A Fausti armored SUV waited in front of the theater, smoke escaping its tail pipe like it was a chimney. I was about to ask Rocco if he wanted me to make a late dinner, something warm and comforting, and after, we could climb into bed and watch a movie or just talk for a while. We could talk about our place in Piemonte, or where else we would travel in Italy, more villages we could find. I wanted to know Italy like he did, but his eyes were narrowed on a group of people who had formed two lines along the walkway. The lines were long enough to come close to reaching the SUV.
Maybe because I was so focused on getting home, when the first piece of rotten fruit hit me, I had no idea what it was. An old banana peel. It smelled like it had been in a crate too longand was as black as the night. The fermented juices slid along my face, and it was my husband who removed it, and then he went to charge into the crowd.
The crowd had a difference of opinion and moved fast.
Fast flying decayed fruit was being hurled at me. I turned my body some, lifting my arms to my face. I wasn’t sure what my leg was doing, but it was lifted in a sideways slant, almost to cover my stomach, trying to protect me too.
My husband was in front of me, shielding me with his body, while the crowd started to scream. Most of it was in Italian, but some of it made it to my ears sharp and clear:This! This instead of our queen! You killed her! You killed her!I wasn’t sure if they were accusing me of killing Rosaria or Rocco.You look like a child in a ruffled dress! You are no queen! You are his princess!
The soldiers from the SUV began to block the path the chanters had created, and even so, the fruit was still finding its way toward us. Rocco kept me close as we rushed toward the SUV, two men in suits, including Ermanno’s father, waiting by the door.
Close enough, the door opened and Rocco slid me inside, closing the door behind him. I knocked on the window, but he was so enraged, he was charging toward the crowd. The interior smelled like ice and manly cologne, and I was starting to flood it with the smell of rotten dumpster trash.
I began to beat even harder when the scent of blood made it to my nose. Pandemonium had broken out, and my husband was beating on a man outside of the window. I hit harder, screaming for him to stop, and suddenly, he did.
He was breathing heavy, allowing the still flying fruit to hit his back, and then he took deliberate steps toward the SUV, like he wasn’t going to run for no man or woman, and Giovanni opened the SUV door again. I heard the livid chanting until the door closed.
My husband’s eyes were dilated, all the sea green pushed out by the monster who had reared its head. He took my arms in his hands, staring at me. He was possessed by anger, but it wasn’t hot. It was ice cold. His muscles trembled.
“Rocco,” I whispered.
He plucked every piece of fruit off me, and when he came to my nose and lips, an animalistic noise tore from his throat, probably at the face I’d made. The blood. The blood was coming from me. My nose was busted, and so was my lip. And even though it hurt, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the look on my husband’s face.
It was a mixture of pure rage and anguish.
I’d never forget it for as long as I lived; I was sure it would haunt me beyond the grave.
Chapter 27
Change is Imminent
Rocco
Every day, my wife was changing.
She requested I teach her Italian. She immersed herself in the language, and when she would visit Margherita’scucina, she requested the only languages spoken in the kitchen to be Italian and Sicilian—she was adamant she wanted to learn all dialects of both languages.
She developed a new exercise regimen. All the wives joined my wife in this.
Along with the other wives, she went shopping and revised her entire wardrobe. She spent enough money that my card company contacted me for safety purposes. Of course, the amount did not touch my account, but she had never used her card that excessively before.
She was creating small changes that would echo for all time.
My brother grunted when my fist impaled his stomach, and the memory of the crowd throwing rotten fruit at my wife, heckling her, came back to me, and I repeated the same move. I could not control the heat inside of me. I continued to erupt without warning. I could not tire myself out.
I refused to let my wife change because the world ordered her to. She was mine, and no one else would approve or not. I wouldwalk away from my family, my role in it, without a backward glance if it came down to my love losing who she was to their demands, assuming I would expect that of her to keep what I had coming—the crown.
She was the only person, place, or thing I refused to lose. Without her, I would not be me—I would no longer exist. She was the reason I held out for so long. The reason behind every choice. Every insufferable night and day.
All I could see was her face when she had gotten hit. How shocked she was. How hurt she had been, even if she buried it down, when she had been rejected by my world. The comparisons between my wife and Rosaria Caffi tore my heart out. The words used straight out of the Caffi’s wicked mouth. Those were what hurt my wife the most.
Brando made a noise and jumped inside of the ring, coming between Dario and me.
“I am calling it,” Brando said in Italian.
I stepped back to my side, guzzling water, hitting my hands together, ready for another challenger to step up to me. My wife seemed to give me superhuman strength, even the mere thought of her. Brando had been the only man to tire me out. Even he could not keep up. The burning inside of me called for destruction, for blood. I was unstoppable.
My father’s voice echoed inside of the gym he had designed on his property for us. The thought that he had created this space to bring us to his property instead of Brando’s gnawed at my restraint.
