Page 41 of Mafia Bride
This is the only time I am grateful for King Assface being an assface. Our conversation was becoming much too intimate. I overshared about my childhood, and he told me about his grandfather. Like we’re friends. Like we’re lovers.
We are neither of those things. We are strangers. We are jailer and prisoner.
I only told him silly stories, meaningless overall, but it was still too much. I didn’t want us to bond over Napoli. I don’t want us to forge any sort of connection. He already owns too much of me.
I should have never come out to this pool. I should have remained wallpaper. I should have never opened my mouth. I should have never agreed to come down here. Never agreed to put on this disgusting bathing suit. Keeping my distance is the only way to stay safe.
Then again, he opened up for the first time ever. We carried on an actual conversation, didn’t we? It only took a week.
If I continue offering up silly, insignificant stories about my childhood, he may continue to open up and I may find a weakness, but it’s just as likely I’ll be the weakened one. Then there’s no way out.
“I don’t mean you are a child,” he backpedals when there’s too much gap in the conversation. “I would never marry a child.”
“Please stop talking.”
“Have you hit your limit of me for the day?”
He’s not being defensive. He’s actually being vulnerable and self-effacing.
He’s trying to play me. I can’t deny I enjoyed sharing stories with him. Feeling connected to someone else who understood this ridiculous and beautiful way of life. I’ll admit I didn’t feel so lonely when we did.
But damn. I thought I was getting one over on him and all the while, he was charming the shit right out of me.
Or maybe this is who he is? How many people know why Re Santino keeps archaic furniture in his house? He could tell anyone it was an inheritance, but the deep-rooted reasons? The desire to be close to his grandfather?
I was being let in on a secret. I was being trusted. He trusts me.
Like a pathetic mouse clinging to a crumb, I cling to that thought.
Maybe there is hope for me after all. If he trusts me, I can get out of here.
“You haven’t hit your limit yet,” I say.
“You will eat dinner with me.”
“Is that a prediction?” I dig a black olive out of a little bowl Celia left.
“It’s a fact.”
“What if I’m busy?” I eat the olive.
“I’ll make you unbusy.” He raises an eyebrow with both humor and threat. I have a nice retort to tease out the humor, but Fat Lip appears at the back door. I’ve seen him around since the wedding day. He says hello with a certain level of respect, as if he knows I could punch him again.
“Santino,” he says.
“Stay,” Santino commands and joins Fat Lip at the door.
“I’m not a dog,” I mutter.
Behind me, there are terse whispers. Serious voices. I try to listen in, but it’s all in Italian and too quiet and rapid for me to follow. I wish these guys would just speak in English. It would make snooping so much easier.
I try to act nonchalant, carefully eating olives and chewing slowly. Is he in trouble? Is someone here to rescue me?
Never in my life have I wanted something more than to be rescued. Maybe my zio and zia organized the family and are marching on the house. Maybe they found enough money to cover the debt?
So many maybes, so much hope, and yet, I’d be just a little disappointed I couldn’t see this through.
“Violetta.” Santino’s voice is rolling thunder. “Bring your books. Go upstairs to your room. Now. Lock the door. Armando will be right outside.”
