I shook my head. I wasn’t scared. I was my daddy’s girl, and I was tougher than that.
The man laughed. “Being in the air isn’t the scary part,” he said. “It’s the takeoff and the landing that’s the hardest.” He was right.
As I look out the window now, I’m no longer eight and pretending to be brave despite my fear of flying. I’m twenty-two, a woman, in control.
Mostly.
The airport looks the same. Boston hasn’t changed much since I’ve been gone, at least on the surface. I know what lies beneath—the six families that rule the underside of this polished exterior.
My father is the head of one of those families. Antonio Donovan, leader, mafia member, accused killer.
But above all that, to me, he’ll always just beDad.
Boston is in my blood, deeper than anything else. Even the maelstrom of emotions in my chest can’t snuff out the flood of safety I feel, knowing that I’m home.
The woman in the seat next to me glances over, trying to look past me out the window as we near the runway, and I lean back to give her a better view.
She seems to notice the way I’m gripping the armrests and gives me a sympathetic smile. “Lovely weather. Isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It’s a miracle,” I agree, trying to keep my voice even.
“Are you from the area?”
The plane hits the tarmac hard. We bounce for a few seconds and my nails dig into the arms of my seat. I can’t help wishing I had a hand to hold instead.
It’s stupid. I remind myself of that, then remember I haven’t answered the woman.
“I am,” I finally say. “I’ve been going to college in California.”
“Oh, really? That’s a long way away. You must get a lot of miles.”
“No, not really. I… haven’t been back for a while.”
Not for four years.
The woman makes a noise of surprise. I glance over at her as her watery blue eyes widen, taking in her blonde hair and the small lines in her face covered with pressed powder. Her hair is a dye job, unlike my natural blonde locks, but it must’ve been recent, because I only see the tiniest hint of her roots.
“My nephew won’t stop coming back to do laundry,” she tells me, her voice dropping to a whisper as if we’re sharing juicy gossip. “Honestly, I don’t think he knows how to do it at all.”
I give a half shrug, chuckling. “Well, I had to learn. California to Boston was too far for me to come back for laundry.”
“No kidding! What were you studying?”
“Art history.” My shoulders relax a little as we taxi across the tarmac toward the gate. “That’s part of the reason I didn’t come back. All those sketchbooks and textbooks would’ve taken an extra suitcase or two.”
“Oh, an artist! How wonderful.”
“Well, I’m not really an artist,” I correct her. “It’s part of the degree to take some art classes, but that’s not what I’m interested in. I want to be a curator.”
“Really? You know, I’ve never thought about what it might take to do that.”
“Not many people do.” I shrug. I’m used to this response. People always think of the wrong thing. “I always found it more interesting.”
“How so?”
“It takes something special to be able to set up a room, a collection. It’s about lighting, color, theme—so many variables that make something perfect. It takes time. It’s an experience you’re making, not just an image.”
I think I spoke too much. The woman is grinning, laughing. I can feel the back of my neck getting hot. Her cheer isn’t ill-intentioned, but it reminds me too much of someone else.
