Page 1 of When She Unravels
CHAPTER1
VALENTINA
Mamma marriedone of the most important New York City dons when she was only eighteen. Marriages like that are never easy, but everyone said she was born for the role. Her stoicism in the face of every struggle Papà threw her way gave her a reputation of being reliable, unbreakable, and utterly unflappable. Even her name, Pietra, means stone in Italian.
I was raised to be just like her—the perfect mafia wife—but in my marriage to Lazaro, I’m crumbling. If my mother is granite, I must be soapstone. Every night spent in the basement with my husband chips away at me.
Soon, there will be nothing left.
I tear my gaze off my wedding ring and take in my surroundings. I always thought the private dining room of La Trattoria was ostentatious. The luxury is so in your face it would make most honest people blush, but as it happens, few of those make it past the heavy wooden doors. Blue silk-covered walls, stuccoed ceiling, a three-tier chandelier, and that ridiculous floor. An intricate floral design made of granite, marble, and travertine. The floor alone is worth more than most people’s homes. It belongs in a sitting room of a royal palace. Instead, it decorates what is effectively Papà’s favorite meeting room.
Given how his meetings often go, I wouldn’t be surprised if that floor has seen more dead bodies than a morgue, but today, there are no signs of impending bloodshed.
After all, the women of the Garzolo clan are here for a bridal shower—a joyous occasion. Or what should be one, if Belinda, my cousin and the bride-to-be, would stop crying into her plate.
“Are we going to keep ignoring the fact that she’s bawling her eyes out?” Gemma asks as she plucks a piece of gluten-free bread out of a basket.
I glance at the women sitting around the table—an assortment of aunts, cousins, sisters, and grandmothers. Only Nonna and Belinda’s mother seem to notice her distress. They trade an apprehensive look with each other before plastering on insincere smiles.
“We’re not ignoring it. We’re pretending those are tears of happiness,” I say to my sister.
The table can comfortably seat twenty, but we have a big family and a few distant cousins who absolutely refused to be left out, so there’s twenty-six of us squished side by side.
I’m sandwiched between Gemma on my right and Mamma on my left. Mamma is giving Belinda her best stink-eye. If that wasn’t enough to communicate her disapproval, the clench in her jaw ought to do it. I know exactly what she’s thinking—it’s above Garzolo women to be this emotional.
Mamma hates crying, whining, and complaining, and as her eldest daughter, I’ve had plenty of tutelage on how to avoid doing any of those at all costs.
A skill that’s been tested frequently since I got married two months ago.
The thing is, poor eighteen-year-old Belinda hasn’t had the same training, and her reaction to her situation is understandable. Next month, she’s set to marry one of Papà’s most senior capos, who happens to bethree timesher age. Papà arranged it, and as I’ve learned, he isn’t in the business of brokering happy marriages.
“This is so awkward,” Gemma says. “I’d rather be at a funeral.”
Mamma overhears—how can she not when she’s sitting close enough for her elbow to brush mine every time she reaches for her water glass—and sticks her neck out to look at Gemma. The expression on her face isn’t a full-fledged frown, but anyone who knows her knows that the tiny line between her botoxed brows means she’spissed.“Take Belinda to the bathroom, and don’t come out until she’s calmed down.”
My sister’s face pales. “Me? How am I supposed to calm her down?” She shoots me a pleading look. “Send Vale instead.”
Mamma’s gaze lands on me for a moment before she shakes her head. “Go, Gemma. Don’t take too long.” There’s a subtle edge to her tone that tells us there’s no point in arguing.
Gemma lets out a long sigh, rises out of her seat, and smooths her hands over her knee-length linen skirt. “If I’m not back in ten, it means I need back up.”
Her departure is like a flick of a switch. The uncomfortable tension that appeared between Mamma and I soon after my wedding day snaps into place. My spine straightens. Her jaw works.
“You don’t think I’m capable of giving advice to Belinda on her upcoming marriage?” I ask. I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t. My heartbreak at her and Papà’s betrayal is too fresh. How could they give me, their eldest daughter, to someone like Lazaro?
Mamma twirls herspaghetti-al-limoneon her fork and raises it off her plate. “I know you’re still adjusting.”
A bitter smile twitches across my lips. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“I hope so. I prepared you for this.”
She has to know that’s a ludicrous statement. “Nothing you taught me remotely prepared me to deal with my current situation.”
Her chews slow. She swallows her food and turns her face to me. “Have you forgotten our lessons?”
I tighten my hand around my fork. “Which ones? I don’t believe any of them covered how to handle being forced to—”
“Let me remind you of one,” she interrupts. “Garzolo women never complain about circumstances they can’t change.”
