Page 14 of Mafia King
When I step forward, the shadow follows, hitting the underwater floor. For this moment, I’m marking his place as my own. I submerge myself, and in the gurgle and whoosh of sound, I’m immediately flooded in memories. How he pressed me against the wall of the pool. Kissed me. Left me unsatisfied. How he teased me, tormented me, and denied me, knowing I wasn’t ready to surrender fully.
And then when I did, the pleasure. The frigid kiss of gelato on my tongue. His finger brushing my lip when he fed me oranges. That same hand under my clothes.
I surface with a gasp.
My phone is buzzing where I left it on one of the lounge chairs, and my heart leaps into my throat.
Santino. Who else texts me anymore? What could he want?
I get out of the pool and check it. To my surprise, it’s not my husband. Even better, it’s from someone I’m allowed to love. Scarlett.
—Finally home from Iceland! It was amazing!! Can’t wait to swap travel stories. I’m leaving for Monaco with my dad in a few days. Can we hang on Monday? —
My heart leaps a little. After weeks of isolation and terror and confusion, I can see Scarlett. I can finally get my head straight. I don’t let myself consider what I’ll tell her, how I’ll explain what my life is now.
But before I can respond, another text comes in, and this one is from the man himself.
—Wear what’s in the bag—
What bag?
As if to answer my question, Armando emerges from inside the house, a huge man with a gun under his jacket, carrying a girlish white shopping bag with pale pink tissue paper tufting up from its insides. Did Santino send an old-lady monstrosity fit for a pious wife? Or something sleek and slutty red, to remind me that even my blood was never my own?
With a thrust of my legs, I push myself out of the pool, water cascading down my shoulders and hips, so much more tender with me than my husband has ever been.
“You can leave it,” I tell Armando.
He drops the bag and retreats.
I take my time drying off, then I snap the bag by the handles, stomp up the stairs, and drop it on my bed.
With ading, he’s in my phone again.
—The dress is for church—
So he was serious last night about church. Is it even Sunday? I look out the window again, as if the clouds could tell me. I lost time in Italy—lost my footing and my bearings. My phone says it’s Sunday, so it must be.
From the bag, I pull a pair of white stockings, a matching lace bra, and a garter.
—The rest is for me—
The dress is far more demure. It’s a classic navy blue jacket dress with gold crest buttons that—unlike the underwear—is appropriate for church. It’s not as dumpy as the things in my closet though, as if Santino has a more nuanced vision of what his wife is supposed to be.
—The rest is for you? It’s not exactly your size—
Santino’s response comes quickly, and I flush at the knowledge that wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, I’ve captured his attention, if not his sense of humor.
—God owns what the world can see, and I own what the world cannot—
Getting dressed in the clothes he sent for me, I forget that I’m angry. I forget that he betrayed me with my sister before he knew me and with lies after he married me. But that’s wrong. I can’t ever forget it.
—You talk a lot about owning me. You can’t own people—
—You are Italian and my wife. You are mine. Be in church at 11:45am—
He has an answer for everything, but I call bullshit.
I can’t escape Santino, but that doesn’t mean he controls my every move. If I’m not his prisoner, then I don’t have to go where he tells me to go or wear what he tells me to wear.
