Bound to the Mafia

Chapter 1 - Serena - 7 Years Ago

Author's note: This is part 2 in a trilogy. Please make sure to read part 1 first!

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*****

"Drop me off up at that corner, please," I tell the cab driver, leaning forward to point at the crossing of two residential streets. I tuck my hair behind my ear before it has a chance to fall across my eyes as I settle back into the plush leather seat. I'm flanked on either side by glossy shopping bags in various shades of pink, white, and green, and when the hazy late afternoon sun glares through the tinted windows, I tip my designer shades down over my eyes.

The taxi pulls to a stop and I pay him, giving a hefty tip, as I always do. My mother rolls her eyes at how easily I spend money, particularly when I spend it on other people, but Dad is always sure to remind me that there's no use in having money if you keep it all to yourself. And what can I say? I'm a daddy's girl.

I carefully hook my arms through the handles of my shopping bags and climb out of the cab, giving the driver a little wave as he drives off. I had the cabbie let me out at the corner because our driveway and the street in front of our new house are both crammed with construction trucks and piles of building materials. It's just easier to walk through that obstacle course than have some poor taxi driver try and maneuver through it.

I make my way down the street to the construction site, gingerly stepping over the upturned, muddy bits of lawn and stacks of perfectly-sawed dark lumber. I just know the bottoms of my Manolo Blahniks are going to be caked with reddish mud by the time I make it across the yard to the front door. Luckily, I think to myself with a smile, there's a brand new pair from this season in one of the bags I'm holding right now anyway.

The only part of the house which is even remotely livable at the moment is the first floor den, which is currently serving as a sort of operations base for the construction job. My father spends most of his free time here, having set up a makeshift office in order to keep tabs on how things are going. He's a hands-on kind of guy, and I think there's a part of him that really wishes he was out there helping build the house himself. He's more of a numbers guy, I think, though. I've never been one-hundred-percent certain as to what his work consists of, but I know he makes good money and he goes to a lot of private meetings. He keeps secrets sometimes, and he does everything in his power to keep his work separate from my mom and me.

Occasionally I do worry about him. Despite his attempts to keep it all under lock and key, sometimes I can see the stress of his job bleeding through into his interactions with Mom and me. He tries to be a jokey, good-natured guy and most of the time that's exactly what he is. But now and then I can see something else going on underneath the surface, like maybe things aren't quite as rosy as he makes them out to be. Still, I can't complain. Our life — my life — is amazing. I have never wanted for anything in all my years, and I know at the end of the day my dad can take care of absolutely anything the world throws his way. He's a strong man, that much I do know.

And besides, this whole construction thing has definitely made him happier. I catch him still awake late at night in his study, poring over blueprints and running numbers on his calculator, a look of feverish joy on his face. I think he must have been an architect in another life or something. It's always fun to come with him to the new house and watch him boss the construction guys around. He's never cruel about it, but I can tell he means business. Everyone can tell. He has a booming voice and his checkbook always in his hand, ready to write out another big number and hand it off to whomever he thinks he can trust to get shit done. My mom says he's too showy with his money, but I think he's just honest. Why hide it? Everybody knows we're rich. Everybody knows my dad. I don't know for sure what his reputation is, but I do know that he has one.