Chapter Twenty – Lunetta
Enzo says my name again and I blink out of the fog in my head.
“Lunetta,” he repeats, already holding the car door open.
I try to smile. “Sorry,” I whisper, letting him help me in.
My legs still feel strange. There’s a tugging pain low in my back when I bend.
Behind us, Alfio snorts to his brother. “You sure you don’t want to get her a feather pillow too?”
“I’ll sit on your face if you keep talking,” Enzo shoots back but then he turns to me, his voice softening again. “Do you want a pillow?”
I shake my head and press my palms into my lap. “I’m fine. Really.”
Omero climbs into the front and starts the engine, the quiet hum of it soothing. Enzo settles beside me in the back. As we pull away from the house, I glance back through the tinted glass. The windows are lit. He’s probably in there somewhere. Vieri.
I haven’t seen him since… yesterday. I didn’t see him when I woke up. I didn’t dare ask his brothers about him. But my body remembers him even if my mouth won’t say his name. My fingers drift to my lips, brushing lightly over the skin. That tingle is still there. Still blooming like it never left.
Perché sento questo? Perché corro verso il peccato?
Why do I feel this way? Why do I run toward sin?
I begged for him to continue. I wanted him to continue.
“Are you good?” Alfio asks from the front, adjusting the rear view mirror. “You look so red.”
I flinch. “It’s the heat,” I mumble, tugging at the sleeves of my cardigan.
Enzo got me my outfit today, a cardigan and finally a proper dress. Soft cotton, navy blue with little white flowers. He even made sure the waist was stretchy, not tight.
I left my rosary behind. Tucked into the drawer. I haven’t worn it since I removed it for the dinner party. I haven’t felt worthy lately. After yesterday, I feel even less worthy. I know I am filth.
The heat is another lie, that’s not why I am red. And I didn’t even ask for forgiveness this time.
“But it’s freezing,” Omero says, not even hiding the confusion in his voice.
“I haven’t been outside in a while,” I say again, voice even smaller.
They don’t push further. I’m thankful.
We arrive at the ice cream shop and enter to soft jazz playing over the speakers. There’s something strange about this moment—about walking somewhere normal with people like them.
The shop is quiet. A couple kids giggle near the counter, and an older couple shares a sundae in the corner.
I slide into the booth with Alfio and Omero while Enzo goes to order. My hands tremble slightly as I smooth the napkin on my lap.
They look just as awkward as I feel.
“So,” Alfio starts, leaning back, “I still can't believe you saved us.”
Omero elbows him. “She’s sitting right here. Maybe don’t talk like she’s a ghost.”
I blink up at them and try to smile. “I’m… glad I could help.”
Alfio shrugs. “Helped? You stopped us from being blown to pieces. That earns you at least two pints of ice cream.”
“Ice cream isn’t currency,” Omero mutters.
“You’re not currency,” Alfio snaps back.
They both pause, then snicker.
I blink. That was… kind of funny.
Enzo returns, sliding into the seat beside me. “I got you what you had last time.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
Omero arches a brow. “Wait—you’ve been here before?”
Enzo shrugs. “She liked it. So I remembered.”
Alfio leans toward him. “Okay, but when I say I like strawberry fudge ripple, you all act like I’m some kind of deviant.”
“That’s because you are some kind of deviant,” Omero says.
They bicker, lightly. There’s no venom in it. Only the kind of familiarity that comes from a lifetime of being tangled together. I watch them laugh around their cones, and for the first time, I see something different in them.
Family.
A crooked one, but still. Something inside me warms.
I take a slow bite of my ice cream. It melts against my tongue, sweet and cold and strange after so much pain. I swallow, letting it settle in my chest.
My gaze drifts toward the window.
Nonna would love this place, I think.
Bea would laugh at the music, say it sounds like a wedding without a bride.
My chest aches.
Madre Benedetta, tienile al sicuro. Fai che non abbiano paura. Fai che non abbiano dimenticato me.
Blessed Mother, keep them safe. Let them not be afraid. Let them not have forgotten me.
I lower my gaze and take another bite. This sweetness feels like a blessing that I’m not sure I deserve.
Omero leans forward on his elbows, arms resting on the metal table that rocks slightly with the weight. His spoon scrapes the bottom of his sundae dish before he speaks.
“So… how’s your relationship with Vieri going?”
My fingers stop mid-stir in the half-melted scoop of cream. I feel Enzo turn his head toward me, and even Alfio pauses from picking at the corner of his cone.
I don’t know how to answer. Not without lying. And I’ve had enough lies today.
I glance down at my lap, at the soft fabric of my l cardigan.
“Strange,” I say after a breath. “Scary.”
Omero snickers. “Figures.”
Alfio glares at him, elbowing him sharply in the side. “Cut it out.”
Then his attention shifts back to me. “Is that why you ran?” he asks. “Do you not want to be with him?”
The way he says it—like it’s a choice I was ever given—makes my mouth dry.
I offer them a small, tired smile. “I don’t know. It’s—”
“Complicated,” all three brothers echo.
Enzo’s says, “That’s what he says too. That’s what you say.”
Alfio leans back in his chair, the metal creaking. “I’m going to be plain. We know you don’t want to be here.” The way he says it isn't cruel, just matter-of-fact. “You’re not the type of woman who survives this world.”
Even Enzo is nodding and that makes it worse.
I swallow, folding my hands in my lap. “What type of woman survives this world?”
There’s a pause. It goes on long enough that I wonder if they’ll answer at all.
Omero’s voice breaks the stillness, gentler than I expect. “Women as cruel as us.”
I watch them carefully. Their features are sharp, weathered not just by age but by pain. The way they sit, alert even in rest.
I’m not like them. I don’t want to be. But I did hurt people. Does that mean I’m already changing?
Then Enzo clears his throat. “I asked Vieri if I could have you.”
Alfio chokes on a spoonful of hazelnut gelato, coughing into his fist. “You what?”
Omero nearly drops his spoon. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”
I turn my head toward Enzo, startled.
He meets my gaze. “He looked like he wanted to snap my neck.”
“You’re lucky that he didn’t,” Alfio mutters, dragging a napkin across his fingers.
Enzo shrugs. “I meant it. I’m here if you ever want to talk. Or... anything else. Whenever you’re ready.”
The way he says it is careful. But the sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache in a different way than Vieri does. Omero leans back and groans. “You know why he’s all over you, right?”
Enzo rolls his eyes. “Don’t start—”
Omero grins and leans toward me. “His ex? Cute as you. Sweet too. Before she dumped him.”
“Shut up!” Enzo groans, dragging his hands down his face.
“She had him wrapped around her little finger,” Alfio says, smirking. “Once, she said she wanted these cannolis from some bakery in Florence. Man drove all the way there and back. Missed a meeting with that Russian guy. Vieri lost his mind.”
“She had a cat that hissed at me every time I walked in,” Enzo adds under his breath. “I swear it was possessed.”
Their voices blend into laughter as I set my cup down, barely finished, and look out the window where the afternoon sun is blazing.
After a few minutes, we are done with our outing.
“We done?” Alfio asks, brushing crumbs off his pants as he stands.
Enzo looks to me first. I nod faintly.
He offers his hand. I take it, my fingers curling gently into his palm. The boys are still bickering behind us as we leave the table, Omero telling Alfio his flavor choice was “embarrassingly basic,” and Alfio calling him a “walking cliché in Gucci loafers.”
The wind picks up just as we step outside. Enzo walks beside me, his hand at my back, guiding me gently.
Enzo opens the back door for me. “Alright, milady. Time to head home.”
Home sounds ironic.
I barely have a foot in the car when I hear it—the sharp grind of tires.
The screech rips through my chest like claws.
I turn to see a car that swings into view from the corner. Then doors fly open.
Enzo shoves me behind him so hard I nearly fall. “Stay back, Lunetta!” he barks, already reaching for the gun beneath his jacket.
The world explodes in flashes—bursts of red muzzle flare, the ear-piercing pop of gunfire ricocheting against brick and glass.
Someone grabs my arm. I twist, panic rising, throat burning. “Let her go!” Enzo roars.
The hand gripping me stumbles, and I almost slip free—until another man slams into me from the side.
My shoulder hits the car and pain blooms. Everything goes blurry.
Hands haul me up again. I kick weakly and try to scream, but a hand muffles my mouth, stealing my breath.
Enzo barrels toward us. “Lunetta!”
A shot tears through the noise.
He stumbles. Blood sprays. He has been shot.
“No!” I scream—choked, raw.
He falls to one knee, gripping his side. Omero yells his name, dragging him away. Alfio kneels down, firing.
I claw at the hand on my mouth, the other on my waist.
My cardigan tears.
“Get her in!” someone growls.
I see Enzo one more time.
Then I’m shoved forward.
The van door slams behind me. The cold metal bites into my back. And I’m gone.
****
The van rattles around me, each jolt shaking my spine like a cruel reminder that I’m not in control. My wrists ache where the zip ties bite into them, and the rough fabric of the blindfold presses against my eyes, trapping me in darkness. My heart won’t stop pounding. I try to count the minutes—one, two, three—anything to mark the distance, to know how far they’re taking me.
But time slips, slippery and untrustworthy, bending around corners I can’t see.
The van jerks. Brakes screech. Doors slam. A hand grabs my upper arm—rough, uncaring—and yanks me up. Gravel shifts beneath my feet. The scent of motor oil, something sour, and roasted coffee drift past me. A building door creaks open, then slams shut again behind us.
"Santa Madre, perché? Sono così impura che ogni angolo del mondo mi punisce?"
Blessed Mother, why? Am I so impure that every corner of the world punishes me?
My knees buckle slightly as I’m forced forward, blind, stumbling. I hit something—carpet?—and I know I’ve been led inside somewhere richer. Hands shove me again, and I fall hard onto my knees.
The blindfold is ripped away and the light hits me.
A man walks over and sits in front of me with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. Behind him is a tall, gaunt woman with hollow cheeks and tired eyes. I remember her. I remember him too, from the ball.
She was the woman who had taken me aside to get wine. The woman who told me that Vieri saw me as a toy. She looked different at the ball. She was bright eyed and cheerful. Now, she's the direct opposite.
We're in some kind of private chamber—wood-paneled, dim, expensive. Books line the walls. A chandelier glints above. And I am dirt on their polished floor.
The man doesn’t look at me first. He looks to the guards.
“So our feedback was right,” he asks.
“Yes, sir. We found them at the ice-cream shop.”
He sips his coffee. Nods.
Then his gaze lands on me.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
I don’t answer.
He whistles.
From the shadows, a man steps forward. His arm is in a sling. His lip is split, and his right eye is blackened, puffed. He looks detached and bored, like he doesn’t want to be here.
The older man gestures with his cup, casual. “I thought Vieri and I were good.” He shrugs, almost amused. “I even invited him to lunch. Told him to bring your obese ass, too. And he pays me back by assaulting my boy, for no reason?”
My lip trembles. I bite it.
He frowns, turns his head slightly. “Doesn’t this pig speak?”
He stands. Walks slowly toward me, placing his coffee on a nearby table. His shoes are soft-soled, barely making a sound. His fingers reach for me.
“Ave Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te…”
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…
His hand lashes across my face. My head snaps sideways, cheek stinging, skin swelling under the blow.
“…tu sei benedetta fra le donne…”
…blessed art thou among women…
“Speak!” he roars, backhanding me.
Pain bursts white-hot across my cheekbone. My teeth bite into the inside of my mouth and eyes water. My knees dig into the rug. He slaps me again. And again. Each strike is crueler than the last.
“…e benedetto è il frutto del tuo seno, Gesù…”
…and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…
The woman in the corner—his wife—watches. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest, her shoulders drawn inward, like she wants to vanish. Her eyes are glassy.
My cheek throbs, swelling hot beneath the skin. I’m swaying slightly now. Breathing in short bursts. But I stay upright.
“You’re a strong one, piggy,” Lapo says with a rasping laugh, shaking out his wrist like he’s impressed with himself.
I hear the shift of fabric as he turns toward his wife.
“The phone,” he demands.
The woman flinches. She hands him the phone with a trembling hand, but never takes her gaze off me.
He dials lazily, tapping his fingers against the screen.
When the call connects, he smiles.
“Yes, this is Lapo. It’s me. I took your girl,” he says, sipping from his cup like he’s reporting a minor inconvenience. “You took my man and roughed him up. I didn’t appreciate that.”
There’s a pause. His eyes flick to me, gleaming.
“I’m afraid I’m a traditional man, Vieri. Eye for an eye. Unless...” He draws out the word, savoring it. “Unless you’re ready to be generous. Those ports of yours are looking ripe. A man could retire off one of those.”
He pauses and listens to the line and then he holds the phone out to me, presses a button, and the speaker clicks on.
“Talk,” he says. No answer comes from me.
His voice sharpens. “Speak, you dirty—”
“Lunetta,” Vieri’s voice cuts through the crackle of the speaker, calm and low. “Are you there?”
I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Yes,” I answer.
“Are you hurt?”
Lapo’s grin widens as he looks at me, enjoying the power he holds like a child pulling the wings off a butterfly.
“Nothing too serious,” I reply under my breath.
“Okay,” Vieri answers, a pause hanging between his word and the static.
Lapo takes the phone back. “I’m waiting,” he says, then tosses it toward one of his men like it’s a used napkin.
He turns toward his wife and me. His eyes rake over my body.
“I wish you looked more like her,” he says to his wife, gesturing at my face and chest like they’re part of a catalog. “She’s got a real set on her. The more I look, the more I wonder what Vieri’s getting that I’m not.”
His gaze returns to me.
“When he dumps you—and let’s not pretend that’s not coming—I’ll throw you five hundred a week. You know, weekend company. You’d be good for that.”
My jaw stays firm.
“You’re quiet,” Lapo murmurs. “Maybe you’re one of those silent types. That could work for me.”
He stretches, yawns exaggeratedly.
“Brush your teeth,” he says to his wife, “and come find me. Suck my dick till some action begins.”
The woman doesn’t move.
He snaps his fingers.
“Now,” he says, walking off.
She jolts, then turns to go. But just before she leaves, she glances at me again.
“I told you, didn’t I?” she whispers, barely audible. “We’re just toys to them.”
Her husband calls again and she walks away faster. I watch her disappear, her figure swallowed by the hall.