You’re supposed to be my Brother Inlaw
I’d slipped away to the old greenhouse at the edge of the property, the one Mama used to tend before the pills and the bathtub.
Luca was there, cigarette glowing between his fingers, leaning against the cracked glass wall like he belonged to the night.
He was nineteen then, all sharp cheekbones and reckless eyes, the son of Papa’s oldest enemy, Don Salvatore Rossi.
The families had been at war since before I was born, ports, shipments, bodies in the bay. Yet there he was, trespassing on Marino soil, daring the devil to notice.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I’d whispered, heart hammering so loud I was sure the guards would hear.
Bab Populer