Chapter 8 Sophia
SOPHIA
I’m trying. I really am.
Sitting on the back patio with Guilia and Emilia, I can’t help but reflect on something I heard a long time ago—every challenge holds a lesson in it.
I didn’t think there was much more I needed to learn about myself.
I’m twenty-five, an adult, someone who has seen things in this life I wish I could forget.
However, I didn’t realize until my marriage how challenging it is for me to step out of my comfort zone.
It took conscious effort to force myself to go up to the patio and have lunch with the girls the way they usually do at least a handful of times a week.
It would have been easier to stay inside, to exist in my cocoon of streamy movies and catching up on the pile of books I’ve downloaded but never had the time to read.
As uncomfortable as this entire situation is—really, it sucks balls—I have managed to carve out a narrow path of comfort.
But I can’t spend the entire rest of my life behind closed doors, meaning I pushed myself to put on something pretty and soak in the sun’s rays.
I’m sure so many girls would roll their eyes and laugh if they knew I had to force myself to spend a pleasant hour or two with people who genuinely want to know me.
The iced tea is cold and sweet, tickling my tongue before cooling my throat. I sip it slowly, savoring it while the girls talk about what seems like the only thing on Guilia’s mind nowadays.
“Are you going to have a second dress to change into for the reception?” she asks Emilia, practically breathless.
It’s sweet how excited she is. I see a lot of myself in her—the daughter of the family, pushed aside, pampered, and petted but rarely taken seriously, desperate for companionship.
I don’t think I’ve ever been desperate, but I have definitely felt the pangs of loneliness in the past, wishing I had a confidant.
“I’m thinking about it, if only to be comfortable,” Emilia confirms as she slowly stirs her tea with a straw.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong…” she continues, looking at me, “… but I don’t know how you kept your dress on all night.
It was gorgeous, and I wouldn’t want to take it off if I were you, either, but sheesh. ”
Let her think it was my choice and not yet another oversight. The truth is, I had so little to do with my wedding that it didn’t occur to me to ask for a second dress for the reception. I had little input on any aspect of the day or of my life since then.
“It was a little heavy,” I admit with a soft laugh while my skin crawls with embarrassment. I shouldn’t feel embarrassed, but no amount of chiding myself makes me feel any better.
“What will you wear to the fundraiser later this week?” Emilia then asks, giggling when my head snaps up in surprise. “Luca was talking about it. It’s supposed to be a pretty big deal. Maybe I should thank you,” she murmurs with an almost sad, knowing smile.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“If it weren’t for you, we would be the ones going from one event to another, and I can’t imagine it would go all that well. All those eyes on me?” She winces and shivers despite the warm sunshine.
And now I get it. Yes, the family needs good PR, and yes, the second son should probably be the one running around, shaking hands, and kissing ass.
But sending Luca around means sending Emilia, too, and that could bring up more trouble than the family can handle now.
Word spreads, and I’m sure everybody knows Luca risked it all for somebody the family considers a threat.
Even the affluent, well-insulated individuals who attend these events love to gossip.
Probably more than the people directly involved.
There’s still this whole aura of mystery when it comes to the mob.
They talk about us breathlessly, fascinated and afraid at the same time.
I have to wonder if they will ever view us as equals, or if we will always be treated as entertainment. Fodder.
“I’m used to attention in public,” I admit, rattling the ice in my glass while we wait for lunch to be served. Isabella typically enjoys cooking the big family meals, but from what I understand, she has finally agreed to give up her kitchen to an outsider for day-to-day meals.
“I wish Papa would give me a little credit.” Guilia’s frustration rings out loud and clear before she sets the iced tea pitcher down with a bang. “I could go around to charity events and luncheons and give talks and stuff. I could be the face of the family.”
“And you would be amazing at it,” I tell her. “You’re so personable and smart. You draw people in.”
Folding her hands, she gives me a pleading look. “Can you please put in a good word for me around here? I’m dying for somebody to take me seriously.”
Exchanging a grin with Emilia, I reply, “I’ll see what I can do.” Let’s be honest, I don’t have much clout around here. I can’t even get my husband to kiss me without shoving me away like he’s ashamed.
The memory is not one I want to look back on.
It’s hardly my proudest moment, getting wrapped then cast aside, like a piece of old gum.
Hours later, I’m still cringing inside, caught between loathing myself for being so into it and loathing him for pushing me away.
I’m surprised he didn’t spray cleaning solution in his mouth to wash my kiss away.
Ask them. This is so dumb. Feeling like a spy, only a very bad one, I try to tease out a little bit of information about my husband, as if he were a boy I have a crush on but don’t want anybody to know.
The man is a walking contradiction, though, and I need help because I happen to be legally bound to the weirdo.
The very hot, very muscular weirdo who kissed me until my legs went watery and a full-on riot broke out in my panties. The man can kiss. That much, I’ll give him.
I wonder what else he’s good at.
“So sorry to keep you girls waiting.” Hannah, the family cook, joins us with a massive bowl of salad balanced on her outstretched hands. It’s enormous, practically overflowing with grilled chicken, pasta, and colorful vegetables.
“Relax,” Guilia tells her with a grin. “We are more patient than Papa.”
“Those are your words, not mine.” But it’s clear from the twinkle in her eyes that Hannah hears exactly what Guilia is saying.
Rocco puts on the warm and generous act pretty well, but it’s a carefully crafted image.
I should know. I grew up in a world where people often relied more on image than reality.
There has to be a way I can ask questions without coming across as too pushy or looking obvious. But how? Emilia probably wouldn’t know much about Dante’s history, since she hasn’t been around all that long. But then Guilia is so much younger than him. How much has she been around for?
“So, you never did say what you’re going to wear to the fundraiser.” Guilia’s comment is exactly what I need, opening the door an inch so I don’t have to kick it in.
“You’ll have to come over and help me choose the perfect dress,” I decide, and when she beams, it’s clear that was the right thing to say. “But honestly, I’m a little nervous.”
“Why?” Emilia asks with a slight frown that draws her brows together.
“Did my idiot brother do something stupid?” Guilia sets down her silverware, and the scowl she’s wearing makes her Rocco’s spitting image. It’s almost scary.
“No, not really.” Okay, that’s a lie, but then it seems like stupidity is pretty much the name of the game with him.
I can’t let myself get distracted or run off on a tangent about him, though.
“It’s just that… things got a little awkward toward the end of the last event we went to together.
We ran into someone, or rather, I ran into someone I used to know.
I’m a little nervous about maybe seeing him again. ”
Jackpot. Both girls stare openly at me now, with Emilia setting her silverware down the way Guilia did. “Somebody special from your past?” she asks in a hushed voice.
“At the time, yes.” Then a shiver runs down my spine. Is this really the most intelligent conversation to have? “This is all only going as far as the three of us, right?”
“Of course,” Guilia breathes out, captivated, barely blinking as she stares at me.
“I wouldn’t say I have a past, but I did have someone who was very important to me, and… I don’t want things to get awkward or contentious. I guess there’s really no way to put the past aside, is there?” I muse, picking at my salad.
“Imagine starting off dead set on putting a man away for the rest of his life, then falling in love with him,” Emilia quips. “There are still lots of times when the past comes knocking. Know what I mean?”
I’m sure I can’t begin to imagine how complicated it is, weaving her old life into her new life.
“It makes me a little curious, though,” I confide, almost whispering.
“Dante is so closed off. I can’t get a sense for whether he has a past or not.
Do I have to worry about some socialite with fake boobs draping herself over him at one of these events? ”
Emilia’s disbelieving laugh splits the otherwise peaceful, quiet air. “Sorry,” she quickly murmurs, still chuckling. “I can’t imagine that. He’s handsome, he’s powerful, but a past?”
Guilia isn’t laughing. Guilia is slowly, methodically picking out every piece of yellow pepper she can find in her salad. “You might be surprised,” she murmurs without looking up from her plate.
Jackpot. “What does that mean?” I have to ask before adding, “And you know this doesn’t go any further than the table. I promise.”
Blowing out a sigh that stirs the curtain bangs so carefully arranged around her face, she murmurs, “I was little, and this was maybe ten years ago. Dante had a girlfriend he was super serious about. Her name was Monica. He brought her here for dinner a few times.” A decade later, fondness creeps into her voice.
“I really liked her. She was fun, she was pretty, and I was sure they were going to get married.”
She sighs again, her shoulders drooping before she glances up from her plate, finding my gaze and locking on.
“But then she died. That’s really all I know.
And after that, Dante never brought anybody else home.
I don’t know if he’s dated at all. The family is his life.
So, I don’t think you have to worry about anybody hitting on him…
” She pauses. “Nobody from his past, anyway.”
I’m reeling by the time she goes back to removing all traces of yellow from her plate.
A dead girlfriend? Someone he was serious about?
I guess it was mean and stupid of me to assume he’s all molded plastic down there with no actual, working parts.
And if he’s closed off and distant, a dead girlfriend would be a pretty damn good reason for it—no wonder he doesn’t want to open up.
There I was feeling hurt and rejected. Now I feel small and petty. Not much of an improvement.
“That’s so sad,” Emilia muses, crestfallen. “I shouldn’t have laughed.”
“He can be a real dick sometimes,” Guilia reminds her, and the three of us laugh before Guilia shoots me a worried look. “No offense.”
I can almost taste him on my lips when I shake my head, chuckling. “No, he can definitely be a dick.” That’s all it takes to break the awkwardness and get the girls talking again.
Birds sing in the trees, a warm breeze blows, and armed men discreetly patrol the grounds spread out around us, while I wrestle more than ever with the enigma I married and whether or not I should give two shits about what made him who and how he is.