Page 27 of Mafia Bride
“I cannot.”
“Then get out of my room.”
He nods and comes toward me. “I’ll see you at six. Clock is right there.” He points to a gaudy gold travesty next to my bed. “You can read analog time, yes? Or do you need me to send in a digital?”
I’m so goddamn offended I can’t speak.
He stands over me, this time clearly as a challenge.
Is this a battle I actually need to win? He acts like I’m his idiot child bride and that’s got to stop, in totality, really. But is there more to gain by answering this stupid question right now, and saving the fights for later?
“Analog’s fine.”
“Buon.”
He leaves abruptly, signaling the end of the conversation. As the door clicks, I race to it. This could be my chance to escape, to stop the door from locking and get the hell out of here when he’s brooding on one of his baroque chairs.
But the door locks swiftly behind him. His footsteps echo down the hall, taunting me with their freedom.
I’m again his prisoner. Trapped in a room, trapped in a dress, trapped in a life I had no say in.
The American Dream is a filthy lie, and I grieve for it with tears.
8
VIOLETTA
At exactly five minutes until six, the door unlocks as if it’s on an egg timer. The doorknob looks like the boogie man and I am six years old again, terrified and parentless. No one to save me.
I did what I was told: brushed my hair and wrestled myself out of a dress meant for a man to remove. I choose navy slacks and a blue floral print blouse fit for a third-grade teacher.
Whoever bought these clothes honestly had no idea what a girl my age would wear. I never knew this mess was the standard uniform issued to all new stolen Italian wives.
They had to be handpicked by Santino. It fit the rest of the outdated and misogynistic house decor.
Still, I obeyed which means I shouldn’t be punished. So I shouldn’t be terrified of a stupid door. Rage, fear, and arousal dance in and out like figurines in a swiss clock. The hands go around in order and when the hammer strikes, it’s escape o’clock.
Step one: act obedient.
“Come on, Violetta. It’s a doorknob, not a chainsaw,” I mutter, staring down my latest opponent. “You’ll deal with a lot scarier if this works. Be brave.”
I put my hand on the knob and say a Hail Mary. From now on, it’s me and her. She and I understand each other. Prayers to her son are taking a back seat.
I take a deep breath and fling the door open, anticipating the absolute worst.
The hallway is empty. No Armando to escort me downstairs. No suit to take a fat lip with a smile. Maybe he’s starting to trust me?
The first thing I notice as I walk through the house is the lack of family photos. There’s no collection of young Santino. No old Nanas making pasta. No shots of men in rolled-up sleeves sharing cigars outside.
His history is mysteriously absent. Instead there are paintings of boats and the Napoli countryside. Just two steps above Olive Garden.
Santino waits for me at the head of a long table. The king gazing across his gilded kingdom. A small but fleeting smile crosses his lips. I swear it does. Like he wasn’t expecting me to show up on time.
Good, let him think I’m being compliant. It’ll be easier to get rid of the men camping in front of my bedroom door and leave me a better chance to escape.
Still not a word to say to me that isn’t a fucking command, Santino pulls out the chair to his immediate right. Fat chance I’ll sit at his right hand. I go to the other side of the table.
Quicker than mercury spilled on a lab table, he is at my side to pull that chair out.
