?” I rest my hand on my chest, feeling a rush of excitement. “Tell me!”

He gives me a teasing smile. “No, I’ll tell you at dinner. I just have a few things to finalize first.”

I nod excitedly, my heart hammering in my chest as I try to figure out what it could be. My mind races with possibilities. I finished my degree in English literature a few months back, and my dad was reluctant to let me do a master’s. I stopped hoping it would be just a one-year break. I’m supposed to be married by now, or at least engaged. I’m getting on the “older” side, and frankly, I love my father for not forcing me. A couple of men approached him, but when I told him—quite bluntly—of my disinterest, he didn’t insist.

Yes, my father may be mafia, but he’s not a monster, not to me, at least. He’s always been particularly understanding, especially since… well, he knows I have to be careful with stress.

Maybe he convinced the capo to leave me be, and maybe his surprise is an agreement to continue my studies. I didn’ttell him, but I have a spot in the graduate program at NYU. I postponed acceptance for now, but maybe this is the chance. Maybe now I can go.

“I’ll see you at dinner, sweetheart,” he says, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

“Can’t wait,” I reply, giving him a warm smile, wishing it was dinner already.

After he leaves the room, I look down at the jewelry box, curiosity burning within me. I slowly open it and gasp. Inside is a delicate gold necklace with a small, intricate locket.

I lift it gently, my fingers tracing the fine details. I open it and find a tiny photo of my father holding me as a baby on one side. The other side is empty, but there is a small card inside the box. I unfold it and read: “The other side will be for your husband and own child.”

My heart sinks for so many reasons. He still believes I will marry and, even more, get pregnant despite all the challenges it represents for me. The fleeting pain in my back is a familiar warning, one that keeps me grounded in the reality that my body is not as strong as I wish it were. My father’s concern isn’t just about marriage; it’s about the unspoken understanding that I have limits—limits I must constantly navigate, and ones he doesn’t want me to face alone.

I take a deep breath and let it out, focusing on the moment rather than the worry that occasionally shadows my days.

This is why my father is so understanding, why he doesn't push me into the same mold as the other daughters in our world. He knows the importance of allowing me to live my life at my own pace.

I finish the cake with a smile on my lips. I don’t care what my mother says; for me, baking my cake is a tradition. One that started from a dark memory but turned out quite positive.

Make the best of a bad situationis my life motto.

I used to get these big fancy birthday parties every year. I hated them, but it was something for my father—a way to lavish me with fatherly love in the eyes of all. That is, until my fateful twelfth birthday when my mother popped one too many pills and destroyed the cake, making the rest of the party a completely awkward event.

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