PRESENT

No sooner has the car stopped in front of the Bertone villa’s entrance, I can already see my aunt approaching with arms open wide and teary eyes. Claire pries the car door open and embraces me, sobbing wildly.

“Good heavens! My girl. My girl! What happened? Are you wounded?” she stutters between sobs, not even giving me a chance to respond. Then she pushes me away slightly, and visibly looks for traces of injury on my body.

“I’m all right,” I answer powerlessly. “We were lucky.”

She looks at me with tearful eyes, and grabbing me by the lower arm, draws me to herself again for a hug. I hiss with pain, which makes her jump back with a terrified look.

“You said you aren’t wounded,” she says, covering her mouth with a hand, then casts Enrico a reprimanding look as if he was to blame for the incident.

Enrico is about to say something, but I interrupt him.

“It’s nothing serious, Aunty. Just a few scratches on my arm. Not a big deal. Just the glass…”

“Madonna!” she shouts out with hands raised to the sky, then leans close to have a better look at my injuries. “These look pretty nasty, dear. We have to sanitize them. Enrico, call the doctor at once!” she orders. Enrico murmurs a Yes, Mrs. Bertone, nods in my direction, and takes out his phone to call the family’s trustee doctor. I’m not even trying to protest or talk my aunt out of her plan. I know it wouldn’t work. The sooner I let her do what she thinks is best for me, the better. Exhausted, I drop my arm next to me, and heave a deep sigh. “Oh God. My dear girl!” my aunt says with a weak voice, and this time with much care, she pulls me close to her. “Everything will be okay, sweetie. You’ll see, everything will be all right,” she repeats reassuringly, stroking my hair, exactly as if I was still that lost, terrified child who cried for her mum at night and whom she took in thirteen years ago.

For the first time since the attack, I let my tears fall freely. I don’t really have faith in things getting back to normal, but it feels good to be loved and cared for. Claire is an energetic, strong-willed woman who loves her family and supports her husband in everything without as much as a bad word. These are extremely good qualities if you’re married to a man like my uncle, and if you’re a member of a family like the Bertones. I came to this conclusion several times when I compared my aunt to my own mother, who was obviously made of different stuff. My mother could never take stress too well, which naturally went with my father’s activities. As a child, I didn’t really understand why, but my mother began to blossom when my dad cut contact with the clan, and we moved away from them. She believed that it was possible to get out of the mafia’s embrace and start a new life. She was wrong, and they both had to pay with their life for that. When I compare my aunt and my mum, I also conclude that I wouldn’t make a good mafia wife, either. In primary I hated it when Jimmy Calder, a freckled, red-haired boy called me little mafia princess. At the time I had no idea where he took it from, but the rumour about my family’s involvement with organized crime was in my wake very early on. The name stuck with me at school, and I hated it. I didn’t want to differ from the others. I didn’t want them to look at me differently. But of course, you can’t choose your parents. You can, however, very much choose your husband! Although I love my family, I decided at a young age that I would never ever get involved with a man who is in any way linked to the underworld.

“Let’s go inside,” Claire says, and stepping back a bit, she begins to dry the tears from my face with a gloomy expression. She puts an arm around me and gently walks me towards the house. “We were terrified when we heard what had happened. Thank God you’re not harmed!”

“It was pretty close. But the shop is ruined,” I sob into my tissue that she put into my hand just before.

“Oh, dear. I’m so sorry. What about the others?”

“They’re okay. Other than the shock, of course. And the fact that from today, they’re unemployed.”

“Your uncle will take care of them, don’t worry about that.”

“He doesn’t need to do that, Claire,” I say, shaking my head exhaustedly. “That’s my job.”

“Oh come on, sweetie, that’s the least he can do. Besides,” she rolls her eyes theatrically, “he’ll do it anyway, whether you agree to it or not. You know, it makes him happy when he feels there’s something he can do for you. He felt a little hurt when you didn’t accept his help launching your business,” she adds, more softly.

“I wanted to do it with my own funds. I didn’t want my business to have anything to do with…”

“Say no more. I get you,” she waves with a bitter smile. “But you know how your uncle is. He likes to have things in his own hands,” she explains. As we reach the living room, she presses me down onto the mocha-coloured leather sofa.

While Claire goes to the cabinet to fix us each a drink, I bury my face into my hands, resting my elbows on my knees. I bitterly admit to myself that my aunt is right. Emilio Bertone is too fond of keeping things in his own hands. Too many things at the same time. Be it an illegal or a half-illegal thing – and that’s the very reason why we are now in deep shit, up to our necks. To be correct, I’m the one in trouble, because of some psychopathic, mafia arsehole, who wants get even with my uncle using me. I don’t have any illusions. I don’t think Emilio has become soft in his old age and took the path of righteousness. The power struggle between individual families rages on in the streets. Band wars, regional conflicts for control over the cocaine market have demanded more lives in the past years than before. Although my uncle has never actually said that he is connected to drug business, I wouldn’t hold my breath for the old mafia don. Anyway, I’m not convinced that when it comes to making money, selling weapons is a more ethical way than dealing with drugs.

In the meantime, my aunt sits back to my side, and hands me a glass with some golden liquid in it, but before she would say anything, she takes a sip from her own glass. It doesn’t escape my attention that the voice of this otherwise unshakable and cheerful woman is now sad and unusually broken.

“We were so looking forward to seeing you. I know you don’t like to come here, that’s why I was going to meet you at the shop.

“I’m sorry,” I start powerlessly, only to give up with a sigh. What could I say? It’s a fact that I try to restrict my contact with the Bertones to a minimum. It’s better this way. Safer. We both know that.

“The boys keep mentioning you when we speak,” she shrugs, referring to my cousins. “It’s such a shame that we have to meet under these circumstances.”

“I can’t believe it starts all over again,” I groan, devastated, and close my eyes. “Things were just beginning to work out. The business was growing. I only have to complete a few semesters for my final exams.”

“We’ll find a way. We’ll think of something. The most important thing is that you be safe,” she comforts me with an arm around my shoulder, and with the other hand, she brings the glass to my mouth. Obediently, I take a big sip, the alcohol is burning my oesophagus, but it feels good. “Your uncle will be here any minute now to take matters into his own hands. He was out of town in the morning, but as soon as he heard what had happened, he was on his way home.”

I know she means to put me at ease with this, yet, a cold chill runs down my spine at her words. I can already guess what kind of price I will have to pay so that they can protect my life from the attackers. I must disappear. The all too familiar and hated feeling of loneliness closes coldly around my throat. I’m on the edge of throwing up. I choose to take another sip from my glass and let the booze fill my parts with soothing numbness.

From the entrance comes the noise of footsteps and nervous talking, which can only mean that my uncle has arrived home. Now’s the time for me to get as encouraged as possible, so I lift the glass to my mouth, and breathing in deeply, I knock it back to empty it to the last drop.

Four of us are sitting around the table for ten. On my left is Claire, opposite her sits my older cousin Sandro. At the head of the table, as always, Emilio Bertone is seated. Chris’ place is for now empty. Nobody really has an appetite, the fried stuffed chicken is getting cold on our plates. We speak in muted voices, and the tension is palpable in the lunchroom. My uncle’s fingers are nervously drumming on the table, and Sandro’s eyes are sparkling with anger.

“I can’t believe those bastards have gone so far. How dare they? How can they do this with my family?” Uncle Emilio’s voice is breaking with rage as he talks.

“We can’t let them,” adds Sandro.

“Of course not. The attack was an obvious message. And this is just the start.”

“I’ve told Chris as well to be careful, and meanwhile I’ve begun to organize the people.”

“No! I don’t want that,” I scream with alarm, and reaching across the table, I wrap my fingers around my cousin’s wrist. “I don’t want either you or Chris to put yourselves into danger for me.”

“You don’t need to worry about us, Rae,” Sandro squeezes my wrist encouragingly, but I pull away with anger. I hate that he takes me for a child and speaks to me in that manner.

“How the hell wouldn’t I worry?” I snort with irritation, sending him a sharp look. “I hope you don’t think you’re bulletproof, you idiot.”

“I’ve been through a few rough hooplas and I’m still around, right?” Sandro winks at me, trying to force some playfulness into his voice, but I’m not in the mood for fun.

“There’s no need to start a crusade for this. I hate even the thought of it. Aunty, please tell him not to do anything stupid,” I cast a glance at Claire, appealing, although I know it doesn’t make much of a difference. She just shakes her head slowly, and speaks up with a bitter smile on her face.

“The boys know what they’re doing, dear. Unfortunately, this is not the first time they have to face things like that.”

“My girl,” sighs Uncle Emilio with dejection, “the battle is already on, and we didn’t start it. But we will find the bastards who are responsible for it. If we leave it now, they’ll take it for weakness, and next time they won’t miss their target, you can be sure about that.”

“Oh God,” I groan, resting my forehead in my hand. “I can’t believe it starts again,” I sigh, but Uncle Emilio takes no notice, and gets on with his monologue.

“Now the most important thing is to keep you safe.”

“Me?” I look at him, discouraged. “And you guys? What about you?”

Emilio and Sandro shake their heads in unison.

“It really looks like this is about you now, Rae. You were the target, that much is obvious,” replies Sandro.

“Okay, but…,” I interfere powerlessly, because I can’t get my head around how the hell I’ve managed to trigger the mafia’s hatred like that. “Why me? I thought…,” I cast an inquisitive glance at my uncle, but do not complete the sentence. I don’t say it out loud, but I’m quite convinced that one of Emilio’s personal enemies chose to use me to take revenge on the Boss.

“After all, it’s me they wanted to hurt with this issue, no doubt about that,” he spits out with despise. “However, in this case, I’m afraid it’s about your father.”

“My father?” I repeat, taken aback.

“More specifically, the bastards that killed him.”

My throat tightens with the tears that are about to burst, I swallow them.

“Why are you saying that?” I ask with a shaking voice.

Sandro sends his father an uncertain, inquisitive glance, and when Emilio nods with submission, he begins to speak.

“That dickhead De Vito, who ended up in jail because of your testimony, just died. He was killed in there.”

“What?” I burst out, aghast.

“We’ve only heard about it ourselves. We don’t know any details, but we’re on it. It wasn’t one of our men who did it, for sure,” he leans back in his chair. “So we suspect that someone, some people might blame you for what happened.”

“But this is madness.”

“It’s a whole lot of crap, if you ask me,” Sandro raises his eyebrows. “The guy should have had his throat cut a long time ago.”

“Alessandro!” says his mother, giving him a threatening look, so he shrugs his shoulders.

“I only mean to say that he was a piece of shit, a pimp who was running juveniles. His death is only a relief to our country, so don’t you feel too bad about it.”

To be honest, I’m more worried about the possibility that the afore-mentioned mafia man’s family might very well regard me as the source of all trouble. It’s a fact that my testimony contributed a lot to this gangster being sent to prison, and now I am to see its bitter consequences. Becoming a target of the underworld’s organized crime is the same as a death sentence. Great prospects for my future.

“Whatever it is,” Emilio slams the table, “until we find out how things exactly are, Raven must be put into a safe place.”

“We can contact the witness protection people,” Sandro offers, and looks questioningly at his father.

“Please, no!” I break out, as I remember the year I spent in their program with a pseudonym, in hiding, far from the family, on the West Coast.”

“Losers,” my uncle snorts with irritation. “They were of no use last time without our help.”

“That’s true,” says Sandro, scratching the back of his neck. “They weren’t far from screwing up the whole thing. If Enrico hadn’t…”

“Say no more,” says Claire, nodding gently towards me, signalling that this is a touchy subject.

Having not the least bit of appetite, I push the plate away from myself, and massage my aching forehead. My head hurts, and I’m feeling sick. I want to be left alone. I want to go upstairs to my room, lock the door on myself, lie down and never wake up again. This morning I was still the owner of a rising party service firm, and a senior in special needs education/speech therapy. I can’t comprehend how I’ve suddenly become the subject of some underworld psychopath’s revenge.

Just then, I feel the squeeze of two large warm hands on my shoulders. Sandro is standing behind me. Lovingly and protectively, he begins to massage my shoulders, my upper arms. I tiredly look up at my cousin, from whose eyes affection, tenderness and worry are pouring towards me. I also love Chris with all my heart, but my older cousin, Alessandro is the one with whom I feel really close. Chris is too much of a playboy, a macho, a bit too much for my taste. Sandro is not as good-looking as his brother, he’s more like a ruggedly handsome, robust guy, someone who looks older than his age. He often expresses himself rudely and is dead serious about business, but I know the rough look hides a warm heart that beats for the family. It may be due to our bigger age difference that Sandro has always been tender, almost father-like to me from the moment I moved to the estate after my parents’ death. The deep tone of his voice gives me comfort even now.

“Everything’s going to be all right, Rae. We’ll work it out. Don’t be afraid. I promise, we’ll find a way,” he says, trying to lift my spirit, and I, more than anything, want to believe him. Lifting my hand, I squeeze Sandro’s fist resting on my shoulder, and try to force a smile on my face.

“I know. I’m not scared.”