Dear Michael,

I wilt without you. I sent my last letter over six months ago, yet I haven't heard from you. I miss you endlessly. I wish I could take you to see the ruined Colosseum, to throw pennies in the fountains of the Piazza Navona with you. As you said, Rome is a great city, but it's less great without you in it.

My flight back to New York is in August. Will you be there, waiting for me, like you said you would? I've imagined reuniting with you a thousand times in a thousand ways, and not a day has gone by that I have not missed you. These past two and a half years, I've held on to your promise. Will you keep it?

I can't help but anticipate my return with terror and excitement. I know we said we'd get married as soon as we were old enough, but of course, that was before my brother sent me here. I fear that when I come home, Stefano will treat me with the same brutality as a 20-year-old woman than as a teenage girl. I don't know how many more years I can live with him, and if I'm never to have any independence, marriage is my only way out. Stefano and Raffael would never let me live by myself.

But I'm sure I don't need to explain this to you. As I sit here in this cafe drinking my espresso, I cannot imagine spending my life with anyone but you. If you don't feel the same way, you must tell me immediately. I cannot stand your silence.

Yours dearly,

Luisa Vitale

January 1943

I thought I'd know how I would feel when I came home. The truth is that the moment I walked in the door, it was like I never left. My family's colonial-style mansion was in the same boyish disarray that I left it in, dishes piled high in the sink from Raffael's last cooking endeavor, clothes strewn about carelessly. Upstairs, I heard the heavy footsteps of my four brothers and their respective guests. I wondered if they even remembered I was coming back that day, I was sure at least Raffael would remember.

Tobacco and sheets of thin cigarette paper littered the dining room table, matches were strewn about near other substances I didn't recognize. My youngest brother Giuseppe's record albums piled on the coffee table, newer records I hadn't seen before. I opened all the curtains, letting in the warm, late summer sunlight. I heard the rapid, clunky sound of multiple sets of footsteps descending the stairs, and I turned away from the window holding my breath-which of my brothers would I see first?

Raffael's thick mass of curls came into view, and as soon as his eyes landed on my luggage, he searched the room for me immediately. A wide grin erupted on his face as he found me, and I couldn't help but run towards him, tears pricking in my eyes.

"Raffaele!" I exclaimed, smiling wider than I had in three years.

"Luisa, madonna!" he laughed, embracing me. He was taller than the 19-year-old he was when I left, and prickly, dark stubble spotted his cheeks and jaw.

"Who let you get taller, cucciolo?" I asked him laughing, poking his slim torso. He swatted at my hands, chuckling at my silliness.

"Why, Don Stefo Vitale himself," he told me with a smirk, making his friends laugh. They were two men Raffael's age with classic Sicilian features, and I quickly recognized them as Tony and Eduardo Salvatore, our cousins and Raffael's friends since birth. Behind them, I saw a tangled mass of dark curls, the face of whoever the mass belonged to hidden behind Tony.

"Lu, you remember Tony and Edo," Raffael told me, gesturing to them, "and this is Carrie Di Matteo." The girl with the tangled curls stepped out from behind Tony and revealed a delicately pretty face on a slim young woman. She was wearing a modest, light blue dress with short sleeves, her curly hair tied lazily together with a black ribbon. Her eyes were a warm brown, her lashes long and dark, and she smiled shyly at me. Was she perhaps anticipating this moment?

"Ciao, Carrie," I greeted her, leaning in and kissing both her cheeks in typical Sicilian fashion.

"Carrie and I are engaged," Raffael told me proudly, and I felt my eyes widen with surprise. I had always expected Raffael, handsome as he is, to find a wife soon, but I'd always assumed I'd have time to get to know her before he proposed. The realization that I had missed so much of my brother's life and his relationship with his future spouse was strikingly painful. I never wanted to be apart from Raffael again.

"Congratulations!" I exclaimed, still dizzied by the reality of it all. "When's the wedding?"

"We're thinking spring-Carrie wants warm weather. Hey, you ready for the festa?"

I furrowed my brows at him, shaking my head.

"Festa?"

"For you, madonna!" Raffael told me like it was obvious. "Madrina Corleone put it together, starts in an hour."

After all this time, the rush of hearing Michael's last name from my own brother's tongue was exquisite, and I felt the urge to launch into my fantasies of reuniting with him. Michael's mother and father were the godparents to all five Vitale siblings. Mine and Michael's fathers were the best of friends growing up in Corleone, Italy, and were even closer as Dons. After the death of our parents, the Corleones took care of us until Stefano could provide as head of the household. My godfather, Don Corleone, even paid for my education at Accademia.

"I should have guessed as much," I shrugged, trying not to let my mind run wild with thoughts of Michael. Before I got too carried away, more eager footsteps descended the stairs, and my younger brothers Bernardo and Giuseppe came into the light. Bernardo, 18 and almost as tall as Raffael, looked exactly how I pictured my father as a young man. His smile was wide and bright as he saw me, and I noticed how much wider his shoulders had gotten, his long hair untidy. His almond-shaped eyes were rimmed with long, dark lashes that made all the girls in the neighborhood swoon. Bernardo hugged me tightly, and I could tell he missed me.

Giuseppe took after our mother, and he had grown to look so much more like her in the years I was gone. His handsome features, high cheekbones and a narrow, straight nose, were identical to those of our mother. It was so easy to see her in him from a distance, like glimpses of a ghost. Peppi was 16 but looked as old as Bernardo, if not older. Still, there was a glint of naiveté in his dark eyes, his thirst for life still unquenchable. He was only five when we lost our parents.

"Lulu, back from Roma!" Nardo exclaimed with that wide, playful grin, pouring us glasses of brandy. "Tell me, did you like the city?"

"Too many tourists," I told him nonchalantly, sipping my brandy. "Good food, though."

"Not enough action for you, madonna?" Raffael asked me with that same smirk on his face. I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help smiling. It was, to say the least, a little true.

"Not nearly enough," I played along, winking at him. He laughed exuberantly, pouring himself more brandy, but I could tell Carrie was confused. I figured he hadn't exactly talked to her about the family business; such was the reality for a woman in a family like ours. We didn't even get to ask questions.

I dressed in a simple black dress, a slimming but modest number I bought in a boutique in Rome. I tried not to overdo my hair, letting it hang long down my back. I stared at my image in the mirror of my room, and for the first time since I got back, I felt the time that had passed. My reflection in the mirror that used to be my mother's hadn't always looked so womanly, so mature, so put together. I was beautiful in a new way and it startled me-at that moment I wished passionately that I had never left.

Raffael, Carrie, Bernardo, Giuseppe, and I walked to the Corleone's, which was a ten-minute walk from where we lived. Bernardo carried one of my paintings for me, which was a gift to my godfather for my time at Accademia. It was a piece I was quite proud of and one of my personal best. Most of my classes there were Catholic art and media, so I frequently painted scenes from the Bible and spent hours laboring over my oil paintings, getting Christ's expressions just right. The piece I gifted to my godfather featured the birth of Jesus and adoration of the shepherds surrounding Mary and cherubs dipping down from heaven. The gift of this painting was also my way of assuring my godfather that I learned from my time at Accademia and that it wasn't a waste of his money-and, it wouldn't hurt for him to think that I was especially pious and devout after my time spent so close to the heart of Catholicism. I wanted to let him know that I'd grown, that I wouldn't be a misbehaving nuisance to his business any longer. Of course, that last promise would turn out broken; I never intended on keeping it.

When we got to the Corleone mansion, I felt my confidence waver. Michael was in there, talking to someone, drinking scotch probably, awaiting my presence. He had stopped responding to my letters after the first year of my being away-the last letter he sent me was dated December 1941. Was that the last time he thought of me? Did he even read my letters? Was he with someone else, was that it?

Questions assaulted my brain and my head started to pound. Giuseppe, with his almost supernatural ability to tell how other people were feeling, touched my back affectionately. I gave him a small smile, but I still felt uneasy. Why did you have to break your promise, Michael?

I was genuinely surprised by how excited everyone was that I was back. Carmela, my madrina, embraced me tightly and welcomed me back gleefully. My godfather, composed and collected as ever, even cracked a smile for me. His normally icy eyes glinted warmly at me as he hugged me, and I couldn't help but grin. Everyone knew I was his favorite godchild, even though I used to cause trouble as a teenager. I was the only woman Don Corleone approved of for his youngest son, which was perfectly okay with me.

I greeted Michael's brother Fredo and sister Connie, who were both excited to hear about my time in Italy. When Michael's oldest brother Sonny saw me, I couldn't help but burst with joy and neither could he. Sonny and I were close like siblings, and he protected me in a very brotherly way. He was two years younger than Stefano but was his best friend in almost every way. They had a deep friendship but both of them were quick to anger, especially when it came to me. I lost count of how many times Sonny saved me from Stefano; I wasn't sure if I would still be living if not for him.

"Luisa, bella, fragolina!" Sonny exulted, making me laugh. Even when he treated me like a kid, I let Sonny do it. I owed him my life ten times over.

I searched for Michael to no avail. After the buzz of my arrival lessened, everyone mingled in the backyard, drinking and dancing. Sonny, with his eager eyes and gleeful smirk, offered me his hand to dance. I laughed and accepted, taking it and stepping closer to him. Joyfully, he spun me, swaying silly to the music.

"I missed you, Sonny," I told him, making him smile warmly.

"I missed you too, fragolina," he grinned, squeezing my hand.

"Sonny," I started, my smile falling, "where's Michael?"

He sighed, looking around us like he didn't want anyone to overhear. His eyes landed on his father, who was far enough away for him to turn back to me.

"He enlisted in the Marines," he told me quietly, keeping his voice low. "He's somewhere in the Pacific. It's a sensitive subject for my father."

I felt my body stiffen, suddenly unresponsive to the music. I blinked at him, feeling a warm, heavy sadness spread through my stomach.

"What?" I asked in disbelief, my voice barely a whisper. "When?"

"Two years ago, after Pearl Harbor," Sonny told me, knocking the wind out of me. December 1941... "He didn't tell you?"

"No," I gasped, sitting down at my table, fighting to catch my breath.

"Don't worry about him," Sonny assured me, "he's doing good, fighting over there. Coglione even got a promotion, a little trinket to show for it." Sonny handed me a nearby full glass of brandy, which I gulped generously. I wanted to scream.

"He stopped writing to me," I admitted, trying to keep my voice from wavering. "He said he'd be right here when I came back." Sonny didn't seem to know what to say, sighing heavily.

"He is a damn fool," Sonny affirmed, annoyance for his brother evident in his voice, "if he let a girl like you go. I'll give him a right beating when he shows his face again."

I didn't say anything. I finished the brandy, starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. I wanted to cry.

"But listen, Lu, if Stefano gives you a hard time," Sonny said soberly, "you give me a call."

I looked at my hands. I never knew what to say when Sonny said anything like that. At the same moment, almost theatrically, my fourth and eldest brother came into view, his presence dominated the mansion backyard. With caporegimes on either side of him, Don Stefano Vitale looked especially sinister in his dark suit. His unruly curls were gelled into submission atop his head and I remembered what a perfect blend of our parents he was. His high cheekbones and nose resembled that of our mother, but my father's eyes were identical to Stefano's. My oldest brother's frown was indistinguishable from our father's, as well as his tall, looming frame complete with wide shoulders and a commanding gaze. I couldn't help but always freeze whenever I saw him-violence played endlessly in my mind in his presence.

I took Sonny's brandy right from his hand and downed the rest of it. With raised brows, Sonny cleared his throat, deciding not to comment on my drinking. I stood carefully, my head starting to spin from the brandy. I took a deep breath in an attempt to combat my fight or flight response and opened my eyes to see Stefano's icy stare boring into me. Freezing, liquid fear flooded through me as I fought to breathe, my eyes never leaving his, no matter how much they scared me. I tried to relax, or at least seem relaxed-Stefano was always at his most vicious when he caught me at a weak moment.

A cold smile spread across his face.

"Buonasera, Luisa," he told me, his tone careful. His almond-shaped eyes met the capo next to him, who offered him a glass of dark red wine. I screamed at myself to relax-most people knew about Stefano's temper, but not that he so often singled me out when he lost it, and I didn't want them to know. I knew I was normally more careful than I had to be, given that Stefano usually only lost his temper when I stepped out of line. Of course, I couldn't help but leap out of line-it wasn't in my nature to be the obedient, dutiful sister, only speaking when spoken to. There was so much more for me beyond the line.

"Buonasera, Don Vitale," I made out, with more ease and grace than I expected. His lips twitched into a smirk, how characteristic; he always needed to be in control, he was compulsive that way.

"Seguire," he ordered with a casual and calm tone, starting to walk towards the kitchen entrance in the backyard, leaving the capos to stand outside. I swallowed, finding Sonny's eyes again and giving him a long, knowing look. He watched me follow my brother into the house, as I smiled insincerely at the other guests to keep the gossips at bay. I breathed extra deeply to keep my hands from shaking, running my fingers through my hair.

I followed him through the kitchen, through the living room, up the stairs. I swallowed as we passed Michael's room, his door closed. I grazed the door lightly with my fingers as I walked by, thinking of all the memories we made in there.

My brother led me to a parlor on the second floor, where Don Corleone sometimes would host meetings. Stefano sat comfortably in a leather chair, lighting a cigarette. I knew better than to sit down. Instead, I leaned on a nearby bookshelf, crossing my hands behind me.

He studied me quickly before speaking, almost as if observing how I've grown. He looked back up at me with that same calm, cold smile.

"How was Roma, piccola?"

Piccola. I hated that nickname; it was for babies, but he'd called me it as far back as I could remember.

"Memorable," I answered, keeping my voice neutral. Behind my back, I dug my fingernails into my palm nervously. He narrowed his eyes.

"And the Accademia? Godfather didn't waste his money on you, did he?"

"I'm an artist," I conceded, starting to hear the discomfort in my voice. "That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

I immediately regretted saying it. I've done it again, I thought. I've stepped out of line.

"I wanted you to stay out of the way," Stefano articulated curtly, starting to frown.

"Then you got what you wanted," I attempted to recover, but I couldn't find the right words. After I said the first wrong thing, after I swam out too far, the tide was bound to pull me under.

He narrowed his eyes even more, his frown deepening. He stood, dropping his cigarette in the ashtray, never taking his eyes off of me. I could feel my hands shaking violently behind me.

"What are you planning?" he asked me seriously. I gulped.

"I'm not planning anything."

"Do not lie to me," he warned, his eyes flashing. Adrenaline poured through me. "I know you better than that, piccola. I'll give you one more chance." He stepped closer to me, and I realized what a mistake it was to lean against the bookshelf. "What are you planning?"

Oh god... Oh god... No matter what I say, no matter what I say...

"What are you planning?!"

"I'm not planning anything," I insisted, my voice starting to shake. I squeezed my eyes shut, knowing what was about to come.

My vision flooded with red as I suddenly lost all air, shoved back by a force beyond my strength. My back collided with the bookshelf with a thunk. Stefano's huge hands roughly gripped my neck, pressing my body into the hard shelf. Stars dotted my blurry vision as I clawed at his hands, fighting desperately to breathe.

"Lying bitch!" Stefano roared, "If I catch you in my offices again-"

"You won't! You won't!" I gasped, barely making out the words. He released my neck roughly and I gasped with effort, my voice strained. I coughed, still seeing stars, my neck hurting like he still had ahold of me. Tears pricked in my eyes as my brother pinned me against the bookshelf again, shouting something in Italian that I couldn't make out. I heard the door burst open, but it sounded so in the distance, like I was slipping away from the room. Someone was cursing, Sonny's voice, and I realized that I had lost my balance, feeling the hardwood beneath my fingers. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, still coughing hoarsely. I could hear Sonny and Stefano fighting and suddenly someone else touched my arm gently.

"Luisa," a woman's voice said over the commotion, "it's Connie, Luisa."

I didn't know how to communicate with her, barely able to see her. My neck ached like I had a thousand bruises, and when I dared to touch it, I recoiled from the pain.

She lifted me, helping me stand, and hurried me out of the room. I couldn't see where she led me, but eventually, the sound of the two men fighting faded and a door opened and closed, Connie sat me down somewhere bright. I blinked, rubbing my eyes, and heard her say something about first aid before the same door opened and closed again.

As soon as she left, I felt hot tears stream down my face. I couldn't help sobbing, but each cry from my throat was a new wave of pain throughout my neck. I breathed shakily, my vision clearing, looking ahead at what turned out to be my reflection. I was sitting in Connie's bedroom at her vanity mirror, her makeup and trinkets littered about the surface of the table. I stared into my reflection, shocked at how different I looked compared to earlier. The same mature, composed woman I saw in my room now had colorful red and purple bruises across her neck in the shape of giant handprints. Her face, blotched and red from crying, held all the fear and sorrow of a child. Strangely, I saw more of my inner self in that sad, abused girl than in the mature, composed woman from earlier. I stared into her eyes, almost frightened by their intensity. With shaky fingers, I wiped the tears from my face. It truly did feel like I never left.