Page 4 of Of Oaths and Secrets

Everyone left soon after. My father swore it would be the last big party, and I baked myself something simple. This is how the tradition started, and I’ve honed my skills a lot over the years.

With the cake now cooling off, I quickly clean the kitchen and head to my room to get ready for dinner. That’s another tradition—a catered dinner from La Traviata, my favorite restaurant. I don’t like going there; it’s too busy, too loud, just too much. So, once a year, my father treats me to dinner from there, making the evening extra special.

I pick out a dress, something simple yet elegant, and take my time getting ready. As I brush my hair and apply a touch of makeup, I can't help but wonder about the news my father has for me. My heart flutters with anticipation, a mix of hope and fear.

Once dressed, I sit at my vanity and carefully put on the necklace. The locket rests against my skin, a comforting weight that reminds me of my father's unwavering support and love. Tonight is going to be special, I think, looking at my reflection.

When Donna, our housekeeper, knocks at my door announcing dinner, I almost jump out of my seat.

“Your cake looks delicious,” she says, rubbing my back. I love Donna; she’s a little like a grandmother to me.

“I really outdid myself this time,” I say with pride. “I can’t wait for you to try it. Will you have a piece with us at the table?”

She grimaces. “I don’t think your mother will appreciate that, but we can have some in the kitchen together afterward. Whatdo you say? Gino and Marco were ogling it, and we can have it with them.”

I beam at her. “That would be amazing!”

“Plus, we bought you a present.”

My heart bursts with affection and joy. I’m not used to much attention, and their kindness always touches me. “You didn’t have to.”

She hugs me. “I know, but we love you. Come on, dinner time!”

As I follow her down the hallway, I feel a warm sense of belonging. Donna has always been there for me, offering comfort and support in ways my mother never could. She’s part of the small circle of people who truly understand me.

We reach the dining room, and my father is already seated at the head of the table. The aroma of the catered food from La Traviata fills the room, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

I sit down and smile as my mother sips at her drink.

“So, what’s the big news?” I ask just as my father takes his seat again.

He chuckles. “Someone is eager.” He shakes his head. “Okay, fine. You’re going to marry a Lucchese!”

My smile stays frozen on my lips as my heart dips in my chest, and my mother chokes on her drink.

“Excuse me? I’m marrying who?”

“Lucchese.”

“Which one?” my mother asks, her voice sharper than usual.

“Dad…”

“I can’t protect you forever,” my father says, his tone softening slightly as if he knows how this news is affecting me. “You’re twenty-two. The day will come when the capo forces a choice on us. I dodged the suitors you didn’t want, but I can’t do it forever.”

I nod mutedly, my mind spinning. I know I’m luckier than a lot of the other girls in the famiglia. My first “suitor” turned up the day I turned eighteen—Giuseppe Marconi. A creepy old dude in his late fifties. I was horrified, and my father sent him away without hesitation. The second one was two years ago. Martino was not a bad match; he was respectable and well-mannered. But he wanted a wife now, and marrying him would have meant stopping my studies, something I wasn’t ready to do. My father refused him for me too.

“But I have a good deal for you.”

“Oh sure, Maurizio,” my mother snorts, rolling her eyes.

He ignores her and continues, “I spoke to the capo, and I’ve arranged for you to pick from one of his sons. You have a choice, Nora.”

I blink, trying to process the information. I didn’t see that coming. I thought he’d made his peace with my single status, and now he drops the bombshell—I’m marrying into the Lucchese bloodline.

“You could marry Leo Lucchese,” he says, his eyes fixed on me. “Many women would like to have him.”

“And most of them probably did. With him, there would not even be an illusion of faithfulness,” my mother adds, letting out a bitter laugh. My father glares at her, but she doesn’t back down.

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