The Rocchetti Queen - Bree Porter Page 0,63

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Outside, the snow was coming down fast, so we lit the fire, the crackle of the flames the unofficial background song to our chatter.

As the night wore on, gifts were exchanged and food consumed. I eventually found myself looking around, my eyes glancing over familiar faces.

In the corner, by the tree, Nicoletta was with Ophelia, paging through a musical book Alessandro and I had gifted her. A few feet away, Nero watched in the shadows.

By the fire, Sergio spoke to Narcisa, their heads bent together. His usually hard face was smooth, bright even. And Narcisa, usually so delicate and shy, was smiling and replying, no fear in her face.

Gabriel and Oscuro sat on the couch, laughing at a story. Their drinks threatened to spill over the sides of their glasses, but they managed to still their movements before staining my furniture. Lucky, I thought.

Farther along the couch, Beatrice sat, weeks away from her due date. Pietro brought her food, watching her as she ate and grinning whenever she said anything. They would go home early. Beatrice was too uncomfortable to be out for long.

I spotted Rocchettis lining the walls, from Santino to Beppe and Big Robbie. They laughed about something. Enrico and Toto the Terrible were deep in a conversation, Carlos Jr only half-listening, his attention trained on his plate of food.

Speaking to Carlos Sr were Davide and Nina Genovese. Nina’s grandson and Angie’s son pressed against his grandmother’s legs, eyes heavy as the night wore on.

From the Palermos to the Tarantinos to the Schiavones and di Traglias, the atmosphere was warm and celebratory. Even Chiara was smiling, recovering from the news of Adelasia and her lost baby.

By the window, staring out into the snow, was my father. He was getting married again soon, but his fiancé was nowhere to be seen. All those years of expectations and rules and resentment had blown away in the wind, forgiven but not forgotten.

Our story was over, it had reached its climax and dwindled to an end. No longer was I beholden to him—or him to me.

“Papa,” I murmured, coming to his side. “Can I get you anything? A drink, a plate?”

He looked over at me, the eyes that he had passed down to me brightening. “No, bambolina. You can just stand here with me.”

I cast my gaze out the window, taking in the dark street and glimmering snow.

“Your boy is very gorgeous,” Papa said eventually.

“He looks just like his father,” I replied.

Papa shook his head. “I can see you in him. Subtle, but it is there.”

I smiled, flattered. “Thank you. That is very kind of you to say.”

“Is it?” My father continued to stare out the window, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I should have said this years ago, but if you need anything, just let me know.”

“Oh?”

“Anything at all.” He turned his head to me, eyes growing more intense. “I am a mafioso first, but I am still your father. If you need anything, you just let me know.”

The intensity of his tone made me wonder what anything could be. But I already had everything I needed, so I smiled gratefully “Thank you.”

“You’re like your mother, do you know that?” he said suddenly.

“Dita said she was incredibly boring,” I murmured.

Papa shook his head. “Your mother...Antonia. She...figured out very early on in her life how to stay alive. Growing up, I did not recognize that trait in you, maybe because I didn’t want to, or you were too good at hiding it, but you carry that same understanding.” He looked thoughtful. “The only difference is, while your mother made herself boring to survive, you have chosen to thrive, to succeed.”

“Right under your nose.”

“Right under my nose.” He didn’t sound angry about this fact. “Just like Catherine, but she had different plans, didn’t she?”

That was an understatement. “I suppose she did.”

Papa smiled brightly. “Your husband is looking for you. Go and be with your family.”

I kissed his cheek softly. “Congratulations on your engagement. It will be nice to have another thing to celebrate.”

“I am celebrating the future Don killing the man who tried to kill my daughter,” he said. “Anything else will never be as festive.”

A laugh bubbled out of me, but I left my father by the window, deep in his own thoughts about how he’d failed his daughters.

Alessandro still held Dante, and was speaking to a few of his men. They scattered as I approached, the jerk of my husband’s chin their first warning.

“What did your father want?” he asked.

Dante