My senators vote away millions,
To put in Prosperity's budget;
And though it were billions or trillions,
The generous rogues wouldn't grudge it.
'Tis all but a family hop,
'Twas Pitt began dancing the hay;
Hands round! - why the deuce should we stop?
'Tis all in the family way.

All in a Family Way - Thomas Moore.

Chapter One: Invisible Chains

JADE

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

Memories from a few hours ago suddenly flood my mind, like the waves of a raging ocean. They crash against me from all sides, and I let out a long sigh, as if that could somehow stave off the inevitability of drowning.

Tick, tock.

Tick, tock.

I jump up and press my face against the bars of the cell, frowning at the officer, who seems very distracted by a recorded TV show blaring at an irritatingly high volume. He chews with his mouth open, hiding whatever food he has under the desk.

For a weekend, the downtown Rome police station is suspiciously empty. Apart from the officer, who is completely ignoring me, and myself, there is nothing but silence filling the inert space.

Then I feel the silence, so tense and unbearable that it seems to push me down to the floor, stripping me of all my dimensionality. I can also feel my patience starting to wear thin.

"How much longer do I have to wait to get out of here?" I try to get his attention, but it's like talking to an impenetrable wall. I know he heard me because a laugh is stifled between the handful of chips he stuffs into his mouth. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

The officer glances at me for just a second before returning his gaze to the small TV perched precariously on his desk. His chair creaks as he adjusts himself. "We've contacted your father. He's on his way."

"You said the same thing the last time I asked," I remind him, exasperated.

He rolls his eyes before finally looking at me. The dark circles under his eyes add years to a face that, if not for the traces of exhaustion, would be handsome. "That was ten minutes ago," he replies curtly, almost with a growl. Again, he avoids my gaze, focusing on the TV show. It doesn't take long before he starts laughing and chewing with his mouth open again.

I give up on the officer. I roll my eyes and sigh again, letting myself fall back onto the bench, where I've been sitting for...

Tick, tock.

I look at the clock.

Four hours.

I scan the room, and my eyes land on another TV hanging in a corner, playing a local news channel. I sigh as I watch the most boring news story of my life and start to think I'm trapped in my own personal hell. Locked up with an officer who chews like an orangutan and forced to pass the time by informing myself about insignificant things like the theft of a carton of milk.

Then, an alert flashes on the screen. Despite the muted sound, the news is graphic enough that I don't need to hear the details to make me shudder. I see bodies being covered by plastic sheets over their heads. A gun on the ground. A white rose resting on the pavement. A drop of blood on one of its petals. And a photo.

"Daily bread," I jump at the sound of the officer's voice.

My eyes quickly dart to him. He's no longer slouched in his chair, shoveling chips into his mouth. The only thing that remains constant is his ability to avoid looking at me. Now he leans forward, elbows resting on the desk. His eyes have shifted from the small TV to the other one.

"Excuse me?"

My confusion seems to amuse him because he lets out a small chuckle that vanishes as quickly as it appeared. He points at the news story still flashing on the TV. "It's the second one this week."

His change in attitude toward me surprises me, but I choose not to question it and instead take advantage of the distraction. My eyes return to the TV, where the photo of a man with warm skin and a graying two-day beard still flickers.

"Serial killer?" I ask, half-joking, half-serious.

But when he laughs, I know it was taken as a joke. "Score-settling," he replies.

A shiver runs down my spine at his words. "Who's behind all this?"

The officer lets out another laugh. My reaction seems to amuse him in a way that, thanks to my ignorance, escapes my understanding. He even adopts an incredulous posture, judging by his body language: raised eyebrows, forced laughter, blinking. He laughs as if my question were silly, a joke with no punch-line, one of those you laugh at just because of how absurd it sounds.

I force myself to ignore it.

I open my mouth to ask more, but the doors of the police station swing open, interrupting my frantic thoughts. The force of the winter wind seeps into the room, and I have to hug myself to ward off the sudden chill that finds me. The dust of an impending snowfall accompanies the man who shakes his umbrella in the doorway, as if daring him to come inside.

My father strides into the room without even looking at me. He removes his hat and hangs it on a coat rack. He is, of course, not alone. Behind him, his right-hand man and bodyguard, Lorenzo, follows like a shadow. I couldn't help but think that he could perfectly play the part if he so wished, as his entire attire is the color of the inert, empty void of a shadow. His eyes are hidden behind polarized glasses, and a small wire snakes from his ear to a communication device concealed somewhere on his body. He doesn't move an inch.

If you didn't know him, you'd probably think Lorenzo is a robot. Or maybe one of the Men in Black. His walk is so cold and calculated that it seems to be controlled by a remote.

I look at my father.

I try to study his features, searching for any hint of emotion that might give away his mood. But his face seems peaceful, calm. Strangely relaxed given the circumstances. My body freezes for a moment. My father knows very well how to fake composure in overwhelming situations. So his calm demeanor as he approaches the officer's desk with a slight smile is more unsettling than reassuring. This is the first time I've been arrested. The first time I've been involved in such a scandal.

From a distance, and to anyone outside the inner circle of the family, he doesn't appear angry. But to me, his only daughter and the center of that circle, I can tell from miles away that this is not a good sign.

Throughout my adolescence and now in my early adulthood, I carry with me a long list of mistakes that pile up on top of one another, like a house of cards threatening to collapse at any moment. That doesn't bother me; quite the opposite. It's precisely that thrill that I chase every time I decide to break a rule.

The inevitable collapse of the house of cards is the driving force behind my reckless actions. The adrenaline of not knowing how low you can fall. Longing to dance with the sensation of infinite emptiness enveloping me as I plummet into the abyss.

I've never risked too much, though. Until last night, the worst thing I'd done was get so high at a lowlife party in a seedy club that I couldn't even remember my name, surrounded by people who didn't seem friendly at all, contrasting with me in a way that was almost hilarious.

Until last night.

Again, I feel the waves crashing over me, reminding me of what happened. The memory tightens around my throat so much that I have to swallow hard to escape its ghostly grip. It invades me in bursts, like scattered pieces of a movie. I see the faces of people, looking at me with surprise. With pity. I see myself dancing in the middle of a dancefloor. I see myself drinking. Too much. I see myself in the car. My hands firmly on the wheel. My head spinning. I see myself crying. Screaming.

I shake my head, brushing off those thoughts like dust on boots, and force myself to focus on something else.

"I'm very sorry for the trouble, Officer..." My father leans in to read the gold plaque shining like the sun against the blue of the guard's shirt. The officer straightens up and adjusts it in place with a quick, trembling hand, as if desperate for my father to know his name. "Giordano. I apologize for the delay," my father finally says with a smile.

The officer, who now has a name—I'm relieved I don't have to refer to him as "Officer Orangutan"—shakes his head. "No need to worry, Mr. Vannicelli. It's been a slow night anyway."

"I hope she hasn't caused you any trouble," he gestures to me. I frown.

Giordano shakes his head again, and I fear that if he keeps doing that, he'll take off like an helicopter. He stands up and rummages through his pockets until he finds the jangling of keys. I think about how ridiculous it is that, even while walking straight towards me, he manages to never look at me.

"Not at all, sir," he says to my father as he opens the cell door. I force myself not to sigh as my vision clears and I'm no longer surrounded by the stifling vertical pattern.

I watch my father take his wallet out of his suit pocket. His lips twisted into an unreadable expression. He places a sizable wad of bills on the officer's desk, and the officer's eyes widen.

"Make sure there's no record of this... incident," he tells Giordano, who is so still that if he fell, I imagine he'd shatter into a million pieces. "You understand that if this reaches the press..."

"No one will know," he interrupts, and then I realize he hasn't turned into a statue.

"Good," my father smiles.

Then he turns to me. His eyes still don't meet me.

"Let's go," he says, motioning towards the exit. And I feel like I've forgotten how to breathe.

(...)

The tires screeching against the pavement is the only sound inside the tinted car as we finally head home. That, and the frantic beating of my heart, which pounds in my head like a wild horse. Up until now, our SUV had always seemed ridiculously large to me, too much space for just two people to travel in. But during this seemingly endless drive, it makes me feel claustrophobic.

It's been at least fifteen minutes since we left the police station. My father's silence echoes in the car, filling every corner with a tense, palpable calm. I shift in my seat, which creaks under my weight. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and keep waiting. By now, he should be yelling at me. The fact that he isn't is unsettling.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" I dare to be the first to speak as I struggle to fasten the butterfly necklace I had to take off at the station.

And even though I was sure that this question would flip the switch on my father's temper, to my surprise, he remains calm. He sighs and finally turns to look at me. His tired eyes meet mine with a resigned expression. He reaches over to my shoulder and turns me so that I'm facing away from him. He takes the necklace from my hands and fastens it in one swift movement. His hands rest on my shoulders for a few seconds before he pulls them away with a gentle but firm squeeze.

"Do you want me to say something?" he asks, his tone unchanged. I turn to look at him, confused. His calmness worries me. I search his features for any sign of irritation—a twitching eyelid, a clenched jaw—but find nothing. It's just my father. And that worries me even more.

It takes me a moment to respond, still stunned by his indifferent attitude. "I never thought I'd say this, but yes."

"Honestly, Jade, I'm not in the mood to lecture you again," my father exhales, as if the space where his bad mood should be has been filled with exhaustion. "It's been a long night. Let's just get home, and we'll talk about it in the morning."

"But..."

"Not another word, Jade," he warns, his irritation slipping through for a brief moment. Then his eyes return to the window.

I slump back into the leather seat and mimic his action. Once again, silence settles around us, clinging to the clothes that weigh heavily on my body after wearing them for so many hours. My fingers find the lower edge of my shirt, where there's a large grayish stain. I sigh and keep looking out the window.

"Excited for your graduation, Miss Vannicelli?" I'm slightly startled by Lorenzo's calm, calculated voice from the driver's seat. The question bursts forth like a desperate attempt to fill the space with some sound. For the first time, I sense that he's uncomfortable in the silence, which surprises me considering I've known him since I can remember. I see his eyes hidden behind dark glasses in the rearview mirror, his attention unwaveringly fixed on the road.

I shrug as I try to come up with an appropriate answer. Excited about my graduation? A graduation that shouldn't even happen for at least another year? Another one of my father's attempts to keep me in line. Metaphorically, his plan is to slap the university degree on my forehead and throw me into the arms of some company that would take over the burden of disciplining me. Since my mother's death, my father has gone through his daily life with a cold monotony. He tries to be a good father, but his own confusion about how to do so betrays him more often than he realizes. My mother's death was sudden, violent, and left a huge impact on his parenting abilities. Nevertheless, he shows his affection through other actions, like a pat on the back or a crooked smile.

Rumors spread quickly in high society, and I navigate through it with ease. If my memory serves me right, it was a girl from the university's student services who let it slip that my father had paid a large sum of money to allow me to graduate a year early. My anger doesn't stem from inexperience, as my academic grades are nearly perfect and I know I'm ready to dive into the shark tank. What disrupts my peace is his ability to maneuver me to fulfill whatever goal is at hand. And for several months now, his primary goal has been to place limit after limit on me.

But unfortunately for him, I'm remarkably good at overcoming obstacles.

"I think Dad should be the one to attend the ceremony," I respond to Lorenzo, but with a sharp tone aimed at my father, "considering that degree is more his than mine."

That seems to trigger an alarm, as he quickly retorts, "Watch your tone, Jade," he warns, giving me a quick but piercing look. "And stop saying stupid things if you don't want me to lose my patience." Once again, he turns towards the window. "That degree is something you earned through your hard work. Besides, it's about time you start following in the family's footsteps."

I can't help but roll my eyes instinctively. I decide to stay silent, trusting that the silence will convey the many opinions I have on the matter.

Following in the family's footsteps...

A phrase that has haunted me since I was born. And no matter how much I run or hide, it always seems to find refuge behind a transparent wall. My ankle tied to invisible chains that tug at me, reminding me that they're still there. That they exist. They always find me. They always remind me, never forget about me. Breathing down my neck constantly.

The most recent proof of this is, once again, my university degree. Starting with the fact that I never chose to become a lawyer of my own accord. But it's what's expected of me. My father climbed his way to becoming a senator thanks to his law degree. That's where he met my mother, who was also a lawyer. She rose to become the head of the law department at Sapienza University. She was one of the best professors on the faculty.

And I, by default, had to become a lawyer. And climb. To where? Good question. I'm still figuring that out.

My whole life, I've been told how to speak. How to blend into society and take advantage of that. I was taught to manipulate, to temper, to draw attention when needed, and to keep a low profile when necessary. I always thought they didn't see the world as a collection of people, but as a  network of a millionaire possibility of contacts.

Then my mother died. And my father dedicated himself to turning me into a tribute to her. At first implicitly, but as the years passed and I grew up alongside them, the coercion became so obvious it felt like a bad joke. He doesn't even try to sugarcoat it anymore.

But still, I'm about to graduate as a lawyer. Just like my mother. But unlike her, I have no clear direction. I never had to question it. I just act accordingly. Lost in a sea of people who were raised just like me. Among my acquaintances, there are future specialist doctors, renowned lawyers, future presidents, and even members of royalty. Why would I question something that seems as normal as breathing?

Nevertheless, a voice always follows close behind me. Bending me. Simultaneously transforming me. The sophisticated, educated, and perfect daughter of the senator, and me. Jade. The girl who enjoys the adrenaline of a night without an horizon. The one who laughs out loud without covering her mouth. The one who isn't afraid to say what she thinks.

The one who is free.