Chapter 25
CARMELA
N othing is without consequences. As I sit at my vanity and stare at my reflection, I accept that today is a full-coverage kind of day.
Did I really think there would be no fallout after I blithely announced that Christian had touched me? Clearly I wasn’t thinking at all for those words to escape my lips in a moment of rebellion that I deeply regret.
I need to get out of this bedroom and this house if only for a while. For reasons that escape me, I also need to see Christian.
It’s a bad idea, and dangerous. He’s going to be furious, justifiably so. But I’m also feeling reckless, and I put a call through to the gate house requesting Christian to take me shopping.
I’m surprised when I get a call almost immediately that my driver is ten minutes away.
When I go downstairs, Ettore is already gone.
“Mr. Gallo left early,” Brigida tells me as she wipes down an already spotless counter in an oddly nervous gesture.
The environment feels off, like the shroud of circumstances beyond my control is leaching through. Brigida is a good woman—she was my family maid before Ettore claimed our home. My rash words will have ramifications for everyone in my husband’s orbit.
“Peter is on his way,” she says, still scrubbing imaginary dirt from the kitchen countertop.
“Peter?” My tone is sharp and brittle, much like how I feel.
The door opens as if on cue, and Peter walks in.
A buzz cut, striking blue eyes, and a bump on the bridge of his nose that suggests it has been broken more than once.
Peter has been part of my husband’s closest security team for some time.
He’s competent, near invisible, and has never done anything to offend. But I don’t want Peter.
He stops with the door half open, his gaze swinging from me to Brigida and back again.
He slowly shuts the door. “Cold out there today.”
“Yes,” Brigida replies. “The weather report mentioned a chance of snow.”
“No.” The word carries a hint of hysteria. “I want Christian.”
Brigida stops her manic scrubbing.
At least Peter is making eye contact with me. “He has been allocated elsewhere.”
“Well, unallocate him.”
A deafening silence follows while my chest heaves and my lips tremble.
Peter ducks his head. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Gallo. I cannot fulfill your request.”
I feel sick.
Brigida goes back to her scrubbing. Every pass of her cloth is amplified like nails on a chalkboard.
Is he dead?
Why do I suddenly think he might be? Common sense dictates I leave this subject well alone.
He’s been allocated to other duties. That was what I wanted, wasn’t it?
To escape his uncensored commentary, to escape that look in his eyes—to escape him and everything he makes me feel when I’m so much better off numb.
Why do I feel like something is still terribly wrong?
Why, for the love of God, is Brigida still scrubbing?
I want to make demands, but doing so will not end well. I can’t afford to make more of this—likely, I have already shown too much interest in his absence. When did this become my life, acting like a robot without feelings because having feelings is dangerous not only for me, but for those I love.
“I’ll get my coat and purse,” I say.
Peter gives me a nod and heads out to ready the car.
Brigida has finally stopped scrubbing and looks at me.
I expect to see judgment, but instead I get a softening in her expression.
“We keep instant ice packs in the medicine cabinet. They work best if applied soon after, which might not be practical. Aloe vera is very good. You could dab some on while you are getting ready before you put on makeup.
I swallow. “I don’t like to think how you know this.”
She shrugs. “My husband had a temper. He was one of Stephano Barone’s soldiers.
When Mr. Barone found out, he dealt with it.
I never saw him again, and Mr. Barone found me a position working in his home.
” A small smile lights her face. “Your father stole me after tasting my tiramisu at one of Mr. Barone’s dinner parties—he complained bitterly, but without heat.
I believe it secretly pleased him that the don had stolen his cook. ”
“He still loves your tiramisu.” I want to smile, but I’m also fighting the sudden onset of tears. “Maybe you could make one for me to take over next week.”
She beams. “It would be my pleasure, Mrs. Gallo.”
Why does a mere name hurt so much? She used to call me Carmela. Then Ettore came in with his authoritarian ways, and suddenly I was Mrs. Gallo to everyone. I turn to leave but pause at the door and glance back. “I’d prefer if you called me Carmela whenever my husband is not here.”
Her smile is sad this time. “Of course, Carmela.”
The drive passes in silence, me in the back, Peter driving. Christian would usually offer some snide comments in an attempt to get a rise out of me. Peter doesn’t say a word.
I’m glad he doesn’t try to make small talk. I’m not in the mood today. My mind is in a state of turmoil. My thoughts keep circling around and around, lingering on the memory of my husband’s hands on me last night.
My situation is nothing new. Women have been dealing with this for centuries and more. Still, I never thought it would happen to me.
I want to go back in time to the younger version of me before my world fell apart.
Except that version is gone.
I’m hollow. I’ve been hollow for a long time. At first, I kept waiting for somebody to storm in and save me. For Dante to put a stop to it. To demand that I was already betrothed to him, save for the official announcement.
But he stepped aside, didn’t he? Watched on as I married Ettore, a man barely younger than my father.
He let it happen.
I hate him.
Maybe he never wanted me for a wife.
The sense of betrayal lingers.
It does no good to wallow in it, yet here I am.
My stomach churns again. God, what if they’ve tortured him? What if they... My hands are shaking. I need to pull myself together. If they tortured Christian, if he had spoken, then I wouldn’t be in a car right now, would I?
“You smell aroused.”
There are times when Christian infuriates me. He knows how to push my buttons and is clearly incapable of feeling anything beyond whatever sick pleasure he derives from ruining my day. But he didn’t deserve me to throw him under the bus out of spite.
He can’t be dead. I’m going to lose it if he is. If it was my words…
God, he can’t be fucking dead.
I take a deep, ragged breath.
“Stop the car.”
Peter sends a sharp glance over his shoulder.
I’m already fumbling with the release.
“Mrs. Gallo, this is not a good place to stop.”
God, how I hate my own name.
The door is locked, but I still jab at the button as if it might yield to my demand. “Stop the damn car.”
He screeches to a stop. I neither know nor care where we are. I throw open the door and empty my stomach over the pavement.
When I get my heaving under control, I realize we’re in a residential street. A young woman is walking a dog. She looks like she might approach, but Peter takes a step forward to ward her off, and she continues on her way.
As she leaves, Peter hands me a handkerchief and a bottle of water.
“Thank you.”
I rinse my mouth, take a drink, and use the remainder to wash away the evidence of my weakness.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
A bitter laugh bubbles up. I’ve not been alright a single day since my mother died and my father was left in a wheelchair. There are brief moments when I can convince myself there is hope. Even some that offer escape, and where I can forget.
Yet the afterward is guilt-riddled.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I slide back into my seat, accepting a fresh bottle of water from him. “I’ve changed my mind. Can you take me to see my father and sister instead.”
He nods, closes the door on me and rounds to the driver’s seat before pulling back into the traffic.
I lean back. My forehead feels hot and clammy. My stomach roils.
I catch Peter’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Please don’t tell Ettore.”
He nods. “Of course.”
Maybe he’ll tell him anyway. Maybe he’ll tell him that I asked him not to.
I could second-guess myself a thousand times. Peter’s one of the good ones. He’s not a monster, that’s for sure; some of Ettore’s men make me uncomfortable.
Christian would keep my secret and do it with a smirk on his face. That’s not the only secret he’s holding for me though, is it?
Nina greets me with a smile. “Good day, Mrs. Gallo. Your father is in the drawing room.”
“Jessica?” I ask.
“She’s out with her friends. But she will be sorry she missed you.” She takes my coat from me. “I’ll bring the tea for you right away.”
“Thank you.” It’s for the best that Jessica is not here. She would see right through me and know something was wrong. Later this year, she will be starting college. I’m thrilled for her, thrilled that at least one of us gets to follow our dream.
Hopefully, she will meet someone there and stay as far away from this world as she can.
I head up to see my father, my smile is firmly in place.
“This is a nice surprise,” he says, wheeling his chair around from where he was looking out the window.
“Morning, Papa.” I lean down and kiss his cheek. His cologne is familiar. The lines on his face that seem to grow deeper with every day, not so much.
Nina bustles in with a tea tray and leaves again just as quietly.
I sit at the table and pour the tea, aware of my father’s eyes on me. When I look up, I see the tightening in his expression, followed by a slow creeping dread.
“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he says quietly.
I shake my head and blink the sting from the back of my eyes. “Don’t.”
We rarely talk about the past, about the decisions that led to the here and now. It only hurts when we do. I’m nineteen and married to a man I hate. If there is a way out of this, I haven’t found it yet.
“I’m a damn fool.”
He doesn’t touch his tea. Neither do I.
“You couldn’t know.” Only deep down, I feel that he should have.
His eyes turn distant, like he knows my words for a lie. “It won’t be forever.”
How I wish I could believe him.