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Did I know who he was at the time? Yes, I’d had an idea. I’d heard the whispers among my colleagues, and of course I’d googled the Cavallaro family. But I’d also read way too many romance novels, and fictional capos loved and protected their women. They fought for them. You know, the whole “touch her and die” vibe? They didn’t borderline rape them, take away their choices, and threaten them with prison if they stepped out of line.
As I said, I’d been stupid. I knew that. Boy, did I know it.
But I’d been in a bad place. Struggling to make ends meet, miserable after a series of truly awful first dates and a handful of equally useless boyfriends. Cesare sold me the dream. Plus it wasn’t my first foray into the world of organised crime. The Cavallaro family wasn’t the only one I’d googled—back in the days when I still had access to the internet, I’d researched the Belinskys too. The year and a half I’d spent in Russia had been the best time of my life. Mom hadn’t been stressing about money, I’d made friends at school, and we’d lived in a beautiful apartment. Sometimes I got lonely when Mom spent time with Lev Belinsky, but there was a huge house to explore, and Nico had always been kind. Looking back, I realised he’d only spent time with me out of pity, but he’d never made me feel like a nuisance. No, he’d spoken Russian slowly and carefully so I could learn, helped me with my homework, and made cookies with me when the housekeeper grumbled about mess in the kitchen. Hell, he’d even let me paint his face with make-up once. Just once. The memory made me smile, and few things did that these days.
So I guess when I’d accepted Cesare’s dinner invitation, I’d been trying to find joy again. To get back a little of the old magic. Even Mom had been happy with the Belinskys, found light among the dark days. So many dark days. We’d travelled the world, hopping from modelling job to modelling job, and she’d smiled for the cameras and then cried behind closed doors. I’d always tried to comfort her, but in the end, I hadn’t been enough.
“Ten minutes, Maria,” someone said.
Ten minutes. Ten minutes to decide on my future.
Should I take the risk? If I stayed, Matteo would be moulded into a clone of his father, and I’d forever be trapped. Cut off from the world, kept on a short leash, yanked back into line if I put a foot wrong. Cricket would suffer too.
Should I trust Nico? Unlike Cesare, he’d never been cruel. And he was here. Over three years ago, I’d called him for help, and he’d never given up trying to find me. That had to count for something, right?
I took a deep breath. Let it out a fraction at a time.
If Cesare caught me trying to escape, he’d kill me. I didn’t doubt that. But if I stayed, I’d die a slow death, forced to watch as he turned our son into a monster in his own image.
The risk was one I had to take.
I waved the Divas over. Each had been hand-selected for dancing ability, looks, and compliance.
“I want to change a few things around in the second act,” I told them. “The crowd’s buzzing tonight, full of energy.”
“Probably because of all the alcohol,” Kizzy giggled. “That blonde lady in the front row is buying drinks for everyone.”
Nico’s wife? I’d seen rings on both of their fingers. I’d always imagined he’d end up with someone more…polished, but she wasn’t the airhead she first appeared to be. No, she understood ASL, and she’d realised right away what I was trying to say.
I smiled back. “She’ll have everyone up and dancing by the end of the show.”
“Vito told Lindy to bring a birthday cake,” Amber said. “And Lindy was freaking out, but I told her to go to Reggie’s Diner and see if they have one of those chocolate fudge gateaus.”
“Maybe I should sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the lady?”
“I think it’s the husband’s birthday, not hers.”
Now I knew for certain that Nico’s presence wasn’t a coincidence. His birthday was in August, not February—I remembered that because he’d had an outdoor party on the terrace.
“Do you know his name?”
“Rico, I think.”
Rico? Seriously? I swallowed a laugh. He’d chosen the acronym for the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act as his fake name? With Vito, Alonzo, Fausto, and Otello in the audience? The man had balls.
“Listen, we need to switch out the slow numbers. Swap Etta James for Journey and Nina Simone for Fontella Bass.”
This show was the only part of my life where I had any control. A choreographer assisted with the dance routines, and a singing coach helped me to master my voice, but Cesare and Vito left the set list up to me. Of course, the rehearsals were always monitored, just in case I—gasp—tried to make a friend or—shock—attempted to communicate with the outside world. I’d only managed it twice, when our old cleaner agreed to send a card and some cash to Nana and flowers to Charlotte—I’d been so thrilled to see the wedding announcement in the New York Times—but then Angela had quit and her replacement was a real dragon.
“So we’re closing with Fontella?” Kizzy asked.
“That’s right.”
Over the past two years, I’d learned how to read an audience, and last-minute changes weren’t entirely unknown. I was almost certain I’d get away with it. And after a couple of stumbles in the first act when I’d been trying to finger-spell and remember lyrics at the same time, Alonzo had started to watch me more closely, so I couldn’t risk another silent conversation. Alonzo was dangerous. Perhaps even more dangerous than Cesare, and the two of them were close.
Tonight, I’d sing my heart out and hope Nico and his wife got the message.
Then I’d go home, hold back the tears while the man I hated fucked me in any way he pleased, and pray.
