Page 2 of The Madman and his broken Princess
I straightened my skirt before I cupped my elbows in my palms to hide their shaking. “You scared me.”
“You didn’t wait.”
“For you?”
His lips thinned. “For things to be safe.”
“When are they ever?” I whispered. With Benedetto Falcone ruling over the West, nobody was safe, least of all women and girls. I was only twelve, almost thirteen, but that was a lesson I’d learned early. I was tall for my age, already five feet five, so many thought I was older for that reason alone. Not that Falcone let age stop him.
Nestore tilted his head to the side, regarding me for a couple of heartbeats before his gaze swept over the premises below. “The maze was my mother’s pride.”
I swallowed as I moved a couple of steps closer. Many rumors centered around the mysterious disappearance of Mrs. Romano six years ago. “Did your mother fall off this balcony?”
Nestore’s head whipped around, surprise crossing his face. Everything about it was regal, beckoning to be immortalized on canvas. “That’s a dangerous question.”
His father would be furious if he knew about my question, and my father would punish me harshly if he found out.
I forced my gaze away from his stormy eyes and focused on the rose labyrinth, wishing I could see it by daylight. “What colors are the roses? It seems like such a romantic place.” I cringed when the words were out.
The bitter twist of Nestore’s mouth suggested he disagreed. Why was I making such a fool of myself?
“White and blush. My mother’s favorite.”
“Beautiful.”
“Can you keep a secret?” Nestore asked in a low voice, leaning closer, his eyes deadly serious.
I swallowed. I carried so many of my father’s secrets that they weighed heavily on my shoulders. I gave a slight nod.
“One night, I was nine at the time, my father chased my mother into the labyrinth, drunk and angry. I followed their screams but got lost in the narrow, dark passages. When I emerged hours later, scratched and exhausted, the sun was rising over my blood-covered father sleeping on the ground in front of the labyrinth.” He paused, and I shuddered, dreading what came next. “My mother never left her labyrinth again.”
“That’s…” I swallowed. I wasn’t a stranger to horrors myself. I didn’t remember how my mother had died. I had been too young, but I vividly remembered finding the beaten corpse ofmy father’s second wife at seven. I wasn’t sure what to say. Suddenly, the rose labyrinth didn’t look romantic at all. Was Nestore’s mother buried under the roses? I didn’t doubt that his father had killed her.
Nestore nodded as if he had put a name to the horror. “Yeah.” He chuckled. “Benedetto Falcone favors a certain type of man. Men like our fathers.”
I regarded his profile as he kept his gaze trained on the premises and city lights below. “One day you’ll be Underboss under Falcone’s rule.”
He touched the top of his head with a bitter smile. “I can already feel the weight of the crown.”
“You look like you can carry it.”
He straightened to his full impressive height. The way the moon glinted off his dark hair, I could imagine a gleaming crown sitting there, even if the mob didn’t adorn their leaders with regalia. He smirked. “Given your father’s position, it’s not unlikely that you’ll be the princess at my side.”
I flushed, my pulse picking up. I hadn’t been promised yet, not that I knew of at least. That didn’t mean my father and Romano Senior hadn’t struck a deal. “Maybe we’ll know more after my induction at midnight.”
He rubbed his thumb over the still unblemished skin of his right forearm. Tonight, he would receive the tattoo of the Camorra: a long knife with an eye near the hilt and the wordsTemere me, perché sono l’occhio e la spadawritten on the blade.I had never witnessed an induction, and being present when the future Underboss of California received his tattoo was regarded as a major honor, so I wondered whether Nestore was right about us being arranged in marriage.
A photographer with a big, professional-looking camera appeared at the balcony door. “I’m supposed to capture every guest. I don’t think I have a photo of you yet.”
I shook my head.
“How about I get a photo of you two together?”
Nestore stepped closer, and I peered up at him with an embarrassed smile. He answered with an ironic smile of his own. “What do you think, how many of the smiles in those photos will be honest?”
“None?”
The flash blinded us for a heartbeat, and two more followed before the photographer vanished.
