Page 82 of Mafia Bride
Rosetta had my mother’s beautiful, round hazel eyes and long black lashes.
I had boring brown eyes that were wide-set like my father’s. Nothing to see here.
Santino raises his hand and motions for Celia to come out. I can smell the espresso as soon as she sets out the breakfast I requested in passable Italian.
My stomach growls, but my mind is racing.
My eyes? What kind of response is that?
How do I get the answers I want when I don’t even know the right questions?
“What did he owe you? My uncle? You said it was an obligation.”
“You don’t want to know any of this.”
“But I do.”
“Eat your breakfast.”
He starts away for a second time, and for a second time, I call out a question.
“Why not Rosetta? My sister?”
I’ve done it again—stopped him in his tracks—but he doesn’t face me. All I see is the sculpting of his back, satin in the setting sun.
“Rosetta was prettier,” I add, standing. “Smarter. More popular. Everyone loved Rosetta so why would you—the king—take me for your queen?”
Santino turns only his face, as if he’s not truly committed to discussing further. With a flick of his chin, he throws away my sister’s memory.
“You are what was offered.”
“Not much of a debt, then.”
Santino’s suddenly committed, he’s over me in three steps, closing the space between us. He is hot, passionate, pushing me back with his intensity.
“Fuck the debt,” he growls, his breath on me, half an inch from a kiss I’d be powerless to refuse and that I’d hate myself for accepting. “Everything I have isn’t a fraction of what I would have paid for you. Never doubt that.”
Words melt off my lips, unspoken. He smells like chlorine and lust. Like a symbiotic relationship between pain and pleasure—blood escaping a wound and blood rushing between my legs.
He pushes himself away as if it takes all the strength he has.
This time, I have no demanding questions to keep him with me, and he goes inside without looking back.
All my questions are for myself, and I don’t want the answers.
22
VIOLETTA
I eat meals alone, leaving the desserts I make for Santino on a cling-wrapped plate. The next day the pastry is gone, and so is he. He’s like Santa Claus, eating the cookies children set out and leaving crumbs behind.
Sometimes, I wake up convinced he came to me in the middle of the night. I can smell the lingering scent of his cologne and soap. I’ve never been inside his bedroom, so I imagine the bottles of cleaning products he uses. Expensive. Italian.
But mostly I dream of Malta. And the days I’m going to steal back from Santino for putting me here.
I’ve read every book in the house. Or tried to. All of them, every last one, is in Italian. Even the bible. It’s hilarious to me that he’s got a bible. Every mobster I knew was a devout church-going man, despite them running such a filthy operation.
The house doesn’t otherwise have a single personal artifact or photograph, but that changes the day Gia bursts onto the patio jingling a set of keys.
