Chapter 8 (Aliyana)


    “Tonight, at Azure. I am going to make him notice me, I promise.” I am not sure who I am trying to


    convince, me, or the ceiling? There is no way I am going to be able to even say hello to him. Even the


    roof knows that.


    “We need to go shopping,” My sister deres, eyes widening with glee. Turning my head, I see further


    than the front-end smile and big sparkling eyes she is currently staring at me with.


    Even now, with the man she wants right in reaching distance, Guilia can’t hide her fear of tonight.


    Wanting or not, she will be betrothed to a Made-Man of my father''s choosing.


    Who? I don''t know, my Papa has not mentioned it.


    After tonight my sister will prepare for her engagement. The only thing that keeps us sane about this


    night is the knowledge Papa will choose well.


    Marco and Deno will be choosing brides of their own, so maybe there is hope for her to at least get


    what she wants.


    My sister is hoping Marco will choose her, but Deno is a better choice, in my opinion. My forehead


    scrunches into a frown reliving that split second when Marco touched my palm. It was a graze, but I


    can’t shake the sense it means something more.


    This is property ? of N?velDrama.Org.


    This doesn’t bode well for me or my sanity. I wish it was Leonardo who touched me, not the Devil


    himself with mad eyes.


    I had never seen eyes that ck before on anyone besides a woman I met once many years ago.


    She, however, was smiling at me. Not giving me a look that held a thousand words I didn''t want to hear.


    I stare at my sister, knowing what lies ahead. My sister should get to choose the man she’ll have to


    wake up next to for the rest of her life. The man who will eventually be the father of her children should


    be someone she loves, not the one with a big title or number of kills under their names.


    Every family has their fortunate ones and the unfortunate. For mine, it was my parent’s marriage been


    that of the fortunate.


    My mother was a woman of high status, a 26th generation member of the Bratva, Zasha Vasiliev. A


    Russian royal in the underworld. She was also the love of my father’s life. So, he says.


    My father, born and raised to be an influential member of the Famiglia, the future heir to the Consigliere


    of the Capo Dei Capi. The boss of all bosses


    The Capo Dei Capi controls the entire 5th State, or asmoners know it, the Underworld. The most


    powerful man in the world, and he is undoubtedly a man.


    All the Capos, regardless of whether you’re Italian or Irish, answer to him.


    Whoever he is, nobody knows besides a select few. My father is one of those few.


    When the Russiansnded in New York, they agreed to a peace offering. A marriage between my


    mother and Papa was negotiated, and after a short meeting, it was decided, they would marry within a


    month.


    My parents were young and fortunate. Papa had two kids and was already a widower before 30. My


    mother was a young woman with a reputation that made a lot of enemies in her 24 years.


    Yet, they fell in love with each other after a few short weeks following their shared nuptials.


    Everything was right then, simple.


    In fact, Papa said it was terrific. How true the story is, I am not sure, but the few pictures I’d seen said


    he spoke the truth. Then again, secrets hid well behind a choreographed smile.


    There was one picture Papa kept of my mother in his office, on the desk. She was not smiling, she was


    staring out the window by the breakfast nook downstairs, lost in her mind. The rain droplets evident on


    the window as the dull light from the winter season showed her make-up free face in another light.


    Her eyes sunken, her cheeks dusted with light specks of freckles as her curly long ash-blonde hairy


    wild as though she’d just woken up and didn’t bother to brush it out.


    She was just in in that picture, a lot like me. I wonder if the picture was taken before they lost my


    sister. Was I born then?


    Papa told me my mother had a way about her that just drew you in.


    He told me, no one could refuse her when she wanted something, she’d get loud and harp on the same


    thing every day until someone relented. When I was much younger I tried to picture her, but I couldn’t.


    Eventually, I stopped trying altogether.


    My parents remained fortunate for years but like everything in our world, it was tainted by one use.


    The Bratva and the Famiglia were happy until the time came to fulfil that use.