Page 45 of Mafia Bride
I let him go. He’s right, of course. I can argue that I’ll stalk the earth as an avenging demon but playing into a fantasy never helped anyone. I take my hand off the back of his neck and lay it on his massive shoulder.
“I’ll think about it.”
Gia comes in from the back with the inventory book. Damiano smooths his shirt and straightens his cuffs.
“Don’t think too long.” He thumbs his nose and sniffs. “I don’t like what I’m hearing on the grapevine.”
He waits for me to ask for details, and when I don’t he holds his hand out. We shake, and he leaves. He gets into his SUV, backs up unnecessarily to tip another cone, and pulls out.
“Roman,” I say when he’s out of sight. “Find three trustworthy engravers who know how to shut the fuck up.”
“Engravers?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Like, guys who make metal plaques and shit?”
“Yes, Roman. Engravers. Three quiet ones.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
12
VIOLETTA
VIOLETTA
I helped Celia with dinner, chopping onions and taking spices out of the pantry. She seemed happy I wasn’t trying to take over. But now dinner is done. I ate it alone and she won’t let me help clean up.
TV is boring. Scarlett’s away, so even if I had my phone, I’m not getting any texts. All my reading is done, and it’s too early to go to bed.
I feel like Rapunzel, trapped in a tower, with nothing to keep me occupied but the hope of a prince calling my name from below.
This must be what caged birds feel like. I want to go to all the pet stores, open the cages, and set the animals free. No one deserves a life like this.
Up in my room, organizing ugly clothes by color, I hear a splash downstairs. I run to the window, putting my hand on the glass as Santino dives into the pool. As usual, he was gone all day, which was frustrating. How am I supposed to learn enough about him to escape?
I rush downstairs to the pool, leaving my upholstery-print swimsuit in the closet.
I hate him, but I want someone to talk to. I’m terribly lonely.
It’s one thing to lounge around all day in comfortable pants, binging favorite shows and texting friends. It’s another when all of that, down to the comfortable pants, has been taken away—replaced by watchful men who are sometimes nice, like Armando, sometimes a little creepy, like Fat Lip, but mostly silent like the rest of the nameless guards.
Anyway, at least he’s nice to look at.
“You should go back to your room,” he says as soon as I step outside.
The summer air feels nice on my skin after a day stuck in a climate-controlled room with air as artificial as my marriage.
I stretch my legs, enjoying the company and the freedom of disobedience.
Santino gets out of the pool with the grace of a caged tiger.
Maybe we’re both trapped.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
