He's absolutely right about me not concentrating, and I inevitably stumble over the keys once more, much to his dismay as well as mine.
"Stop," he says before sighing exasperatedly and grumbling under his breath as he reaches into his brown, leather bag on a nearby chair. He retrieves a metronome and places it on top of the piano. That's something I haven't had to use since I first learned to play when I was a little girl, when I was starting to learn the harder pieces of music.
He's clearly trying to embarrass and undermine me.
And it's working.
I shift on the hard bench seat and cringe from the shooting pain that rockets up my spine. My back and bottom are covered in bruises from the beating my father gave me when we got home. He used his belt on me the moment we stepped through the front door. I thought when I got up this morning that there would be blood soaking my sheets from the severity of the beating; but, fortunately, he didn't break the skin…this time. I'm just severely bruised from my collarbone to my thighs.
More bruises to add to the ever-growing collection on my body,I think to myself. It's not the first time my father has beat me for some minor infraction, and it certainly won't be the last.
The piano teacher sets the metronome to a steady pace and says, "Begin again." And then he adds, "Andtryto keep the timing this time,Adeline." He says my name as if it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
The rhythmic clicking threatens to drive me up the wall, but I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. And then I begin the Chopin piece again, keeping in perfect timing just like he asked.
And that's something I always strive for --- to be perfect.Always.
My whole entire life I have had people around me always demanding perfection --- my father, my teachers, my tutors, my dance instructors, my father's associates and so on. And I'm always quick not to disappoint and be the epitome of a perfect Italian mafia princess…so that I don't have to endure the consequences of attempting to beaverage.
A knock at the door startles me out of my thoughts and breaks my concentration. I end up making a few sour notes on the piano before stopping altogether in frustration and balling my hands into fists on my lap. Mr. Moreau scowls at me and stops the metronome before going to answer the door.
One of my father's guards peers inside and tells me, "Piano lesson's over. Your father's gettin' ready to leave, and he wants to say goodbye to you before he goes."
I have to force myself not to roll my eyes. My father doesn't want to tell me goodbye. He wants to tell me not to mess up while he's gone. He wants to enforce his rules, ingrain them inside of my head until I can no longer think about anything else.
But what he doesn't understand is that he's already done that. He's been doing that my whole life.
Last night was a mistake. A careless mistake. I have a curfew, albeit a new one since I was never really allowed to leave the house before my father deemed Giovanni Morello a suitable future husband for me.
Gio and I have been on three dates.Only three.And after a long day on the beach yesterday, I foolishly fell asleep on his couch.
I'm sure normal twenty-somethings get in a whole hell of a lot more trouble than that, but they have the good fortune of not being under my father's rule.
In a strange way, the beating was worth it, though, because it meant for at least one night I was actuallylivingoutside of this home, which is more like a prison to me.
Sometimes I think that I'm nothing more than a living, breathing porcelain doll to my father. He takes me from my shelf to show off to his friends, but then I'm returned to the same spot when he's done with me.
I'm forced to stay in this house under supervision, under lock and key almost twenty-four-seven. My father tells me it's for my own good because of who he is and how many enemies he has, but I'm starting to not believe that any more. I'm not the naïve little girl he raised by himself after my mother died shortly after I was born.
And the more he lets me out of the house to be with Gio, the more I start realizing that my life is anything butnormal, like I once believed it was.
I bite back any hateful words that want to spit out my mouth and follow the guard downstairs, grateful to at least escape my torturous piano lesson. My father and his entourage are all standing in the giant foyer of the mansion, and all eyes connect with me as I glide down the stairs in seamless form.
I'm wearing a long, dark gray dress with simple heels, and my hair is styled flawlessly off to the side on one shoulder. I did my makeup a little darker and heavier today in an attempt to hide my swollen eyes from the crying jags I had last night and this morning.
People tell me I'm beautiful all the time, but my father beat the self-confidence right out of me years ago. I'm never good enough for him no matter how hard I try, and I'm made to constantly feel like I'm failing him.
And so I always look my best, no matter the occasion, and don a mask of flawlessness in the hopes that one day it will be enough.
Ijust want to be enough.
My father stands proudly, wearing a dark, pinstripe suit, red tie and his signature fedora, looking very much like the mob boss that he is. When he glances at one of his goons, who looks like he wants to eat me alive and is literally starting to drool, he smacks him in the back of his head and mutters, "That's my daughter you're looking at."
Immediately, all the eyes in the room focus on something else other than me…all of them except one pair of hazel eyes that I never want to stop staring.
Giovanni is leaning against the wall in a casual dark suit sans tie and with a blank look on his face. When he sees me glance in his direction, though, a crooked grin instantly graces his mouth. And that's when I notice the bruise on his jaw and his cracked lip at the corner. I realize that must have been the punishment he received from my father last night. And it's all my fault. I'm the one who fell asleep on his couch instead of going home in time to meet curfew, but Gio received part of the blame.
Feeling completely mortified, I stare down at the floor, no longer able to face my future husband.
