10
Natalia
“This is good, Mama Rosa,” Carlo says, smiling sweetly at my mother, while his hand moves farther up my thigh under the table. Only Mazzonesoldatiwho are familiar with my mom get to call her that, but no one will call my fiancé out for his presumptuous behavior when there are more pressing matters at hand—namely, the threat to my safety.
A muscle clenches in Leo’s jaw as he stands guard in one corner of the room, but he remains staring straight ahead, as if he isn’t listening and watching every second of this horrendous dinner. Carlo insisted on sitting beside me, and he has spent the entire meal fawning over me while trying to touch me intimately under my dress. My wrist aches from holding his hand at bay, and my thighs ache from squeezing them together. I’m so tense it feels like all my muscles have locked up, and I can barely stomach any food.
“I’m glad you like it,” Mama replies. “Natalia made the cannoli. Desserts are her speciality.”
“Is that right?” my despicable fiancé says, digging his nails into my fleshy thigh while he flashes me a disarming smile. “I didn’t think you could be any sweeter,bella.”
Sweat gathers on my neck as I fake smile at him through gritted teeth.
“I think we should get married now,” he announces, cutting through the other conversation at the table.
Panic sluices through my veins, and I want to beg my father not to agree, but I keep a fake smile and a cool expression plastered on my face, while I pray like I have never prayed before.
“Are you out of your mind?” Mateo snaps, leaning across the table to glare at Carlo. “It’s your fault my sister’s life is at risk.”
“Mateo!” Papa bellows, stabbing my brother with a firm look. “Do not speak out of turn.”
Don Greco smiles smugly, and I want to punch him in his stupid face. Carlo is the spitting image of his father, with his dark hair and dark eyes, so looking at my future father-in-law is like looking at my future husband when he’s older. A shiver works its way through me at the thought. Carlo shares the same cold, inhuman glint in his eyes, and I wonder if I will end up like Mrs. Greco. A pale, trembling, mute mouse of a woman picking at her food with shaking hands and barely making eye contact with anyone. I can only imagine the horrors that go on in that house, and despite my earlier conviction, I want no part of it.
I’m back to rebelling against my fate and wanting out at any cost.
“And this is not your call to make either,” Papa adds, turning his sharp gaze on Carlo.
“Natalia will be my wife, so I disagree. This has everything to do with me.”
I wish I could wave my hand in his face and ask what about me? But what would be the point? Women get no say in our world. We are expected to do what we are told and keep our mouths shut at all times.
“Carlo. Show Don Mazzone the respect he deserves,” his father says, shooting his son a warning look. “This is not dinner conversation. We will discuss it like men after we have finished this lovely meal.” Carlo’s father turns toward Mama. “The food has been splendid, Rosa. We thank you for your hospitality.” His brow puckers. “Are you okay?” he asks, and I whip my head to my mother.
“Mama?” I query, concerned by her pale features and the glistening of sweat darkening her brow. Her eyes flutter open and shut as everyone at the table looks at her. Papa stands, moving to her side, just as she faints, falling sideways off her chair. Papa catches her before she hits the floor, and I pinch Carlo’s hand, swatting it away as I stand. Leo’s eyes meet mine, his gaze burning hot, his jaw clenched, and I know he saw that. But I don’t care about anything in this moment but my mother.
I race to her side as Mateo approaches from the other side of the table. “Call the doctor,” Papa says, eyeballing me as he gently scoops Mama into his arms. “And then come up to your mama’s room.”
“Maybe we should go,” Don Greco says, rising.
“We have business to discuss,” Papa says. “Let me get my wife settled upstairs. Finish your cannoli, and Mateo will show you to my study.” He eyeballs my brother, and Mateo nods, even though I know he wants to go with Mama too. “I will meet you there shortly.”
Ignoring Carlo’s heated stare, I rush out of the room after my parents and head to our private living room to call our doctor.
* * *
“What is wrong with her?”I ask a half hour later when the doc is completing his preliminary examination of Mama.
“I’m not sure,” he adds, looking troubled, as he tenderly probes her stomach. “We will need to arrange some tests in the hospital, Mrs. Mazzone.” He pats her hand.
She looks deathly pale, propped up in bed on a multitude of pillows. “Angelo will not like that,” she rasps, her voice weak. “Can’t you conduct the tests here?”
Papa keeps a full-time doctor on the payroll specifically so we avoid hospitals and drawing attention to ourselves. If we had to bring oursoldati to the hospital any time one of them was injured, we would be there daily, and it would claim the attention of the authorities. Which would not be good, even if Papa has cops, judges, lawyers, and other representatives of law enforcement in the palm of his hand.
“Don’t worry about anything for now. I will have the results of your blood tests tomorrow, and that might tell me more.” Locking his briefcase, he stands. “Stay in bed. Rest. Drink plenty of water, and make sure you eat.”
“I don’t have much of an appetite at the moment,” Mama says. “And I already need to pee constantly.”
“Why didn’t you call the doctor?” I ask, growing more concerned.
