Page 28 of Mafia Bride
“You think this is charming?”
“I think you must be hungry, and these chairs are heavy.”
I utterly loathe him.
“They’re fucking ugly is what they are.” I sit.
In the tacky mirror over the sideboard, his mouth twists in annoyance. Good. I hope he stays irritated. I hope he decides he doesn’t want to be around me ever again. I hope he decides my uncle’s debt has been paid in full with the simple act of marrying me and then lets me go because I’m not worth the time or effort.
I also hope he rots and turns hideously ugly so I don’t have to stare at him anymore and question the stirrings happening between my legs against my express self-commands for it to stop.
If I can’t even control my virginal sex drive, how could I possibly hope to ever control this situation enough to escape?
Which is precisely why I tell my lizard brain to settle down.
Santino goes back to the head of the table where he can sit on his throne. It takes me back to seeing him yesterday, though at this point it feels like a week ago. Lording over my uncle in his own house. Letting everyone know who’s the king and who’s not.
The same powerplay dynamics are going on here and I don’t like it. I’ve never been one to play politics. I just do my own thing until everyone accepts it.
He wants to be stubborn? Fine. I can be, too. A tall woman with short blonde hair and a large nose enters with dinner. She’s wearing black trousers and a white apron. Her lipstick’s worn down and when she releases the plate in front of me, I see her thick hands are shiny from years in the kitchen.
“Grazie,” I murmur, looking at the baccalà without seeing it.
“Prego,” she says, then lays the same dish before Santino. “Wine, sir?”
Santino looks at me as if to ask what I want, but I don’t tell him.
“No,” he says to the woman. She trots away. Santino picks up his fork. It’s a signal that he’s ready for me to start eating.
Baccalà is a peasant’s dish rich with flavor, and not only is the fish perfectly tender and flaky, I’m really freaking hungry. But I don’t pick up my fork in response.
“I understand this may be difficult for you,” he says as he puts down his fork. “Your aunt and uncle never told you your situation.”
“Whatever.” I’m caught between hating them and the compulsion to defend them.
“They let you believe you were being raised a tactless, ambitious American woman. I didn’t realize it until it was too late, and for this...I apologize.”
“Talk to God about forgiveness.”
“My oversight changes nothing,” he says as if I didn’t just throw his apology back in his face. He separates a piece of fish. “You should eat. Celia’s very sensitive about leftovers.”
“How much?” I ask.
“All of it, if you can.” He shoves food in his mouth, and when he chews, the muscles of his jaw tighten and striate.
“How much was I worth?”
“Hm?” He takes a drink of water.
“How much was the debt I paid?”
He looks at me as if I’ve confused him, then makes atsksound in his throat.
“That’s not your business.”
“Yes, it is!” I don’t mean to shout but I don’t care anymore either.
“Says who?” Santino asks as if my life’s just a rhetorical question. “You’re mine. My business.” He spears another chunk of meat. “I decide what you need to know. This is how we do things.”
