“On the contrary.” The spoon scrapes the sides of her cup as she stirs her coffee, eyes downcast. “Iris believes her father died on the job. That was the official version of events. In truth, he was killed in retaliation for gutting another member ofla Famigliawho tried to rape me while I was walking home a few days earlier. Don Veronese made it right, though, punishing my husband’s murderer. A lot of blood was spilled in a short time.” She looks up from her cup and directly into my eyes. “Perhaps, in a world full of cold, ruthless monsters, the safest place for my daughter is in the most vile monster’s heart.”
“Crap,” I mumble as I run down the stairs like a madwoman, clutching the blood pressure thingy under my arm, while my ever-present shadow, Theo, follows.
What should have taken no more than a handful of minutes ended up delaying me for almost a quarter of an hour. Mrs. Soto loves to chat. She’s an adorable old lady, and I usually enjoy spending time with her, admiring her latest creations from her pottery class, but not now! Not when Adriano is downstairs, alone with my mother. Telling her God knows what. Like, how he neveraskedme to marry him. That we never even dated. Thatall my lies about our romantic dinners are just that—lies! Or (I don’t even want to think about this one) that he convinced a man to kill himself so she could get a new heart. She won’t be able to handle that. She won’t.
I’m all but expecting the blaring siren of an ambulance outside and the EMTs wheeling Mom out on a gurney, but when I reach the fourth-floor landing, the hallway is deserted. That doesn’t mean anything, though. With my stomach in knots, I rush toward Mom’s apartment and barge in.
“Sorry! Mrs. Soto simply had to show me the vase she—” I come to an abrupt stop in the middle of the room. “Mom? Where’s Adriano?”
“He had to leave. A business emergency or something.” She shrugs.
I drop beside her on the sofa and take my first full breath in quite a while. Mom doesn’t appear to be stressed or worried at all. In fact, there’s a ghost of a smirk curling her lips.
“So, um…what did you two talk about?”
“Nothing in particular.”
Thank God.The band of panic gripping my chest loosens. I set the blood pressure monitor on the side table and sag into the somewhat lumpy cushions. “And, uh…what do you think about him?”
“He’s well-spoken and must have had a great education, based on the little things he said. Nice manners, too.”
Ah. TheotherAdriano was here. The one that the rest of the world gets to see. That’s good. “So, um…now that you had a chance to spend time with him, did you…uh…do you like him? Do you feel better about my choice?”
“Hmm…” She leans over, picking up her cup of coffee from the TV tray table in front of the sofa and, slowly, deliberately, stirs her beverage while turning her unflinching attention fully on me. For nearly a minute, the scrape of the teaspoon along the interior of the cup is the only sound in the room.
“It’s been years since I’ve been aroundCosa Nostra, Iris. But Don Veronese loved to throw big parties and invite every prominent member of Boston’sla Famiglia, and I won’t soon forget the window into that world those provided me. And, although it was long ago, I remember seeing your Adriano there.”
“Really?” I lean forward. “What was he like?”
“Always reserved; the big, silent type. He never seemed interested inla Famiglia’sdealings or socializing in general, but he was happy to discuss the stock market or other boring business stuff with whoever was close by. I only know this because Don V. would often ask me to prep something special for the event.Something to entice Adriano Ruffo, he used to say to me. God only knows why, the man never ate anything I prepared. Actually, I don’t recall him ever eating anything at those parties at all. Still, he’d always praise the food, but probably because it was expected.”
“Sounds like Adriano,” I whisper.
“Yes. He always came across as a perfectly cultured man. All about glassy polish and control. Bespoke suits, impeccable manners. Never one to raise his voice above polite speech or engage in the all too frequent confrontations at those events. Truly, though, he looked like he couldn’t be bothered with much of anything. Not even by death. He was at that New Year’s Eve party when Zara and Nera’s brother was killed. And while a great deal of people were in hysterics, and far too few were trying tohelp, Adriano never even moved from his spot. He kept drinking his champagne, keeping an eye on things, but stayed detached, as if the very existence of others was utterly immaterial to him.”
Mom’s gaze finds mine again over the rim of the coffee cup before she continues.
“I don’t think he has changed much over the years. I would never want my daughter to spend her life with someone incapable of caring. I never would have imagined that you’d be attracted to a man like him, either. To a man with the presence of an iceberg, completely dominating the dark, cold waters around him. Needing no one and nothing.”
The teaspoon stops moving.
“Or so I thought. But, why don’t you tell me what you see in your husband?”
My cheeks heat under Mom’s scrutiny. I take a deep breath, trying to find the words. Her not knowing the truth about Adriano and me makes this so much harder.
I’m not sure I fully understand my husband, much less can explain him to Mom. Even though I know more about Adriano than most, there’s so much of him still hidden beneath the surface.
The man I married and live with is exactly who she described. Ruthless. Cold. Uncaring. Just yesterday, I overheard him on a call instructing someone to drop one of the companies from his portfolio because they weren’t meeting his targets. Being as nosy as I am, I googled the name he mentioned. It’s an IT firm, and last month, they were in the news for donating thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment and providing hands-on training to several rural public schools in the region.
But then, there’s thatotherAdriano. The silent guest I meet under the cover of anonymity. One who does amazing, heartwarming things that go far beyond sourcing silly spices and antique teacups.
Two weeks ago, as I was sprawled over my husband’s naked body in our room at the Annex, right after he all but destroyed my pussy, I told him about the homeless shelter where I volunteer and their financial struggles. They lost their funding and were facing closure. Next time I went in, the director excitedly let me know an anonymous benefactor had reached out and offered to fund the facility and their programming. Then last week, I mentioned how one of Mom’s neighbors, who owns a small convenience store where I loved to buy fruit, was being targeted by a local gang. This morning, Mom called me with the news that the troublesome guys, along with whatever family they had, had suddenly moved to a different state.
Adriano is behind all of that. I know he is, even though he never said a word.
How could these two identities be the same man? The man who treats me with indifference at home, and the man who so reverently handles my body in the darkness, bringing me the most intense pleasure I’ve ever known.
Which one of them is real?
