Page 114 of Mafia Bride
Zia Paola. Skinny and stony in jeans and a red cardigan. Chin raised. Hair thrown up in a mess of a twist.
The other woman’s hair is brassy blonde, brown at the root, blown smooth and straight. Even through the distortion of the leaded glass, I recognize a woman I haven’t seen in years. It’s Siena Orolio.
Damiano’s youngest sister, and Cosimo Orolio’s daughter.
Shit.
We don’t have enough staff here.
Violetta will recognize Paola and open the door.
Siena’s a time bomb. She’ll try to tell Violetta things she’s not ready to hear, and I won’t be able to defend against.
Just as I’m about to turn away, the front door opens, and I run.
31
VIOLETTA
I can’t figure out how to wear the brooch with the Three Graces without looking like I’m practicing to become an old lady, but while Santino does his business upstairs, I try. I want to make him as happy as he’s made me, and even though I thought I was happy before I met him, I’m gloriously, stupidly, giddily happy now. The dancing women on this brooch are just a way to show him how he makes me feel. Wanted, loved, high as a kite—fucked to the gills as if I’m the only woman on Earth, then fucked again as if he’s the only man.
Do I love him?
I don’t know yet, but I could love him.
I could.
Given the time and circumstance, I could love him like no other.
My resistance is gone. Skeet shot out of the sky into a spray of hot shrapnel. And though I could berate myself for postponing the joy of surrender, I couldn’t have done it any other way. The battle has made this all worthwhile, but from now on I’m one hundred percent Mrs. Santino DiLustro with the sore pussy and the pink ass.
I giggle to myself and tie the brooch around my neck with a summer scarf, when the doorbell rings. As ridiculous as the scarf looks, I leave it in place to see who’s at the door.
When I see Paola out the little window grate, I’m glad I have on the brooch. She can help me figure out how to wear it, or maybe the woman she’s with, who’s a little older than I am and far more stylish.
I clack the locks open and swing open the door.
“Ciao, Zia Paola!” I cry and give her a double kiss.
“Violetta,” she says. “I’m sorry to bother you. This is Siena—”
“I had to meet you, right away!” She takes my hands in hers and looks me up and down as if she hadn’t seen me since I was a baby, and wanted to assess my prodigious growth. “When I heard you were here, I just ran to Paola, and—”
“—insisted,” Paola interrupts dryly.
“That’s great,” I say, wrangling my Italian into a usable shape. “Come in.”
I step out of the way and let them in just as Santino saunters down the stairs, fixing his cuff, as if surprise guests are just part of our culture, which they more or less are.
He obviously doesn’t think anything of it, and neither do I.
“Santi,” Siena says, one hand out. “Marriage is good for you. I can see how happy she’s keeping you.”
“Siena,” he says at the foot of the stairs. They exchange a double kiss, then he does the same with his aunt.
For a moment, I’m a little stumped about my next move. Then I remember I’m the lady of the house. I ask our guests if they’d prefer the patio or the living room, and they choose the patio. Once they’re seated on the shady side, I have to remind myself of my next move.
“Caffé?” I ask. I’m going to grab some cookies and lemon soda anyway, but coffee needs to be requested. Paola and Santi decline, but Siena’s into an espresso. I pop off to the kitchen with a bounce in my step.
