Page 2 of Heritage of Fire

In that moment, I thought the world of my father. His defense of me solidified a bond I’d thought would never break.

I was wrong.

My dresser drawers are overstuffed, but I manage to dig out a pair of acceptable white dress shorts. Then I fumble through my closet for a long-sleeve black turtleneck. My hair, which has half fallen out of its bun anyway, tumbles the rest of the way down my back when I slide my shirt over my head. Leaning over, I let my hair hang, then snap it back up for some quick volume.

I pad into the ensuite bathroom and reach for my makeup bag. As I dab a few dots of concealer underneath my eyes, a red, sun-kissed nose reflects back at me in the mirror, clashing with my olive skin.

I must’ve been out longer than I thought.

After adding a few more smudges of makeup and a swipe of lip balm across my lips, I step back and cringe, a hollow feeling seeping into my stomach—I look like my mom.

The rumble in my belly nags at me to quickly return to the table.

Giulia’s cooking has always called to me. That woman can make it all. She tries to teach me a little bit here and there, but I’m a lost cause, burning everything to a crisp.

I bolt back down the stairs and through the kitchen, but stop in my tracks when I notice my dad conversing with a man I’ve never seen before. He’s probably around the same age as my father and has a fair complexion, his features striking and sharp. I watch as he leans against the brick retaining wall surrounding the pool area, his hands animated as he speaks.

As if sensing my presence, the stranger glances over his shoulder and offers me an eerily calm smirk. A prickle of curiosity causes me to pause, and I realize I’ve lingered longer than I should.

Set on ignoring the glimmer in the man’s eye and the swelling sensation of dread, I march back to the table where my mom and sister are engaged in a game of Who Can Be Silent the Longest. It’s a shame I’m not playing; I usually win.

I sit down to my plate of spaghetti carbonara, a favorite of mine, and reach for my water. It’s customary to wait on my father before we eat, so I stare at the twisted noodles mixed with bacon and chicken willing him to hurry up.

To pass the time, I trace the table's rough wood grain with my finger; the lines riddled with pockmarks and knife damage.Overly emotional family dinners and drunk Cosa Nostra men have quite literally left their mark.

“Isabella, put the phone away. Here comes your father.”

It’s a shock we can even understand my mother when she talks through her clenched teeth. She doesn’t like being caught having to correct her daughters in front of my father—it would imply she isn’t doing her job.

My sister rolls her eyes and tosses her phone in her lap before picking up her fork to twirl her pasta.

“Forgive me, love, that conversation couldn’t wait,” my father says as he sits at the end of the table opposite my mother. I glance back toward the pool, but the stranger is gone. My mother doesn’t say anything, only offers a polite smile.

My father picks up his fork and dives into his meal, signaling we can as well. I dig in.

“So …” My mother nods toward him.

“It’s done. I go to speak with him the day after tomorrow.”

Intrigue has my ears perking up, all while trying to appear solely interested in my food.

“I can’t believe he agreed to meet with you. This is good news, yeah?” My mother is beaming.

Who is she talking about?

My father raises a finger as his phone buzzes on the table. He answers, “Sí.”

I know better than to listen to his phone call, so I busy myself with my carbonara, savoring the perfection until my plate is empty.

By that point, there’s one roll left in the breadbasket, and when I lift my eyes to glance around the table, I’m met with my sisters. Her gaze snaps from the lone roll then back to mine. We both plunge our hands into the basket, me finding a grip on the buttery goodness first.

“Luna,” my mother’s voice cuts through the carb-driven madness, “another roll will go straight to your hips. Leave it.”

Humiliation heats my cheeks as I release the roll, and my sister promptly grabs it from the basket with a smirk. I poke my tongue out at her, pulling it back before my mother sees and blames me for being improper.

“Miss Buscetta, are you finished?” Giulia’s question snaps me out of my brooding.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, handing her my plate.

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