Page 5 of Autumn Ritual

I pushed the glasses up my nose. My father was nervous. I studied him, trying to read what he wasn’t saying. “Um, no?”

I didn’t tell him I wasn’t planning to go at all. As soon as I gathered my things and grabbed some groceries, I was headed to the lake, which was an hour back in the woods outside of town.

“Oh, good.” He looked relieved. “So, no dates?”

I frowned. What was he getting at? I’d told my parents my plans last night, and while they said they would miss me, they were enthusiastic about my writing retreat plan.

At least, Mamma was. She understood the need for curating the perfect atmosphere to summon the creative juices. My father simply went along with the shenanigans.

“No dates, Papà. I’m done with men for now.” That was a topic for another time. They didn’t know the full story about Rob, the cheating piece of shit. If they did….

Would you really cry if he died?

I gulped. My father wouldn’t hesitate putting a hit on him. One of the Ravello hitmen would do it in a heartbeat. While it would be nice to end the phone calls and texts from the random numbers Rob used, I didn’t want to be the reason he died. I’d never taken a life, and if I said anything to my father, it would be like pulling the trigger myself.

My father set the moka pot on the stove and turned on the gas. He adjusted his glasses, peering down at me through the thick lenses. “Oh, well now, don’t be too hasty.”

“I don’t have time for a boyfriend,” I insisted. “I have a book deadline.”

“Did you set up a preorder?” Papà countered, using my own process against me.

“Well, err, no. Not yet.” I hadn’t even announced my project to my readers. I’d spent hours with Mamma yesterday, right when I arrived, to hash out my thoughts. She agreed wholeheartedly that the change in genre would be good for me! She didn’t see writing as a business like my father and I did. Which was exactly why I hadn’t told him I was switching from light-hearted rom coms to a dark fantasy romance full of dragons, magic, and betrayals.

It was far too early to set up a preorder. I didn’t even have an outline done! Just notes from my chat with Mamma before my friends drug me to the cheesy maze and interrupted my brainstorming session.

“Well, then, how can you have a deadline if you don’t have a preorder?” Papà argued. “Have you scheduled with your editor?”

He was going to back me into a corner! I didn’t want to bring up my career shift for fear he’d tell me that writing rom coms was what I was known for and should continue to make a name for myself.

He wouldn’t understand…. Life was too short not to write what was in my heart. I’d already cheated death once, and this story had been with me, night and day, just an idea, but now I wanted it to take shape.

“No, I haven’t.” I turned on the frother.

My father waited for me to steam and whip the air, silently studying me. He was a finance guy for the mob. Life was cut and dry to him.

But as I turned off the frother, Papà fidgeted with his own empty, orange ceramic mug, twisting the cheerful pumpkin back and forth.

I turned to face him. “I’m not going to a bunch of the small-town festivities this fall. I came back to the Cove for a fresh start. I’ve got a new book I’m excited about, and I want to throw myself into work.”

At that, my father’s face paled.

I nearly dropped the metal cup of steamed milk. In all my twenty some years of life, I’d only ever seen that once. The day the doctor sat my parents and me down to deliver my diagnosis, Papà’s face went ghostly white.

Now, standing before me, his summer-tanned olive skin was deathly.

“What is it?” I insisted, taking a step toward him. What aren’t you telling me?

Papà cleared his throat. “I want you to go with someone.”

“To the harvest ball?” I croaked.

He nodded. “He came by this morning, and we had a little chat.”

I fidgeted with the container in my hands, ignoring the tea that was perfectly steeped. My father seemed worried. Scared. That could only mean one thing in our world. One of his superiors had requested in no uncertain terms that this happen.

I’d escaped an arranged marriage due to my health. If that was because the mafia didn’t want a bride who could relapse or if they took pity on the sick girl and let her live her life, it was hard to say. It probably depended on whom I asked in the organization. Either way, I was grateful that the yoke of our world passed me by, and I was free from tradition.

But something had clearly changed.