Page 39 of Mafia Bride
I dip my legs in and my body relaxes. All the tension from being held here for the longest week of my life fades a little.
Santino never forbade the pool. I should come out here more often.
“You are deep in thought.” Santino swims up to me, water glistening off his skin, droplets clinging to his hair and eyelashes.
I look back up at the sky.
“I am enjoying the weather.”
“Very studiously.” He splashes some water at me. “Come in. It’s hot out.”
“No.” I shake my head and refuse to look at him.
“No?” He sounds playful and dangerous all the same. “Are you afraid of the water?”
“No.”
“Are you afraid of me?”
I take too long to answer. “No.”
The silence between us grows heavy. I don’t want him to know I’m afraid of him, even if all signs say I am. I want to stand up to him. I want to feel powerful. Admitting fear is not the way to go about it.
“We didn’t swim much in Napoli.” I change the subject. “Our apartment complex didn’t have a pool. Instead, there was a fountain in the courtyard where all the kids would play. I remember it being huge, the courtyard and the fountain too, I guess…but I was like five, so maybe I’m not remembering right.”
“To your very small eyes, it would seem enormous.”
“Maybe.” It annoys me that he’s probably right. “We used to play ball and tag and hide-and-seek. There were so many of us. It was like having twenty brothers and sisters. We would run and play until nightfall. There’d be a chorus of moms calling for their kids in the middle of the courtyard every night. Like music.”
I have no idea what I’m doing right now, other than trying to make him forget about my fear. But the way he’s nodding in agreement, like he’s been there. It almost feels nice. If I drop everything else away and focus on just this moment, here’s another person, who I’m not related to, that I can talk to about the old country, and they’ll understand.
My American friends don’t and never will.
“Dinner was always the best time, anyway,” I continue. “There was so much bustle and activity. Singing. Always singing. I wanted to help my mom so much, but I was too little to do anything other than stir the sauce. My mom always made that feel like such a big job.”
“A good mom does that.”
It’s very weird, having a conversation with this man. One where he isn’t ordering me around, threatening my family, or ignoring my existence.
“Papa sometimes had his friends come to dinner. Big men in big black shoes. They took up all the women’s seats in the dining room, and we had to eat in the kitchen.” I shoot him a look. “Much like that night at my zio’s.”
“Our customs make us strong.” He starts to swim across the short length of the pool. “You know that.”
I make a face at him when his back is turned. “Anyway. The men always stared at my sister. She was five years older than me. Way too young to be gawked at. One time, my papa beat a man bloody for staring too long.”
I’d do anything to have my papa back at this exact moment.
“Treasure those memories, Violetta.” The way he says my name sends a shiver down my back. “They are all we have left of our culture.”
We.
We aren’t a thing. He and I aren’t awe.
I get out of the water, ready to hide in the shaded patio where I read my books when Santino’s out during the day. The furniture here matches the house and the pool. Modular, modern, clean lines, and comfortable. No wicker, no gold leaves, no velvet or damask. I settle under an umbrella and stretch my legs into the sun and sigh as they dry off.
Santino pads over to me, dripping wet, wiping his face off with a towel, and points to my stack of summer reading.
“You like this spot?”
