“And he won’t understand Adriana,” I added tersely. “You don’t need to meet someone with his reputation to know his character, Mamma.”

“I’m not buying the act that you forgot and were waiting innocently in the car.”

“Why didn’t you come meet the Russo after church today?” She pointed her spoon at me. She was like a dog with a bone, and I honestly thought she enjoyed the mistake I’d made because she finally had something to chastise me about. Six months had passed, and I swore she brought it up every day. “When isn’t Papà unhappy with me lately?” “Your papà isn’t happy with you,” she said, looking at me under her dark eyelashes with that pursed-lips-you’re-in-trouble expression. She shook her head in disbelief, and I guessed it was odd for the daughter of a mob boss to care about the legalities of the government. “I’m not sure who to vote for in the election,” I answered absently. Sometimes I wondered if the naivety was denial, or if she would truly rather watch Days of Our Lives than worry about my papà’s affairs. Mamma was married to Salvatore Abelli-a high-profile boss of one of the biggest organized crime syndicates in the United States. “I don’t know why you watch this, Elena,” Mamma said, stirring the sauce on the stove. It took years of feeling like a pretty bird in a cage until it all became too much. Like a childhood dress that didn’t fit anymore, I was stuck in the world’s expectations for me. I’d grown out of the name some, especially when I realized I was the girl adored for all the wrong reasons: I wasn’t hard to look at, I was quiet when I should be and polite when I wasn’t. For obvious reasons, I hadn’t heard that nickname in a while. “You are too beautiful for that frown, Sweet Abelli,” my mamma said, as she entered the room with the cacophony of our guests’ conversations following her. I knew it belonged to my future brother-in-law.Īnd it was partly-wholly-the reason I was hiding in the kitchen, though I would never admit it. Voices from the foyer drifted to my ears every time the swinging door opened as our servants came in and out, preparing for lunch.Ī feminine trill of a laugh, my cousin Benito’s lively timbre, and a voice I’d vaguely recognized as I left the church this morning. Now, blood was on my hands and guilt watched me while I slept. While my home, my life, was built on piles of dirty money, I’d always been able to say I hadn’t contributed to the balance. My throat tightened as I twisted the ring on my middle finger. I stared at the TV in the corner of the kitchen, hardly processing the newscaster’s voice, but when murder passed her ruby red lips, the word resounded in my mind. would it bleed red? If this world was as transparent as glass, soft splats would drip a pool to the marble floors. However, I’d always wondered, If I pulled back a corner of the wallpaper. A wooden staircase with a lacquer shine and a sparkling chandelier.

The maddest oblivion