Page 74 of Rosetti Family New York
My free hand traces the edge of the bench as my mind spins. I try to think like him, strategic and calculated. But I can’t forgetthe men we lost or the way my heart crashed at the news of the attack.
“This is to prevent an outright war, Besiana. Uniting our families will buy us peace.”
War. It’s the kind of thing Baba excels at.
“But the Rosettis,” I repeat, like the word will poison me.
“Them, yes.”
I fold the poetry shut. The sound is small but final. My hands are steady. I’ve had practice. “I see.”
He takes a folder from inside his coat and offers it to me. A file. Details. Evidence. I should know better by now, but the last fragments of hope scatter like ash as I take it from him. He is precise, even when he’s breaking me.
I open the folder, let it sit on my lap, and let the weight of it pin me in place. A single photo of Domenico Rosetti. Green eyes, hard as glass. A jaw cut from stone. He looks like he’s capable of anything. As if nothing will ever surprise him or stop him. As if the world is his, and the rest of us exist to serve him.
His soul looks like a carbon copy of my father’s. And I’m supposed to marry him.
I trace my finger over the image, feeling the finality of it. It feels like a reckoning. The photo stares back, and I imagine it’s trying to consume me.
“Domenico Rosetti,” Baba says.
“What do you need from me?” My voice is steady, calculated. This is how I protect myself.
Adrian watches me carefully. His eyes are iron, now. “The Rosettis are manufacturing a new designer drug, Iride. It gives a clean high, if the rumors are true, and I want it.”
“A drug?” The word is out before I can catch it.
“They have a chemist, some genius dropout from Caltech, and I want her. I want the drug. I want the chemist. I want the recipe.”
My father is selling me for access to a designer high. I suppose I should be flattered it isn’t just ordinary old cocaine or MDMA.
“I will get the information,” I say.
“If you fail, I cannot protect you.” He smiles. I think he means it to be comforting.
Silence swells between us. I make myself look at him, and the smile vanishes.
“So, Besiana?” He waits for my answer, though we both know it’s a formality.
“I’ll do it.” My voice doesn’t tremble, and my hands are still. I clutch the file and smooth my expression. I’ve done this before, and I’ll do it again.
“And Besiana?”
I hold my breath.
“Don’t disappoint me.” He doesn’t look back as he walks away, crunching over the gravel, his steps as measured and controlled as his words.
The garden trembles with cold silence. I stare at the poems, at the file, at my future spread out like a map with no escape route. Three days.
I touch the edge of the file and open it again, letting the photo pierce me. His eyes follow me, this man who will soon own me as thoroughly as my father does now. I memorize his features and steel myself.
Domenico Rosetti. I let the rest of the file wash over me: history, alliances, weaknesses. I soak it all up, let it fortify me against the storm to come.
Baba expects me to spy. To return with secrets I’ve teased out between kisses and lies. He expects me to bend to this Rosetti family, the way I’ve bent to his.
Let him think I’m unfeeling. I’ll be a statue like him, like Domenico, and when they aren’t watching, I’ll crack them both wide open.
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