“Look at me when I talk to you bitch.” He grabs my shoulders and violently spins me toward him. Then he forces me to the bottom of the boat and pins my chest with his knees. “Fuck, you’ve got the perfect blowjob lips. I’m not going to wait. You’re going to start servicing me now. Let’s see if that farrier taught you any good tricks. He must have, judging from all the hickeys on your neck.”
He opens his belt buckle and unzips his pants.
“Boss, the other boat’s coming up,” one of his men announces.
The Cleaver sits up so he can peer over the gunwale, and then glances between the ocean and me, seeming torn. Finally he zips his pants again and closes his buckle.
He gets off me and throws me a scowl that promises he’ll deal with me later.
We rendezvous with a second boat containing more Rizzo men, all armed to the teeth. From The Cleaver’s deferential nature, I’m under the impression they’re his father’s men rather than his own. His father wouldn’t approve if they informed him that The Cleaver was caught getting a BJ from his bride-to-be before the wedding night. Sicilian mafia families are usually traditional like that.
Then again, I could be totally misreading the situation. All those guns, not to mention my grief, aren’t really helping to keep my mind clear.
The two boats continue together toward the Sicilian coastline, and when we arrive at a private dock, I’m escorted into a piano-black SUV. We drive into the city.
The whole while, I think about Massimo’s bullet-riddled body falling into the ocean. I see it again and again.
I don’t think he authorized his brothers to go through with the trade today. The way he interrupted them tells me everything I need to know. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to lose me. He was willing to go against his brothers, which is a really big thing—in the mafia, family is everything. More importantly, he was willing to give up his life to save me.
Oh Massimo, you truly did love me.
He never said the words.
He didn’t have to.
It hurts so much, losing him. So damn much.
I try to tell myself that I don’t really love him. That it’s only Stockholm syndrome, an illusion. But I know that’s not true.
I do love him.
And I will always love him, for the rest of my days.
In another hour, when I see the well-guarded Rizzo estate loom up, I can’t suppress the panic and doom that well up inside me. I feel like I’ve been kidnapped all over again. But this time, by the worst possible man.
The man I’ll be forced to marry.
The man who killed Massimo.
The Cleaver.
* * *
The Rizzo estateis far more luxurious than the two villas I stayed in with Massimo. Its sweeping walls and turrets seem to be modeled after a sixteenth century castle—who knows, maybe the Rizzos actually purchased an old castle and renovated it.
And I can’t even count the number of outbuildings: there are way too many. I do recognize a stable, a guesthouse, a chapel, and a building I assume is a barracks, judging from the number of armed men loitering outside it. The walls are made of stone, while the doors and windows on all these buildings, including the castle, are inlaid with white ivory and framed in gold. Meanwhile the roofs are tiled with iridescent terracotta.
Topiary carved into the shapes of flamingos line the pathways between buildings. There are also tennis courts, a private track for horses, and an infinity pool that blends in with the view of the sea behind it.
Inside the castle, the main hall is just as gaudy, filled with expensive furniture, rugs, and tapestries. I’m led past a kitchen, a ballroom, a drawing room, and a library. I realize we’ve circled around a portion of the castle, doubling back. I’m under the impression The Cleaver is trying to give me some sort of tour.
He wants to show off, does he? Well, I’m not impressed by any of it. The whole place reeks of excess. To me it’s just another gilded cage, not all that different from the one I left behind at my father’s house.
As we climb a winding staircase, I get a view of a theatre room next to the library: a white grand piano sits on a stage, surrounded by rows of empty chairs.
I can’t stifle the joy the sight of that piano brings me, a lone beacon of hope in the darkness my life has become. My face must light up, at least momentarily, because The Cleaver says to me:
“Don’t get too excited. You’ll never touch it. Your place in the family is to make babies and suckle them, nothing more. Well, other than giving my men blowjobs.” He makes that obscene gesture again and chuckles. The two guards with us laugh.
