Chapter 2

The welcome party was a loud, vulgar display of power. My father sat in a large armchair, receiving his men. They came to him, kissed his ring, and paid their respects to the returning son.

Connor stood beside him, a ghost at his own celebration. He drank whiskey, his eyes scanning the room, missing nothing. He was charismatic, but distant. A stark contrast to my aging, wheezing father.

I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to hear the stories. The real stories, not the whispers.

My mother and I were not part of the inner circle. We stood at the edge of the crowd, observing. She was beautiful, but invisible to most of them. The Sicilian wife. The outsider.

I saw some of the older Irish women look at her. Their eyes were hard. They saw her as a reminder of a truce with a rival, a necessary evil.

Later, my father announced a private dinner. For the inner circle only. The capos. The most trusted soldiers. His sons.

"Isabella, you will stay in your bungalow," he said, his voice a low growl. It wasn't a request.

She nodded, her face a perfect mask of obedience. She looked at me. "Leo, you go. Represent us."

She squeezed my hand, then turned and walked away, her back straight, her head held high.

I went to the dinner. The room was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of whiskey. They talked about business. Territory. Enemies.

I sat at the far end of the table, ignored. I was just a boy. The Don' s youngest.

I watched Connor. He barely spoke. He just listened, his gaze fixed on his glass.

I thought of my mother, alone in her bungalow. I felt a surge of anger. She was devoted to my father, and he treated her like a servant. I wanted to remind him of her. Of her place.

I stood up. The room went quiet. All eyes turned to me. Even my father looked up, surprised.

"I'd like to make a toast," I said, my voice shaking slightly. "To family."

I raised my glass. "My mother, she loves Frank Sinatra. There's a line she always hums. 'Strangers in the night, exchanging glances...'"

I saw it then.

Connor, across the table, tensed. His knuckles went white around his glass. He looked at me, his blue eyes suddenly sharp, intense.

He didn't say a word. He just pushed his chair back, stood up, and walked out of the room.

My father stared after him, his face a thundercloud. The dinner continued, but the mood was broken.

Later that night, I couldn't sleep. The house was finally quiet. I got out of bed and walked outside. The cool night air felt good.

I found myself walking toward my mother's bungalow. I don't know why. I just did.

As I got closer, I heard something.

Laughter. And crying.

It was my mother's voice, but it was a sound I had never heard before. It was raw, unrestrained. Full of joy and pain.

I crept to the window, my heart pounding. I carefully peeked through a gap in the blinds.

The room was dimly lit by a single lamp.

My mother was there. And so was Connor.

They were standing in the middle of the room, and he was holding her. She was wrapped in his arms, her face buried in his chest. He was stroking her hair.

They were locked in a passionate embrace. It was not the embrace of a brother and a sister-in-law.

I heard him whisper her name. Not Isabella.

"Bella."

His voice was thick with emotion. "I've thought about you for fifteen years."

My mother looked up at him, her face wet with tears, but she was smiling. A real, brilliant smile.

Then he kissed her.

I felt sick. I stumbled back from the window, my hand clamped over my mouth to keep from crying out.

The world shattered. My mother. My brother.

Betrayal.

I ran back to the main house, my mind screaming. The image was burned into my brain. The embrace. The kiss. The name "Bella."

I was horrified. I was disgusted.

My perfect, sad, beautiful mother was a liar. And the legendary brother I had started to admire was a thief.