Darkest Sins (Perfectly Imperfect #9)

A shiver passes down my spine. “No. I just hope it won’t be anyone from the Camorra Clan. I overheard Dad talking to the underboss, and there seem to be negotiations taking place with them recently.”

“God, Nera. I hope your dad won’t choose to side with Camorra and marry you off to Alvino. There’s been some talk that he beat up the girl he was seeing pretty badly. She ended up in a hospital.”

There have always been rumors about Alvino being a bully. I guess that doesn’t hurt him as the leader of the Camorra Clan. “Good thing my father hates Alvino, and Camorra. I don’t think he’d ever sign a truce with them, but even if that happens, he would never make me marry that bastard.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.” I give Dania a quick peck on the cheek, then rise from the bench and grab my purse. “I’ll see you on Friday. Have fun.”

As I walk across the lawn, heading to the parking lot, I take another look at the party guests drinking and laughing in the backyard of my childhood home. When I was little, I loved hiding behind the stairway banister with my younger sister, Zara, watching the elegantly dressed men and women as they milled about the big hall below. My father always enjoyed hosting parties, and when the don sent out an invite, no one dared to turn down the invitation. The preparations often took days, and Mom made sure that everything, from the silverware to the music, was arranged to her high standards. She was never a fan of parties, but she always shined as the great hostess. Keeping the high-ranking Family members happy was important. Keeping them close, was crucial.

I remember staring in awe at those beautiful people, wishing I was older so I could be allowed among them. I imagined the dress I would wear to my first party—white, with a big ruffled skirt. And little heels, maybe gold or silver. I was so eager to be a part of their world.

Until that night fourteen years ago.

It was New Year’s Eve, and the whole house was decorated in beautiful gold ribbons with little red details at the fringes that I helped Mom pick out. Well, she was actually our stepmother, but neither Zara nor I ever called her that. Our mother died giving birth to Zara, and Laura had been the only Mom we ever knew.

That night, the tables were covered in white satin cloths with big gold bows pinned to the corners. Magnificent flower arrangements served as centerpieces atop each spread. Our parents were standing by the big Christmas tree—Dad in a streamlined black suit and Mom in a beautiful silk dress that matched the blue of her eyes. The New Year’s party was always a big deal, and in addition to the Family members, many politicians and other government officials were in attendance. I didn’t know who was who, but I remember pointing at a man with a long white beard, who was laughing at a joke our dad had made, and telling Zara that he was a judge, and not the sultan I saw in theAladdinmovie. Dad told me so when he checked up on us earlier that night. But Zara said the man looked more like Santa.

Massimo, our stepbrother, was in the entry hall, just below the stairway where Zara and I were hiding on the top landing, deep in a serious discussion with two men. He was twenty then, but he always seemed older. Maybe because he was constantly grim-faced and serious. Massimo never paid much attention to me and Zara, we were probably too young for him to bother with, but he and our older brother, Elmo, were inseparable.

Over the years, I’ve often wondered how the two of them got along so well back then. Massimo’s broody, antisocial personality was the complete opposite of Elmo’s cheerful, outspoken one. Although they were close in age, Massimo actedlike he was at least a decade older than the fun-loving and carefree Elmo.

So, while my stepbrother engaged in business, Elmo was leaning on the marble column near the front entrance, flirting with a pretty red-haired woman. Not that I knew what “flirting” was when I was five, but remembering that night as I got older, more and more details became clear in my mind.

Elmo had just turned eighteen not long before that party, and I recall thinking how grown-up he seemed in his black tuxedo. He was teasing a woman almost twice his age, making her break out into a funny-sounding laugh that kept making Zara and I giggle. He probably should have been mingling with the capos, as the don’s son was expected to, but no. Massimo was always the one who did what was expected.

The smell of cigar smoke, alcohol, and fancy food reached all the way to the upper floor where Zara and I were spying on the activities below. My sister squealed each time she noticed a new pretty dress, and I had to remind her every few moments to be quiet so we wouldn’t be discovered.

I wish I hadn’t.

I wish someone had spotted us and sent us back to our rooms.

It was almost midnight, and everyone was laughing. A man in a white suit played a tune on the piano which was brought in specifically for the occasion. Waiters were weaving among the guests, carrying trays of delicate tall glasses raised high above their heads. The champagne for the toast. A truly extravagant, festive event.

I barely noticed the commotion by the front door when two men started arguing. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the clamor of the party, but it seemed important because theraised voices suddenly transformed into shouts. When the men started pushing each other, their faces flushed and angry, Elmo abandoned the red-haired lady and rushed toward them. Always the peacemaker, my brother undoubtedly intended to break them up.

He didn’t see the weapon one of the men pulled out. But Massimo obviously did, because he was running toward the entrance, yelling at Elmo to get back.

An ear-splitting boom exploded inside the gold-and-red-decorated room as the gun went off. Elmo stumbled backward, holding a hand to his chest. The voices and music suddenly died, as if someone flicked an off switch. The silence lasted less than a second before Massimo’s animalistic roar filled the void. My heart was beating like a drum as I squeezed the wooden posts of the banister, watching Massimo catch Elmo as my brother fell. Instantly, other screams reverberated through the room as people started running into the entry hall. And in this chaos, my stepbrother reached behind his back and pulled out his own gun.

Another boom rang out as Massimo fired at the man who shot Elmo.

I heard the echo of those gunshots for hours. Not even the piercing siren of the ambulance that rushed to our house or the rumble of the coroner’s engine that later carried Elmo away could drown out that sound. And it still thundered in my head, over the deafening slam of the police car’s door splitting the stillness of the night, as the cops took Massimo away.

That’s when the idealistic notion of my family’s perfect world popped like a big soap bubble.

“Do you want me to get your car, Miss Veronese?” the voice of the valet pulls me out of the painful memory, dispersing the imagery of gold ribbons and blood.

“Yes, please.” I nod and wrap my arms around my middle. “Thank you.”

He throws over his shoulder, “Beautiful night, yeah?”

I look up at the sky covered in countless twinkling stars, surrounding the big full moon above the line of trees in the distance.

“Yes,” I whisper. “It truly is.”

Gravel crunches under the soles of my shoes as I walk across the empty parking lot, heading toward the still unfinished six-story residential building. The street lamps around the block are off, but the bright light of the full moon presents an unwelcome complication, requiring me to keep to the shadows.