Page 209 of Vicious Intentions
They think I’m suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.
They say I need time. Distance. Counseling.
They believe that eventually I’ll realize my place is here in Chicago and that whatever fantasy Matteo planted in my head will eventually die too.
The irony is that I feel far more like a prisoner in my own home than I ever did back in New York.
The people who claim to love me… who insist they only want what’s best for me… are now the very people holding the key to my gilded cage.
I’m not allowed a phone. I can’t use a computer unless I’m being supervised. I can’t go anywhere without a fleet of soldiers shadowing my every move or one of my siblings keeping close watch over me.
The only thing they’ve let me keep is Matteo’s piano. And I think that has more to do with them underestimating what his gift means to me than any act of kindness.
During those first few days, when I barely slept and vomited up everything I tried to eat, Stella hauled me to an OBGYN, terrified I was pregnant.
Thank God I wasn’t.
Not because I didn’t want Matteo’s baby, but because I was terrified my family’s hatred for all things Donato would keep me from having it.
The thought alone makes me violently ill.
I never would’ve forgiven them if they’d taken away the last living piece of my husband.
But it’s okay.
I made myself a promise.
Right now, I’m watched every second of the day. Especially with Jude, Mina, and the homicidal Crane twins here stateside. But eventually their focus will shift elsewhere. Back to the war. Back to whatever mob nightmare demands their attention next.
I’ll spend this final Christmas and New Year’s with my family, and afterward, when I’m no longer the center of everyone’s concern, I’ll make my escape.
I’ll return to New York. I’ll see Paolina again. And then I’ll visit my husband’s grave, lie beside him, and finally rest.
There will be no ‘after.’
No future.
Just Matteo and me together again, exactly as we were always meant to be.
Knowing this agony won’t last much longer is the only thing that gets me out of bed these days. It’s what makes me take a shower. Eat. Sleep. Play the piano.
Because soon, I’ll see my husband again.
Matteo used to joke that I was the Helen of Mafia Wars.
Little did he know we’d become the Romeo and Juliet of the underworld instead.
And strangely enough, there’s comfort in that. Comfort in knowing the end is close.
That soon, I won’t have to survive another day without my heart. My soul.
And this time, no one will ever tear us apart…ever again.
“Are you sure you don’t want a slice of Frankie’s pie? She made your favorite,” Lucky says, the smell of cinnamon and baked apples invading my nostrils and turning my stomach.
I turn away from him and walk toward the window instead, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear behind the woods outside.
“Has she talked to anyone yet?” I hear Alejandro whisper behind me, likely to my brother Enzo, concern lacing his voice.
