Chapter 17 – Gabriella
Saturday morning the house phone rang. It was lucky for me that Liam had one of the ancient devices. Otherwise, without a cell, there wasn’t any good way to communicate. Gazing into the empty fridge, which I’d secretly hoped had been filled overnight, I answered.
“McDonagh residence.”
“Gabriella! Cara mia, stai bene?” my mother exclaimed.
My stomach pinched as I closed the fridge door.
The box of soggy noodles in a soy-based sauce had been the only thing in there.
I would have eaten it had I not discovered the fuzzy green topping that wasn’t original to the dish.
The only thing left in the house was a half-finished box of cornflakes.
And I might need to save those for dinner, since I doubted very much that Liam would take me to the pub again. Not after whatever sent him into a blind rage.
“Si, sto bene. E tu?” I lied. I was not alright.
I doubted she was either.
“Si, si….” Mama continued to talk rapidly as I examined every cabinet in the kitchen.
One bowl. A single plate. Three mismatched drinking glasses, a bent spoon, and a fork with a missing tine.
No mixing bowls. No pots or pans. Who lived like this?
I knew it wasn’t a lack of money. The rest of the house was palatial.
The booze in the front parlor was top shelf, as was the stash in the library.
The library that was filled with books, some of which were collectables.
The car Liam drove was more than a middle-class house.
Apparently, my husband didn’t eat at home.
“Well, can you?” my mother demanded.
I realized I’d been silent too long. “Sorry, Mama, what was that?”
“I asked if you can come over.”
I glanced at the clock. “I don’t see why not, but I’ll have to check with my guards.”
“Ooh! My daughter has her own security detail. You’re so grown up,” Mama gushed.
I grimaced. I’d been woken by the sound of hammering and drilling. The guards were busy installing some high-tech security system. They’d only stepped a few feet inside the doors to adjust the locks from the inside, shooting me wary glances as I’d padded down the steps.
“I’ll see you soon,” I decided and hung up.
Screw it. I was hungry. There’d been no conversation about what was expected of me or what I might need living here. If Liam wanted to keep me as a prisoner, which was exactly what it felt like, he could quit being such a little cowardly shit and tell me to my face.
I stalked to the garage door, which was right off the kitchen. There was a rack with keys dangling by the wall, and I plucked the set for the retro coupe.
When I stepped into the garage, four pairs of eyes shot in my direction. I pulled myself up straight, put on my best professional, no-nonsense look, and declared, “I’m driving over to my parents’.”
They whispered amongst themselves.
“One moment, missus,” a blue eyed giant lisped, holding up a finger.
Meanwhile, another was dialing on his cell.
I didn’t waste a second, marching straight to the vintage sports car to slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine. It purred to life like a dream.
The guard on the phone came to the window and rapped his knuckle against the glass. “Boss said you’ll ride with us.”
“Tell Liam that I’m perfectly capable of driving myself,” I said with a smile. “But if he wants me followed, you’re free to tail me in one of your SUVs.”
I began to back the car out of the garage.
The man’s face was the picture of desperation. He held his throat, lily white skin mottling with red as he spoke into the phone. They could jump behind the car and risk damaging the fender, but I wasn’t stopping.
Whatever that conversation decided, the men scrambled to their vehicles. The garage door fell closed as I backed into the street.
“I wonder what the neighbors think of all the muscly guys over here,” I said to myself to fill the agitated silence.
I lifted a hand and waved to the ladies standing by a glossy white mailbox as I passed.
Granted, the house sat back on the property, and there were plenty of trees in the spacious front yard. That, plus the high fence, kept nosey people from poking around.
I distracted myself as best I could with the radio.
What I was doing was unprecedented. Never in a million years would I have been this bold when it came to my parents. Something about Liam challenged me. Maybe it was the fact that he’d had opportunity to hurt me—and hadn’t.
It would be smart to tread carefully. We were married now, and while mobsters would bluster about protecting their women, they weren’t above keeping them in place by use of physical force when necessary.
Still, I felt like pushing.
And as I drove, merging onto the interstate for a few exits, the reason dawned on me. It would be easier to hate Liam if he was cruel.
I gulped and slowed the accelerator as I took the ramp onto the Morelli streets. I was in danger of liking my husband. Which made it hard to deceive him.
“No, I’m protecting myself,” I said firmly, battling down the rising flush of hormones at the thought of the intimacy. “I’ll never let a man use my body against me.”
That was disastrous.
The swirling clouds of memory squashed my hormones.
Pulling onto my parents’ street, I parked in front of their house. I didn’t live here. There was no reason to go through the back from the alley. But I wasn’t prepared how it would feel to walk through the front door.
A chorus of girlish squeals enveloped me like a warm hug as I entered. The Irish guards stayed in their vehicles—three of them. My sisters gabbed and pointed.
“Where’s Mama?” I untangled myself from the monsters clinging to my legs.
“In the kitchen,” Daniella answered, her six-year-old face scrunched in question, before she blurted out, “Does this mean you’re pregnant now?”
The older girls blushed.
My stomach flipped. Nausea crawled up my throat. “What? No. Why would you say that?”
“Papa said that women get pregnant when they marry,” the six-year-old said simply. The logic was plain to her. I was married, ergo, I was pregnant.
I wanted to tell her that wasn’t how things always happened.
But then I would be corrupting my sisters. Right now, I didn’t want to be banished from the house. Not when there were such few precious moments with my family before I said goodbye forever.
I ruffled her hair and pushed past her into the kitchen.
Where my mother was hunched over a cookbook. “O, cara mia! Bella filglia!”
Mama rushed over and hugged me tightly.
“Whatcha doing, Mama?” I teased, accidentally inhaling the scent of her hair product. It sent a wave of nostalgia over me.
“My married daughter was coming over; I wanted to make you cookies,” she explained, waving her hand wildly about as she talked. “But something is wrong with the dough.”
Pressing a kiss to her forehead, I moved to the recipe book, realized she had melted the butter instead of softening it, and adjusted the ingredients accordingly. The dough was done in no time. A double batch of chocolate chip cookies.
Mama kept the kids out of the kitchen, pouring us each an espresso as the first batch baked. “And how are…things?”
Heat burned my cheeks.
I checked the oven to hide it. “Great!”
“He was…gentle?” The hope in her voice made me choke.
Liam had been anything but. Which was exactly what my jaded heart demanded.
My voice was unnaturally high. “Everything is fine, Mama. Ooh, these are done!”
I pulled the still doughy cookies out and put the next sheet into the oven. My stomach grumbled loudly, and I plucked one off. Tossing it between my hands to cool, my mouth watered.
“Papa, Papa!” the girls sang out from the backyard.
My mother tensed. She pulled her sweater up and fluffed her hair. Walking over to her, I tugged on the material. My eyes hadn’t betrayed me. There was an ugly, purple mark on her flesh.
With a hiss, Mama pulled the sweater back in place. We stared at one another.
“Things are fine here too,” she insisted.
We might not have the kind of relationship others had, but something settled between us. It felt like now that I was married, she wasn’t hiding what regularly happened.
It’s as if she expects the same thing to happen to me.
Papa pushed through the back door a moment later. “I wondered why a small army of Irishmen were parked out front.”
He was smiling.
I wanted to smack the hot sheet of cookies across his face. Instead, I played along.
“Just thought it was time to visit my family.”
“I would have thought the honeymoon phase lasted a little longer,” Papa mused, plucking a cookie. When it melted in his hand, he frowned. “These aren’t done, Marcella.”
My mother winced, scrambled to the sheet, but I held out a hand. “The girls wanted a soft batch, Papa. Don’t worry, we’ll have some proper ones in a minute.”
Those gruesome brown eyes narrowed, but he kept up the act because the kids chimed in, insisting that they preferred them underbaked.
“I’m glad you stopped by, Gabriella,” Papa said pleasantly. “Why don’t you come to my office so we can have a little chat.”
Mama shot me a tense look but stayed close to the oven.
I swallowed hard. “Okay.”
Shooing the girls back outside, my father led the way to his dimly lit sanctuary. “Close the door.”
I obeyed.
“How are things?” Papa folded into his easy chair but didn’t sit back or lift the leg rest.
“It’s going well,” I hedged.
“I’m so glad.” Something glinted in his eyes. “When your mother mentioned that she hadn’t heard from you, I suggested she give you a call and invite you over.”
A breath caught in my throat, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Mama never said the idea for the visit was actually a summons.
My father began a strange line of questioning. He wanted to know where Liam was. I told him. Then he proceeded to ask about his habits.
“Papa, I’ve been married for less than forty-eight hours,” I laughed nervously. “We barely know one another at this point. How should I know his regular bedtime?”
I was treated to a brief scowl, but he changed just a moment later. “I think it’s time you got a phone again. You know, so that you can call your mother.”
He reached into the pocket of his chair and produced a box.
If the earlier comment left any doubt, this small action proved this whole visit was premeditated.
I went still. Very, very still. To the untrained eye, it seemed that my father cared. That he was looking out for my wellbeing. Not in the twenty-two years of life had he ever truly felt much for us, especially me. And not after my sin turned me from a curse into the bane of his existence.
He handed me the box. “Let me know how you get on with your Irishman.”
While his lips said one thing, I tried to listen to what was hidden behind this friendly little chat. Now that I wasn’t around, Mama was his only punching bag. I hated it.
“Will do!” I gulped. “I just need to run up to my room and make sure I didn’t leave anything behind.”
Papa dismissed me with a wave of my hand and pulled the footrest on the recliner. Tablet in hand, he wouldn’t follow me. I had precious seconds to enact my plan. The whole way upstairs, I prayed no one would catch me in the theft.
Not one of my nine sisters saw me.
I shook with relief by the time I escaped outside and slid behind the wheel of the sportscar.