Page 4 of Devil's Vows
My jaw drops. The clue was here, all these years. I was too blind to see it. Too ignorant to ask Mother Lucia who Biancawas, too traumatized to think this Bible was a link to my true family. Tears slip from my eyes but I wipe at them, now even more invested in her letters.
She writes about my brothers. Matteo, Alessandro, Dominic, Stephano, Luca, Benedict. Their names send a chill down my spine because they are no coincidence. Mother Lucia planted these names in my mind ages ago, when she first started telling me this story, as if it’s always been their names.
Brave princes, all of them, in my eyes. But our mother’s fears for her six sons, her intense love for them, run thick between the lines. My biological father proved to be as vile as Randazzo. A horrid, horrid man who should never have even asked her to have another baby but forced her to haveme.
There are only a few photos. A spike of fear spears me as I hold one of my parents’ wedding day. My mom, a carbon copy of me, looks too young to be married to a man I’ve come to hate. Randazzo looks so much younger than the day I met him, but that awful diamond earring and the notch in the shell of his ear were already there. Tears drip and I wipe at them. Wasted tears because, without a doubt, all these people are dead. Why else would my estranged brothers come for me?
It's funny how I’ve accepted the idea of them with every word in these old letters. The anger is gone. In its place a void needing, craving, to be filled with their presence.Sangre chiama sangre, as they say. Blood calls to blood.
There’s a photo of my brothers when they were young, all in a row like little organ pipes. Twins. Two of my brothers are identical twins. If I weren’t so wrecked with all this new knowledge and nerves, I would be giddy with happiness. Don’t boys—brothers—grow up to be men and protect their sisters?
In my experience, men only destroy. I’ve seen firsthand the things men can do to women. I haven’tlivedit, but I’veseenit, a core memory that still haunts me. It’s fifteen years ago now, andI’ve grown up, I’ve changed, but some fears are so ingrained, only the deepest need could push them to the side.
It’s dark when I fold the last letter back into its envelope. I remember some of my life growing up in America, but for my real family, the story stops abruptly. There are no more letters because my mom died giving birth to me.
From what I’ve read between the lines, my brothers’ lives would have been hell after her death. Born into the Mafia, to a man with such vile ambition, he ousted Randazzo from the States. There are too many puzzle pieces here, and I can’t even guess the picture it would make.
With this new information, my life’s storybook has been ripped in two parts. The first part I can’t change, having lived it already. Now, a stack of blank pages got glued to the first half, replacing the future I thought was written in blood and set in stone.
I suddenly have options.Brothers. What if they’re cruel like Don Giuliano Scalera, our father? But maybe they’re not…
They won’t know about Randazzo and the deal he made with the Russian. If I go to America, I can sidestep the promised arranged marriage. I can gain freedom from this religious institution that’s been nothing but a prison to me.
Freedom. The American dream.
I have no idea what life in America would be like for me, but it’s a risk I could take. They say better thedevil you know than the devil you don’t, but I’ve seen the devil, stared into his glassy blue eyes, felt his hands on me, unwillingly received his little starter pack, and have been running ever since.
A soft scratch at my door startles me and my heart starts pounding. I listen closer. Another one and then a long one, followed by three soft taps. No…it can’t be…
Chiara.
3
GABI
My heart pangs at the thought of my best friend, but I frown. I didn’t even hear her pick the lock on the gate. Surely, she isn’t here. With everything going on, she shouldn’t be.
She left the convent months ago when she turned eighteen with the promise to come for me when she’d sorted out her life. For weeks, I’ve waited for her, but then Randazzo died, and I supposedly left Potenza to work as a nanny for an anonymous rich family. She couldn’t know I’m hiding in here.
This wasn’t the plan.
I sit up quietly and shove the letters under my pillow, then glance around for any other evidence about the earthquake that hit my life today. Everything looks normal, as normal as a safe room could be.
Another scratch.
Chiara knows I’m the child of someone dreadful and that’s why I’m here, but that’s all she knows. We knew where to draw the line, and she has her own story I didn’t get to excavate.
But trust her to know about this secret chamber. The roof, accessible via the bell tower, was always her smoking spot, and I bet she noticed the loose tiles and had a peek into this secretchamber. She gave adead fuckfor the rules of the convent, making Mother Lucia’s life hell. We’re polar opposites, but heavens she made me laugh, being a breath of fresh air in the coffin I was trapped in.
A coffin I finally get to escape.
I tiptoe to the door and lean against it. “Who’s there?”
“A friend,” she whispers back in mock terror, and I roll my eyes with a smile.
I reach for my key and unlock the door, open it an inch, peeking out. Chiara is standing there, in full nun regalia—stolen, no doubt—a lit flashlight held up by her chin. It casts her face in that age-old horror-story light.
“What are you doing here?” I giggle as I grab her by the arm and jerk her into the room. It’s Compline and prayer time and she could get caught, but why do I even worry? This isChiara.
