Page 93 of Mafia Bride
“Omitted, maybe.” He shoves a coil in his mouth and speaks around it. “But never lied.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway.” I idly spin my fettuccine in my spoon and feel so sorry for myself it’s pathetic.
“Sputa il rospo.”
Spit the toad. An Italian expression my friends wouldn’t understand.
“It’s silly.”
Santino rests his hand on mine and says, “Try me.”
My jaw stops working, but I manage to keep my mouth closed so dinner doesn’t drop out of it—because he’s being not just sincere, not just kind, but accommodating. He’s not demanding answers. He’s opening himself to suggestion and it’s like he’s a different guy.
I don’t trust it. I don’t trust him and I don’t trust myself, so I pull my hand away as I swallow the glue my dinner’s become.
“I don’t know who I am or what I want.” The words topple out, his behavior leaving me totally disarmed. I can’t stop them and I don’t really want to, either. “I was supposed to spend the summer traveling the world, hanging out with my friends, living up the college life.” My fork and spoon are stuck at an obtuse angle over my plate as if Medusa froze them in place. “Instead, I was sold into a marriage and I’m trapped in this house, fearing for my life and my family’s, then I find out my father…my own father was the one who gave me to you, and I hate him so much I can’t even think. I’m supposed to be having fun with my friends. They’ll forget I even exist at this point. I’m stuck here hating you and my parents and my own self. I want to have fun.” I shout the last word as if making it echo will draw it to me. “I don’t want to…do this.”
The silverware with half-rolled fettuccine clatters to the plate. My heart feels like it’s about to crack open and all I can do to not burst into tears in front of him is bite my lip until it hurts, and all I can expect from the guy at the head of the table is a big fat tough shit.
“I know,” I say, unable to look at him. “Che sfortuna.”
Bad luck, kid.
As if its idleness offends me, I pick up my fork and jab my dinner.
Santino snaps his napkin off his lap and places it next to his plate before pushing his chair away from the table.
“Go pack.”
“What?”
“Go pack, little violet. Find all your favorite things.” He stands. “Go.”
Little violet’s going somewhere.
NotForzetta, which is fine. I can be the little violet as long as he sends me somewhere just a little farther than Staycation Villa.
“I need to know where I’m going.” I skip theduhthat sits on the tip of my tongue. “Skiing or swimming…different clothes.”
“It will be hot,” he starts and in the second before the next half of the sentence I imagine beaches and tall Caribbean waves, “where we’re going.”
We.
Wherewe’regoing.
He’s out the door, barking orders in Italian too fast for me to understand.
Well, this is going to be a late honeymoon more than a summer break carouse.
I throw all my new clothes into a suitcase that’s magically appeared left on my bed. His staff is remarkably fast, but they must have been too nervous or respectful to pack underwear, so I uncover the red lingerie Santino got for me the day I tried to escape. When I showed him the red dress, he said it fit me like a paintbrush.
Ti sta a pennello.
If he’s nice, it wouldn’t kill me to be nice back.
I close the lingerie drawer. After a quick race through the bathroom for toiletries, I’m ready to go.
But the top drawer tugs at me, sayingopen open open me and get the thing!
