Prologue
When I was six years old, I developed a high-level anxiety disorder. I was an absolutely happy “normal” kid until one day started to run out of air, like my lungs were being crushed, and I thought I was going to die. I was hiding in my room, waiting until it stopped, until my life ended. When it stopped, I pretended like nothing happened and didn’t tell anyone. I was always good at pretending that everything was fine. My grandmother used to say it was my special talent and that I got that trait from her. I never thought she was being serious; I always thought that she just said that to make me feel better, but that changed when I saw her compulsively crying in her room on a summer afternoon. Me and my brothers were playing with our friends and decided to hide; I went inside of the house, even though Grannie said to play in the garden. I hid under her bed, thinking I was smarter than all of them. And all of a sudden, I hear footsteps. I thought they had found me too soon, so I peek between the sheets of the duvet and the leg of the bed, and I watch Grannie coming into the room with that same shinny smile she always has on her face. That little by little disappears, and the sound of her painful cry feels the walls in the room.
I thought of leaving my hideout to hug her and tell her. “Grannie, everything is going to be all right; I’m right here with you.” Like she’s done so many times with me, but I heard her voice in my head. “We are the same, honey; we know how to pretend like no other.” I remembered how I hated when everyone could see my weaknesses because when they do, they have something to pick on. So, I squeezed my eyes shut, coveredmy ears with my hands, and waited for her to get better until I realized she wasn’t in the room anymore. I left the house and ran toward her while she was smiling and playing with my brothers. I offered her the shiniest smile that I had and kept playing with them.
At that time, even at a tender age, I understood a lot more about insecurities and fears than most people could imagine. I learned early that a smile is the best mask and that if you don’t have enough self-confidence or self-love, you can manufacture it. Everything that you need is a shiny smile and a confident posture so no one suspects it. This was my way of dealing with my problems: to look superior, keep my head high, and if you need to cry, do it alone at night when nobody can hear you. But the issue is that even the best masks can have some cracks, almost so slightly, but still noticeable. Mine showed up when I was twelve, and my parents decided to put a ‘pause’ in their marriage. My shortness of breath appeared in front of them and my brothers at the dinner table, and there was nothing I could do to hide it. On that night, the whole family gathered in the emergency room at the best hospital in the city, and the bomb went off. The perfect princess had a fault, and it wasn’t small, anxiety disorder. I remembered those words repeatedly coming out, like whispers from my father’s mouth, like he was disappointed. The whole time, my mom was squeezing my handandhugging me like I had a terminal illness.
For days, my older brothers didn’t look me in the eyes, maybe scared of unlocking another outbreak. I remember grannie visiting, of patting my face,and sweetly whispering,“You are my other half, honey. I always knew we were the same.” And somehow, those words made me feel better; I can still feel her holding my hand; when my father came downstairs with his suitcases in hand, I remember turning away and not allowing a single tear to fall. I remember not being able to sleep that night,getting out of bed, dragging myself through the hallway, and knocking on my older brother’s door. When I opened it, both of my brothers were there; they were smiling at me and calling me over, so I ran toward them. None of us slept that night; we played games and talked. I felt something changed that day but didn’t know what.
I found out a year later that my parents would never live together. Twelve months after my dad left the house, they got divorced, and five months later, he gathered the children that he hadn’t seen for four months in the city’s most expensive restaurant to introduce his new girlfriend, a few years younger than my mom and with no kids to take care twenty-four hours a day. That day, I hated my dad in a way I could never explain through words. I left the table rushed and angry, and I heard my chair hit the floor and my name being called several times. I never looked back. I felt betrayed and fooled. I felt like my mom deserved better and needed better, but unfortunately, there was nothing I could do to make that happen.
I barely even knew that my dad had moved to Italy again; the fact that he was completely dedicated to manufacturing weapons was going to change my life forever. At that time, I had no idea that his partnership with the world of crime would define the rest of my life.
Chapter 1
Chiara 18-Year-Old
I look around and think about how different my eighteen years old are than what I used to imagine in my childhood. The family mansion is thoroughly decorated in gold with small lights everywhere, giving the impression that our “littlepalazzo” is filled with fireflies. My photographs from different moments of my life and the number 18 are scattered in several places. All is perfect; that’s what’s expected from a Mancini family’s party. Everything must be always perfect, and there I am with a radiant smile, like I’m the happiest person in the world, in my expensive red dress, drawn specially for me by Valentino’satelier,for this special day. Each thing was carefully chosen months ago, each detail, from the napkins to the shoes, dress, make-up, lights, colors, food. After all, what really matters is that everybody thinks that I’m living the dream, a 21st-century real princess.
I look over to my dad; he’s with his new girlfriend, who looks like a supermodel, the one that he introduced to us when I was thirteen, was the first in an endless line of new conquests for Salvatore Mancini; none last more than six months anyway. Mom smiles like it’s the happiest moment in her life, exchanging laughs with Grannie Daisy. Meanwhile, my brothers are distracted by their own friends and new amorous conquests. I look ahead and notice both of my best friends standing still, giving me the side eye, fully aware that this would be the last place I would like to be at today. Surrounded by people I barely know, indifferent or just don’t like me, even though my mom refuses to believe, her perfect little princess ishated by some. I wasn’t exactly an angel like you would assume by my looks, during my school years, my motto was always, hurt before getting hurt, leave before being abandoned. I can say that I’ve left a trace in my way. Everyone around me looks incredibly happy, and I ask myself if I’m the only one that feels misplaced and alone, even with hundreds of people around me. Sometimes, I would like to disappear or be someone else.
“Blow the candles, honey!” I hear my grandmother’s voice in automatic command; I squeeze my eyes shut and wish with all my heart to be happy than ever without restrictions. I open my eyes, and I’m faced with a three-layer cake well decorated in a light pink with gold details, probably prepared by a cake shop that charged more than one minimum wage. The sound of the fireworks becomes loud from outside. I look at the XV-century clock that decorates the wall. It’s two minutes past midnight. I’m officially an adult, my own woman. Nothing really changed. I’m a Mancini. I have responsibilities. Nothing will ever change, no matter how old I am.
I feel a tight hug; I smile, recognizing the perfume and hugging him back. Even though my brother Lorenzo is behind me, my middle brother Vincenzo approaches me and also hugs me, making me feel stuck between my older brothers, and in that moment, I’m happy and loved.
“I can’t wait for you to see the gift we bought for you!” Vincenzo does his distinctive look and raises his eyebrows, showing his excitement. Lorenzo simply smiles and gives me a sign to follow him. I follow my brothers to the office that used to be used by my grandfather. On the table, I can see a wooden box decked out in gold and gemstones. I smile to both, knowing already the surprise that I was going to find inside. I rush toward the box and carefully opened it, finding a “Memory of Azov,”one of the most beautiful pieces created by Peter Carl Fabergé. I look at the perfect Fabergé egg, and my eyes fill with tears. I open theegg mindfully to check the surprise inside and admire the little ship that’s placed there. For many years, I imagine vanishing in that ship, vanishing far away, maybe to another era. I look over to my brothers, who are leaning toward the office door, crossing their arms with delicate smiles, and I run toward them andhug them tightly, making them hug me back. I don’t need to say a word; they know I love them.
Around when I was thirteen years old, I developed a weird obsession for the Romanov family. Maybe because those princesses looked as lonely as me, I don’t know. But in that same year, I got my first Fabergé egg, and since then, it has become an obsession. I’m in love with them, particularly that one.
“Okay, time to give your attention to the guests; let’s go, Chiara. From now on, you can admire your egg for the rest of your life.” Lorenzo gives me a stern look that I know I can break in seconds but choose not to. He’s right. I leave the office smiling, hand in hand, with my two favorite people, actually happy.
I watch my dad and his new girlfriend coming toward me with a stern look like he was about to tell me off without saying a single word. He does this a lot. Gives me a slight signal with his head to follow him to the mansion’s main door. I notice that most of the guests are following us; it couldn’t be any other way. He never misses an opportunity to show off his wealth or that he’s a good dad, which clearly is not the reality. At least since the moment he left through that same door with his bags, he never came back with them.
The door opens so I can go before him. He offers me a smile that I cannot read, and as soon as I look ahead, I immediately realized that it was a question of pride. A redFerrari F90 Stradalewas right in front of me, wrapped with a gigantic red bow, signaling loudly my birthday present. I glance over at my dad, and he’s smiling back at me with raised eyebrows like he’swaiting for a reaction. I simply smile back and assert with my head, making all the guests applaud. I focus on my newFerrari, undeniably beautiful but not a gift I would give to someone that barely knows how to drive.
I think maybe his gift is an attempt to compensate for his absence, and then I remember all the people around me, and I realize that it was all about appearances. It’s always about looking good. He would never be like my brothers, mom, or Grannie Daisy, who gave me their presents in private. He always wants to show off; it’s like my approval is never enough. I take my hand to my pearl necklace around my neck, a gift from Grannie Daisy. She offered it to me minutes before the party started and said that I’m a woman now, and any woman deserves to have her own pearls. The necklace came in a set with earrings and a bracelet, exactly what I thought I was going to get from her. I look at my new white gold ring, with a big dark diamond in the center and small clear and gleaming diamonds around it, a gift from mom that was gifted to her by her mother when she turned eighteen years old. It seems too much, a real family heirloom, and now it’s mine. He was given to me two days before my birthday after having a little panic attack where I shouted I didn’t want a party. My mom told me that being an adult comes with responsibilities, and this was mine. The ring was left on my nightstand while I was asleep, and I only saw it the next morning, knowing it was time to grow up.
Everybody appears ecstatic when I look around; the fireworks are still loud in the back, as well as the popping up of excessively expensive champagne bottles. At the entrance, there’s a big table filled with countless birthday present boxes that’ll take days to open, thanks to my unwillingness to write thank you cards. I stare at all the smiling faces surrounding me and notice that few are significant in my life. Dad is close to his girlfriend, talking to some clients and investors, probably takingadvantage of my birthday to celebrate some deal.
Mom is with her long-term best friend, drinking champagne and laughing out loud, probably a bit drunk. Grannie is talking to the owner of a mine of emeralds, maybe trying to figure out if these stones are enough for the family’s brand. My brothers are enjoying themselves surrounded by women, probably trying to decide which one will accompany them at the end of the night. Then I notice myself, the birthday girl, standing between the small tables with cocktails scattered through the room, alone, without a purpose, no one to entertain, abandoned. I search for my best friends and can’t find them anywhere. I slowly walk through the room, smiling occasionally at any guest that notices my presence.
I continue to the lower floor. The access door is locked. I bang on the stone, knowing it’s fake, and open the small compartment where the key is. I look around and see no one close, so I quickly open the door, locking it behind me. I go down the stairs toward the game room, passing by it, entering the movie theatre, no one is there. I smile and head to the door that gives access to the indoor pool. I enter without making a sound and watch my two best friends with long dresses curled up to their knees, with their legs in the heated pool, both with glasses of champagne in their hands and two bottles sitting next to them, and observe an unused glass next to the bottles and know they thought of me. I close the door behind me and finally gain the attention of the two people in the room, both smiling in my direction and making a gesture for me to approach them. I return the smile, opposite to the ones that I was sharing throughout the night. I raise my dress and remove my heels, throwing them anywhere without paying much attention. As soon as I start getting close, they detach and form a tiny space for me to seat in their middle. While sitting, the two hugged me, wishing me a happy birthday, whispering in unison so close tomy ears that makes me tremble.
“I thought you weren’t showing up!” says Leticia, unbothered, while Aurora shakes her head in a weird way, making me think she might off drunk too much champagne already.
“I had to greet the guests. Besides, it’s not like I can simply vanish from my own birthday party!” I said.
“The birthday party that you didn’t ask for,” says Aurora in a jumble while standing up, waving her glass like she was doing a clumsy toast, making me and Leticia laugh.
I nodded. I didn’t have to say it was my “responsibility.” They know they have it too. Of course, the fact that my parents are divorced makes things a little more complicated. The fact that we each live in a different country makes everything more complicated. The whole point of these parties is to show that even if they’re divorced, the family is united, which is not true. I see my dad every two months, if not less. In the beginning, the calls were constant but diminished over the years. I remember when we moved to Portugal, I was only ten. My grandad was sick, and being an only child, my mom had to take care of the family business. My dad understood that we had to move from Italy to Portugal. He traveled constantly to Italy. Many of those times, he would come to Portugal just for the weekend. Everyone was hopeful that Grandad would get better and we could go back to our lives, but a year went by, and he passed away. In the year that followed, my parents separated. Maybe the distance and the workload were the reasons, or maybe they stopped loving each other. Me and my brothers stayed with my mom. In reality, I don’t think my dad actually fought for custody, so he moved permanently to Italy. At first, he would come to visit every weekend, like he used to when they were still together, but little by little, he would come every fifteen days, then once a month, then once every two months, and so on. I miss Italy; I meanliving there. I only visit once a year. But if I had never moved, I wouldn’t have befriended Leticia and Aurora, so maybe it wasn’t so bad considering all the bad things.
“Did you speak to your parents about the trip we want to take?” Leticia asks.
“Not yet. Do you believe they were fighting this morning in the middle of our breakfast?” I ask.
Aurora laughs and nods her head frenetically. Her dad is good friends with mine and does business in a wine brand that they created together, so she ends up knowing all my dad’s complaints.
“My mom wants me to study here. It’s where I’ve been studying since I was ten. But my dad thinks I should change sceneries, and by that, he means move back to Italy and go to college there. When I told them I wanted to study in London, they stopped their fight to stare perplexedly at me as if I don’t have a say in the matter. So they ignored me and continued arguing about where I should go as if I wasn’t even in the room. They stopped only when I screamed that I was going because it’s my life and I decided. By the way, both are mad at me since breakfast!” They both start laughing loudly as if what I’ve just told them is the funniest thing they’ve heard in days. I glance at them, confused and clearly searching for an explanation.
