Andre drove us from Brooklyn, over the Manhattan Bridge, and into Manhattan. While I’d been to New York enough times in my lifetime to see the majority of the city, I still found myself staring out the window in awe of the beautiful buildings and architecture. There was something about New York City. The way it made you feel while you were there, the atmosphere so addicting. It was almost like taking a step back in time. I couldn’t explain it, but it felt almost magical.

As Andre finally pulled the car to the curb and put it into park, I took a look around. There were Italian flags flying proudly from buildings and masses of people bustling down the street.

“Little Italy?” I questioned, looking over at Angelo.

I’d been there once before when I was a lot younger, probably around the time Sophie and I started to really learn about our Italian heritage. My father didn’t speak of it often, but I would occasionally catch a glimpse of something that told me deep down he was still very proud of who he was.

I climbed out of the car and Angelo walked around, meeting me on the sidewalk. “When the first Italian families came to America in the 1880’s, they all seemed to settle in the same place… mostly lower Manhattan. With such a huge migration, suddenly there were shops and businesses and restaurants being opened by Italian families,” he explained as we walked. Soft music flowed out from some of the shop fronts, and I could start to smell certain scents that reminded me of Italian culture. “Little Italy was a pretty poor area of the city. It wasn’t the biggest population of Italians, but the culture here was brilliant. People helped each other. They supported the other families who lived here, and while they made barely enough to keep them going, they stayed true to who they were.”

Angelo stopped, and I pulled up beside him. He pointed up at a large terracotta-colored building. It was traditionally beautiful with the old style windows and brick that seemed as though they had been preserved perfectly through the centuries.

“It was up there that the DePalma family lived when they first moved here… your great-great-grandfather.”

My jaw dropped open, but my heart skipped a beat. This place was part of me, it was part of my history and who I was. How had my father never showed us this before, or explained this story to us? Was he ashamed of where his family came from?

Dad was always so caught up in being the best, and portraying this untouched family image, that I had to wonder whether he had simply wished that this all wasn’t a part of who he was. It made me sad to think he could deny his history so easily.

“I want to know more,” I encouraged Angelo.

His mouth pulled up into a smile. “The DePalmas weren’t the only mafia family to make a home here, but as the years passed, they became the most powerful. They built legitimate businesses, some to help build up the area and give people jobs, others to run illegal money through. They created a life for themselves in a poor neighborhood.”

I listened, eager to learn more. While I was still apprehensive and a little angry about the fact that my family had this dark secret, and that what they were involved in had caused me to lose my sister, I couldn’t help but be fascinated.

“Every family had their thing, they did whatever they had to do in order to make money. Some people stuck with what they knew worked, by opening restaurants or clothing stores. While others, like the DePalmas, became more… creative.”

We started walking again, Andre followed along behind us, not saying a lot, but when I looked over I could tell he was listening intently as well. The street was full of people, many visiting small souvenir shops or searching the long list of amazing Italian cafes and restaurants for a place to eat.

It was like I felt, if only for a moment, that I was in another country. The culture of the place so intense and thick.

“The DePalmas may have done some shitty things over their time,” Angelo continued. “But the one thing they always stuck to was their loyalty to the people here, and in other Italian neighborhoods like over in East Harlem.”

“They helped them?” I asked curiously.

“Not just helped, protected, and stood for them when building owners would try to raise their leases, and they knew they couldn’t afford it. They made it known that if outsiders tried to take on their people that they would come for them.”

I could hear Anthony’s words in my head, and suddenly they started to make more sense.

“Because there is more to this than just me and my family. It’s not always about power or notoriety. It’s about being a voice for those who are unable to speak for themselves.”

Angelo stopped, and our eyes met. “Uncle Anthony helps these people?”

“The DePalma family made a vow to these people a long time ago,” he explained, his eyes piercing through me. I could tell he wanted me to understand, he needed me to know that the blood that ran through my veins may be tainted, but that it was also blood that came from a history of sacrifice, loyalty, and respect. “Every leader of the DePalma family has kept their word. This is how we maintain our history and our culture alive, and this is how Anthony stays on top.”

I heard him, I knew what he was saying was true and while I still didn’t agree with many of the things that they did, I could respect and admire the fact that there were unselfish intentions there.

“You’re not going to try and tell me that the mafia is these amazing like Robin Hood-type figures are you?” I said, raising my eyebrow. “‘Cause while I can appreciate what they’re doing for these people, I think we both know that the DePalmas are not on the right side of the law.”

Angelo chuckled, pressing a hand to the small of my back and ushering me inside the small Italian Pizzeria that we had stopped outside of. “Just because a bad man does good things, doesn’t make him a good man, Bella,” he replied, dipping his head, so his words brushed against my ear.

“Angelo!” I looked up to see an older man with an apron tied around his waist, walking out from the kitchen and coming toward us with his arms open wide. His body was covered in speckles of white flour and clumps of hardened pizza dough, and his salt and pepper hair was slicked back from his face.

“Sal, it’s good to see you,” Angelo replied as he stepped around me and embraced the man.

I watched Angelo’s features soften. This was obviously someone who was important to him, and as Sal’s eyes moved to me, I found my gut starting to twist and turn, like for some reason I really wanted him to like me.

“You brought a friend,” he said, his eyes widening in confusion, letting me know that Angelo didn’t do this often, if at all. Sal practically shoved Angelo out of the way and strolled toward me, the grin on his face slowly growing bigger and bigger. “Salvador Romano,” he said, holding his hand out.

I smiled, feeling a warmth flowing off him, and shook his hand. “Emerson Rossi.”

His eyebrows shot up, and he flicked his gaze back to Angelo, who nodded before adding, “Anthony’s niece.”

“Well then, come,” he said excitedly, pulling my hand forward and ushering me toward a corner booth in the small pizzeria. I slipped in, and Angelo scooted in beside me, shaking his head but unable to stop smiling. “I will make your favorite, then we will chat.” Suddenly Sal was gone, ducking back into the kitchen and leaving us both in silence.

I cleared my throat. “I hope your favorite is good and not something weird.”

“Ai quattro formaggi,” he replied, the words just rolling right off his tongue. I had to admit, it was sexy hearing him speak in another language, especially one as beautiful as Italian.

I searched my brain, trying to remember the little bit of Italian that my father used to use, especially when he was cooking. “Quattro means four…” I said, screwing up my nose. “Formaggi… formaggi… wait, is that cheese?”

Angelo chuckled. “Sì, ben fatto.”

“Four cheese pizza?” I asked, raising my brow. Maybe I was expecting something manlier, like some sort of meat pizza. This man was constantly full of surprises.

He shrugged. “I like cheese.”

Who could argue with that, really?

“So you know some Italian,” he said, pouring two glasses of water from the pitcher in the center of the table.

I sighed, smiling softly as he slid one over to me. “No, not really. Sophie was the one who was always interested in the Italian culture. Dad spoke it occasionally, mostly when he was in the kitchen.” I couldn’t help but smile. “He loved to cook… my mom, not so much. She loved to burn.”

“Cooking I think is bred in Italian blood. We are raised to find beauty in food, just like you would in the landscapes of Italy and its surroundings,” he explained, his accent seeming to grow thicker as he spoke. “We learned to make things from scratch and to create something delicious out of a handful of ingredients because those were the recipes passed down from times where people didn’t have a lot of money.”

I stared at him in utter amazement.

How this man could make me so angry, and push so many of my buttons yesterday, and now today he’s sitting here speaking so passionately about the country he was born. It was like I was in a crazy dream.

“When did you come to the United States?” I asked.

“My father brought us here when I was eight,” he answered simply, the look in his eyes telling me that if I pushed any further, I could risk him shutting down. And I wasn’t ready to lose this part of him just yet, the part who smiled, who teased, and who shared a piece of himself and who he was with me.

“Sir.”

I looked up, seeing Andre standing at the side of the table. His eyes flicked to me before moving back to Angelo. When Angelo nodded, I realized that was Andre’s way of asking if he was free to speak in front of me.

“A contact informed me that Freddie Ricci has been running his mouth,” he said, a deep frown on his face. “Apparently one of his men showed up dead… looking like he’d gone one-on-one with a professional fighter.”

I didn’t understand the meaning of his words, but obviously Angelo did, as I could feel the tension and aggravation instantly begin to flow off him. The whole atmosphere changed in the blink of an eye.

“Tell Sal I’ll have to rain check on the pizza,” Angelo said, slipping out of the booth and gesturing for me to follow.

He’d shut down, that part of him that I’d felt was gone.

The Angelo I knew good and well was back.

“We’re going to go have a few words with my good friend Freddie.”