Chapter 1
Sly
Age 9, Verona, Italy
“Papà! Mamma!”
The shrill sound of my six-year-old brother’s laughter rises through the fragrant air as we run around my parents, playing a game of tag in the kitchen while my mother cooks. Mio padre sits at our kitchen table rubbing his temples as we race around him, my brother completely oblivious of the irritation that permeates off our father.
Tossing my hand out, I whip my fingers against his arm, just barely ghosting him as he lunges forward to avoid my touch.
“Ugh, Giulio! Sei un imbroglione!”You’re a cheater.
He laughs again and keeps running, tripping over Mamma’s feet. As he goes flying, skidding across the floor, she wags her finger at him. “I’ve told you the kitchen is not for playing, Giulio.”
My brother stands and starts to run again until Papà stops him in his tracks.
“Enough!” Papà’s voice booms as his fists hit the table. “My head is pounding, and your mother is cooking. Find somewhere else to play.”
Papà is a doctor. A world-renowned surgeon, I’ve heard Mamma say. He works at the hospital that my bisnonno founded, and my nonno was a surgeon before my father. Nonno died when I was five, but his picture still hangs in the lobby of the hospital, alongside bisnonnos, and mio padres. Three generations of Lucchettis as doctors.Surgeons.
Papà says he looks forward to me becoming one, too.
Turning to my mother, his gaze softens as it lands on her. “Mia mogile, we have staff who can prepare the meals. You should be resting.”
His gaze falls to where her hand rests on her stomach, rubbing where my youngest brother grows. “I love to cook, Antonio. You know this.”
“Sì, bellissima. And you are so good at it. But your doctor?—”
“Shh, shh. I know my body, and I will rest when it tells me to.”
“C’mon, Sly, let's go upstairs!” Guilio pulls my attention from our parents as he retreats from the kitchen, his small, chubby hand beckoning for me to follow.
“No, grazie, I want to draw again.” Taking the seat opposite my father, I pick up my charcoal and pull my sketch pad toward me,resuming the drawing I was working on before we started our game. I’ve always loved to sketch, and Mamma says I’ve been improving greatly.
Our black lab, Polpetta, is the perfect muse for me to practice. Mamma and Papà got her when I was two, and they say my favorite food was meatballs then, so the name stuck. Nowadays, she’s old and lazy, looking as round as the food she is named after.
“It’s looking well,” Papà compliments as he watches me shadow the outline of her nose.
“Grazie, Papà.”
A loud, abrupt ringing makes me jump, shifting my charcoal into a harsh line against my page. Frowning, I look at the mistake, my shoulders sagging in defeat.
“Pronto?” my mother singsongs into the telephone. The room falls silent as my father watches with intent while she nods her head, her hand flying over her mouth as she looks at my father. Pulling the phone away from her ear, she holds it out, signaling for him to come take it from her. “It’s Gabriele.”
My eyes perk up at the mention of Uncle Gabriele. He lives in America, in a city full of skyscrapers and twinkling lights. The photos he brought during his last visit were magnifico, and I long to go see it for myself.
I also wish to see my cousin Lorenzo, who is the same age as I am. It makes me sad that my best friend and playmate is across the ocean, and even though I ask a lot, Mamma and Papà still have not taken me and Giulio to seethem.
“Gabriele,” my father barks into the phone. “What is it this time?”
My father's expression morphs from irritated to infuriated, his golden-bronze skin turning red from his neck through his face.
“HOW?” he shouts, his eyes darting to Mamma before he lowers his tone. “How could you get yourself intothatmuch trouble, Gabriele? I—no.No. Absolutely not.”
He turns his back, cupping his hand over the place where he speaks as though to shield his words. I don’t hear what he says before he slams the phone into where it rests on the wall.
“Sylvester, go to your room, please. Mamma and I need to speak alone.” I can hear the anger in his tone, see the quake in his shoulders, but he doesn’t look over at me as he commands my instructions. I know better than to argue, so I collect my sketchbook and shuffle out of the kitchen without a word.
