He confessed he loved me that night. Promised me when he’s don, we’d be together. Four years later, I’m still waiting.
Damiano’s a lot more cautious with his affection these days, and it’s slowly killing me. He still has nightmares and welcomes me into his bed with open arms while I soothe his terror. I kiss the sweat from his brow, and he holds me like he never wants to let go. His fingers tangle in my hair. His breath catches when I’m close.
But as soon as he’s calmed down, he insists I go back to my own room. “If someone catches us,” he always whispers, pain in his eyes. “If Mom or Dad finds you here…”
He loves me. I know he loves me. He told me four years ago.
But love without being together is torture.
As a family, we take our seats at the dinner table.
My gaze flickers over my brother, who is somber, distracted, and more handsome than ever. I swear he gets better-looking every time I see him. Cheekbones more defined. Dark eyes moredangerous and alluring. Body honed with muscle and his lower lip so full and soft. I’ve tried appreciating other men, but none of them compares to Damiano.
Mom makes polite conversation with each of us in turn, asking us about our days. Ariana is the only one who talks at any length as she discusses her upcoming riding competition. Since school, she’s poured more time and energy into dressage, and apparently she’s a very good rider. She’s at the stables nearly every day.
Dad and Damiano give minimal answers, but Mom keeps smiling and doesn’t take offense. She never pries into their work. Unlike me, she’s not burning to know the details about what they get up to. I watch her as she delicately cuts a sliver of salmon and puts it in her mouth. For her, ignorance is bliss.
I grip my knife and fork. How can she live like this? Will I have to be like this one day, a perfect, idiotic, smiling mafia wife?
The only time Mom’s serene expression falters is when Dad’s phone rings. He apologizes to her, checks the screen, and then gets to his feet. “I have to take this.”
There’s a small frown between her brows as her eyes follow him out of the room, but she doesn’t scold him. She puts her knife and fork down, and she won’t resume eating until he returns.
If I had to be her for even one day, I think I’d go mad.
I grimace, because in a way, I am her every day. I’m also putting down my knife and fork to wait for Dad, because if I don’t, Mom will scold me. This isn’t my house, and so it’s not my choice. When I’m married, will my husband expect me to behave the same way as Mom?
I flick a look at Damiano, which he doesn’t notice because he’s staring distractedly after Dad. There’s an ache in my chest. I know what my ideal life would be, because Damiano promised it to me four years ago. Him as don. Me as his partner, not hissecret. Discussing family business over dinner instead of being excluded. Children together. Freedom.
Sometimes I wonder if he regrets his confession, and if he wishes he could take it back.
Dad thrusts his head back into the dining room. “Damiano, I need you.”
My brother gets to his feet and goes to Dad, closing the door behind him, sparing not even one glance at me.
There’s a member of staff attending us, and Mom says, “Mrs. Monti, will you please tell the cook to hold the main course until my husband returns?”
“Yes, Mrs. Barone.” Mrs. Monti nods and leaves the room.
Mom takes a placid sip of her wine. Ariana sits back and looks bored. I can hear Dad and Damiano talking not far away, but their voices are muffled.
I get up from my seat, earning a frown from Mom, and saunter toward the window as though I want to look out into the garden. Really, I’m straining to hear what’s being said on the other side of the door.
The voices are a little clearer here. Dad and Damiano are speaking about the Norris Street warehouse. I didn’t know we had a Norris Street warehouse. There was a break-in, or the alarm was tripped? I’m not sure, but the security system is down, and Dad doesn’t like that. I step closer to the door, practically pressing my ear against it in my desperation to hear what’s being said.
“Lucy, sit down,” Mom says sharply.
I quickly swerve my attention to the window and twitch the curtain aside to gaze at the empty garden. “I’m just looking out the window.”
What I want to say is,Will you be quiet? I’m trying to eavesdrop.
Dad and Damiano must have stepped away because they become even harder to hear. What Norris Street warehouse? What’s stored there? Why is it important?
Behind me radiates cold fury. I glance at Mom, and her eyes are narrowed. “Do you think your future husband will put up with back talk and disobedience from you? I’m trying to protect you from the consequences of your own actions.”
My stomach lurches. She’s been dropping that phrase more often lately, and it scares me.Your future husband. No man is taking me away from Damiano. “What consequences?”
Ariana gives me a pitying look. “Mom means that when you piss off your future husband as much as you piss us off, he won’t put up with it. He’ll beat you.”
