Page 2 of Renata Vitali (The Five Syndicates)
What did he want me to do? Blink twice if I needed saving? I nodded my head but blinked twice anyway. You never knew when someone would surprise you.
Displays of affection were as rare to me as beluga sturgeon caviar, but I leaned forward and wrapped my twig-like arms around Ivo’s neck anyway. “I’ll miss you, Ivo. You be good now, alright?”
And I would. Since I was nine, Ivo had shuffled me the thirty-minute flight from boarding school to Maman every weekend. I’d seen him far more than I’d seen my own father, and now I didn’t know when I would see him again.
“I should be telling you that, Miss Vitali. I trust there will be no trouble from you, little one.” He kissed my forehead and waited until the driver opened the car door to leave.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Don’t look back.
I looked back, and a tear slipped past my lashes as the plane door closed behind Ivo. I pretended to sneeze into my hand, so I could wipe away the tear without anyone noticing. But when I entered the Rolls Royce, came face to face with Devils Ridge’s Head Devil, and was gifted a knowing sneer, I knew I fooled no one.
Angelo De Luca out-dressed me in his three-piece bespoke suit, his hair slicked back and his manicured nails gripping an oversized cigar. “Well, well, well. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Vitali.” His leery eyes lined my skin with goosebumps as I settled into the back seat, thankful for the middle console separating us. Neither of us spoke as his ogling continued. “So, Daddy sent his bad little girl here for punishment, huh?”
No, Daddy got caught eating between his secretary’s legs for lunch and sent his daughter to Middle of Nowhere, Texas before she could tell his wife. It wasn’t my fault my father couldn’t keep his dick clean the one week I surprised him with a visit. I wondered who Angelo would think was the bad guy in that scenario. Probably me.
I didn’t respond, instead reaching for the tablet attached to the back of the seat in front of me. Angelo’s hand gripped my wrist tightly, proving just how much of a farce his name was. There wasn’t a trace of angel in this man.
I yanked my hand away and forced myself not to cradle the bruised flesh with my other hand. Dad’s phone ban would be a nuisance, but it wouldn’t stop me from finding one and spilling what I’d seen to Maman. I didn’t want to be here. I doubted I could find any rational syndicate member outside the De Luca family who’d want to be here.
I didn’t know why he even bothered keeping up the pretense of their marriage. They didn’t live in the same country. It’s not like they fooled anyone, let alone one another. Dad lived in Italy, where I visited him once a year, and Maman lived a short thirty-minute flight from my Connecticut boarding school, where I visited her every weekend.
We passed a strip club parallel to the airport’s landing strip, and the words “The Landing Strip” glowed from the neon sign.
“My club.” Angelo eyed my chest beneath the baggy weight of my oversized Blink 182 tee. “You’re welcome to visit if you’d like. I’m sure you would fit right in, darlin’.”
I ignored him, looking out the window as the driver cruised past rows of large Victorian-style homes. It seemed like time had touched nothing in Devils Ridge, and had it not been for the very twenty-first-century car we rode in, I’d have thought someone trapped us in the mid-1800s.
After the car passed a double set of looming iron gates and made its way down a tree-canopied driveway, Angelo passed something black, plastic, and rectangular to me.
I took it from his outstretched fingers, taking painstaking care not to touch him. “What’s this?”
“A pager.” A sneer curved his thin lips. “Signore Vitali said you’re to have no contact with a phone, and I’ll need a way to contact you.”
I pocketed the thing, amusement consuming me as he eyed my sweats with a curled upper lip. Only a fool looks at strength and sees weakness. Maman had first told me this when I missed the growth spurt all of my peers seemed to share at the same time. She was right.
By middle school, I reached my growth spurt and boasted cascading brown hair with natural waves, which bounced like Victoria’s Secret models’ when they strut down runways. My eyes boasted a shade of amber I liked to call evil, but Maman always referred to as rapturous. And eighth-grade boys referred to the slight Italian accent which adorned my voice as “exotic.”
I hated the attention. Hated the way it made girls scowl and boys stare. Hated the way my teachers thought differently of me. Hated the expectations that came with looking and sounding like I did.
As soon as Maman let me, I started dying my hair a simple blonde, adopted a flawless General American accent, and found a pair of mousy, prescription-free glasses I occasionally wore. When I left junior boarding school and entered boarding school, I no longer had to build pretend friendships. People overlooked me, just like I had intended.
And now, sitting beside the head of the De Luca family, I knew he overlooked me, too. Angelo’s leery gazes and rough touch were an intimidation tool. But in doing so, he’d laid his cards out for me to see. He thought I was weak. Too weak to earn anything more than brute intimidation tactics when subtlety would have worked better.
He was a fool, and I didn’t need other people to validate my strength. I’d get through this exile with my head on my shoulders by being overlooked and savvy. There was no other way.
The driver opened the door, shooting a gust of hot Texas wind at me. I took his offered hand, righted myself, and stepped as far away from Angelo as I could without being too obvious. I followed Angelo up a set of stone stairs to a giant Victorian manor that had probably been built somewhere around 1850, like most of the houses in Devils Ridge.
The white trim stood out amongst the near-black stones. When I entered through the double doors two butlers held open, I saw that the dark wood floors matched the gloomy exterior. The house looked cold, like despite its age, it hadn’t been lived in.
Angelo led me past a spiral staircase and into a hallway. He opened the second to last door but stayed at the doorway. “This is your room.” He stepped to the door across from my new room and opened it. It led to an honest-to-God bathing pool, like the ones in public bathhouses. “This is the East wing bathroom. The house is pre-Victorian, and the plumbing reflects it. While it’s been renovated twice, once to reflect late Victorian-era homes of the time and more recently to introduce modern amenities, we couldn’t add more bathrooms without altering the historical integrity of the home.” He nearly growled at his own words.
Right. Because I was supposed to believe Angelo De Luca cared about ‘historical integrity.’ We stepped out of the bathroom, and he closed the door. I waited for him to say something else.
Instead, he leaned a hip against a wall, crossed his arms, and stared me down. “I don’t want you here. I don’t like your family thinking they run the five syndicates.” We did run the five syndicates. At least, it was our duty to police them. “And I certainly don’t like the idea of you spying on us. There’s nothing to see here. Nothing to report.”
I considered my options. I could lower my head and act meek. That was usually my go to, but I doubted it was the best option here. If I pushed over, Angelo would continue to stomp over me, and he didn’t seem to have that filter in him that made good decisions—like not laying a hand on me.
So, I tilted my head and chilled him with a condescending smirk. “That’s not why I’m here.” My strong, level voice held no inflection. “Remember your place, De Luca. Behind the Vitali. Behind the Romano. Behind the Andretti. Behind the Rossi. Behind the Camerino. What’s it like to stand firmly at the end of the five syndicates?"
