Page 10 of One Savage Union

The name alone makes my stomach churn.

Not to mention his title. Don-what is this, The Godfather?

Is this note from Mama?

No, this has to be a joke.

My hands tremble as I stare at the documents, fear rising in a swift, uncontrollable wave.

Matteo Ricci.

The name is infamous in New York. He’s always in the news—a shadowy figure tied to power plays, criminal enterprises, and a reputation that stretches across continents.

My music professors whisper about the Ricci family like a modern-day legend. They are our most prominent patrons, and here I am, somehow tied to them and tied tohim?

One thing I know for sure is that Matteo Ricci is very White and very Italian. Me? Though I’m the shade of a butter cookie, I’m Blackity Black, Black-Black, and I always have been.

From my thick, beautiful lips to the generous hips my West African roots afforded me. The idea of being connected to some Italian crime family, let alone being a mafia princess, feels absurd. It doesn’t make sense—it can’t.

It can’t be true. Mom would have told me, wouldn’t she?

Perhaps she arranged for this to be sent to me after she was gone. But she wouldn’t leave me to deal with this kind of news alone. That wasn’t her way. When she was diagnosed with stage three Leukemia, she spent her last twelve months on this earth making sure I knew how to do everything from making meat pies to accessing her death benefits.

Undoubtedly, she would have faced me for something like this.

I reach for my phone, and my first instinct is to call someone, but who? Mama isn’t here to answer. The raw grief I’ve been holding back since the memorial service surges forward, catching me off guard. Tears spill down my cheeks as I clutch the paper, my breath shallow and ragged.

I’m truly alone.

The sound of glass shattering pierces through my haze, yanking me out of my thoughts. My head snaps toward the kitchen, adrenaline spiking through my veins. The sharp crunch of broken glass under heavy boots follows, each step deliberate and measured.

Someone is in the apartment.

Fear grips me, tightening around my chest like a vise, but instinct kicks in. I shove the documents into my pocket and scramble to my feet, backing away from the piano. My eyes dart frantically around the room. The dim light of the livingroom casts long, distorted shadows, but one of them moves—a deliberate and menacing silhouette heading straight for me.

“Who’s there?” I demand, my voice trembling.

No answer. Just the slow, deliberate sound of footsteps.

I grab the nearest object—a heavy candlestick from the side table—and hold it before me.

“Stay back!” I shout, my voice cracking.

The man steps into the light, and I see the glint of a weapon in his hand. Before I can scream, a second figure emerges behind me, a cloth pressed hard against my mouth and nose. I thrash, the candlestick slipping from my grasp as my vision blurs.

The last thing I see before darkness pulls me under is the photograph on the piano, Mama’s smiling face blurred and fading like a fragile memory slipping through my grasp.

* * *

When I briefly wake, my world is cloaked in darkness. A blindfold presses tightly against my eyes, its rough fabric chafing my skin. The air is cool, carrying a sharp tang of leather and gasoline, mingling with a faint metallic undertone that makes my stomach churn. My wrists are bound behind me, the coarse rope digging into my skin, leaving it raw and throbbing. Every slight movement sends a wave of pain shooting up my arms.

My chest tightens as panic claws its way up my throat. My breathing speeds up, sharp and shallow, as I struggle to piece together what happened. The scent of the vehicle—new leather mixed with lingering cigar smoke—feels overwhelming, almost suffocating. The vibrations of the road hum beneath me, and the occasional car jolt makes my head swim. My muscles scream in protest as I shift, desperate to sit up and orient myself.

“Stay still,” a low, unfamiliar voice growls from the front of the vehicle. The menace in his tone chills me to the core.

I freeze, my pulse hammering in my ears. The reality of my situation begins to sink in.

My discovery of Matteo Ricci wasn’t a coincidence.

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