Chapter 24 #2
I am staring at my silent guest, but his face isn’t blurred anymore.
I’m looking at my husband.
Drowning in his icy-blue depths.
I reach for him again, but the door to the room bursts open. Another Adriano Ruffo storms inside. He lunges at his counterpart with animalistic fury, wrenching the first Adriano off me and dragging him into frenzied hand-to-hand combat.
Like an otherworldly cascade, the fog slides off the bed, flowing toward the two Adrianos. The two men who are both my husband, but who are trying to strangle each other to death. Hurling each other around. Spilling each other’s blood.
I watch in utter horror, unable to distinguish between the pair. Impeded further by the thickening fog. It swallows both men in an eerie shroud. Allowing only brief gaps here and there for me to see.
Weapons materialize in the men’s hands out of thin air. They face off, gun barrels glistening in the light. For a breathless moment, everything stills.
Silence.
Until an ear-shattering boom explodes.
The fog dissipates. Revealing two bodies, slumped on the floor with identical gaping, bloody wounds in the center of their foreheads.
I spring up in bed, choking on nothing but air. My pajamas cling to my sweat-drenched body, almost as if I’ve had a bucket of cold water thrown over me. I gasp for breath. My lungs feel like they are collapsing inside my chest.
Dragging the mess of a blanket from the foot of my bed, I wrap it around myself, clutching it under my chin.
“Just a dream,” I mumble while I sit on the edge of the mattress and rock back and forth. “It was just a dream.”
It’s not the first time I’ve had a nightmare. But never before has the dream been so bizarre and twisted as this one.
“Jesus.” I shake my head, my guts still turning, twisting like I might be sick.
With a trembling hand, I reach for my phone on the nightstand to check the time.
Five in the morning.
Scrambling out of bed and still wrapped in the blanket, I head across the room toward the attached bathroom.
This bedroom, which is apparently mine now, is easily ten times the size of my and Mom’s apartment.
It’s not even a room, per se, but rather an enormous, lavishly outfitted suite.
There is an actual room for sleeping, a separate area for simply lounging about, and an entire walk-in closet, with all of my neatly folded things taking up three measly shelves.
If I were to stuff every piece of clothing I’ve ever owned in my whole life into that closet, I wouldn’t be able to fill a quarter of the space.
My bare feet encounter heated floor tiles as I enter the most beautiful bathroom I’ve ever seen.
Clean white marble and warm golden accents, reflective surfaces punctuated by delicate finishes that are distinctly feminine in nature.
Recessed soft ambient lighting. Luxurious textures. A calming, spa-like atmosphere.
I strip off my pajamas and walk into the spacious, frameless glass shower stall. A scorching-hot spray hits my back from the round rainhead fixture above. It warms my skin, but I’m still feeling frozen inside as I take in the gorgeous bathroom through the partially fogged glass.
I didn’t really pay much attention to it when I came in to wash off all that dust and grime last night, too shaken by what happened at the cathedral.
While I was showering, someone brought in the purse and phone I left behind in the bridal suite, and put them on the nightstand for me.
Later, I spent an hour assuring my mom, again, that I was fine, and then checked up on Evelyn and Rina.
And after that, I sat on the edge of the bed. Waiting.
Aside from Odetta, one of the maids, bringing me a jug of lemonade, no one else came by. No henchman arrived to drag me to some dark, musty dungeon (that thought did cross my mind). And no Ruffo.
I don’t know why I expected him to come.
Maybe simply because he said he would? It’s not like this was a real wedding night between us.
Our deal is done. He got what he was after.
I’m his legal wife now and cannot be compelled to testify against him.
And I would never choose to do so of my own free will.
So, what does that mean for us? Am I now relegated to insignificance?
One more thing he obtained but can discard once my usefulness expires?
Will our interactions consist only of attending la Famiglia gatherings together?
Arrive as spouses but behave as strangers?
Not even touching, hardly looking at each other? As Ruffo did with his first wife?
I should be relieved. Wanting to have anything with a man like him, one who threatens to rip the new, beating heart out of my mom’s chest, would be terrible. Wrong. So, so wrong.
I close my eyes and lean my forehead on the glass surface, while the spray keeps beating down my back.
It’s so blissfully warm. Almost as warm as I felt when my silent guest kissed me, gifting me our first and only kiss during our last, unpredictable evening together.
Almost as warm as being held in Ruffo’s protective embrace while he carried me out of the smoke-filled church.
How is it possible that two men with nothing in common could both ignite the exact same feelings in me?
***
“Hello?” I call out into the spacious foyer.
Actually, with the soaring ceiling, large windows framing the main entrance on one side, and numerous plants in large whitewashed terracotta pots, the space looks more like an interior garden.
It separates the two wings of the house and leads to the central living and dining rooms, the kitchen, and a couple of other areas.
Tiptoeing across the indoor paradise, I head to where I hope to find the kitchen.
Sneaking around Ruffo’s home at this ungodly hour might not be the wisest choice, but I’m starving, since I missed dinner last night.
As I pass through the open concept living and dining room space, I catch a glimpse of men patrolling the grounds beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Each carries a rifle on his back.
The kitchen is part of the connected living space, but sits a little off to the side of the main area.
The enormous windows overlook the patio in the backyard, along with an oceanfront panorama.
The horizon is lit with the warm blues, pinks, and yellows, and the light of the rising sun shimmers on the water’s surface.
Those warm rays spill into the house, illuminating the shiny white marble of the kitchen island, the white cupboards, and the gleaming stainless steel appliances.
The kitchen is massive and equipped with top-of-the-line everything.
A dream brought to life for a lover of cooking like me.
Even though no one answered when I called out, I’m being as quiet as I can while I dash to the bowl of fruit on the counter.
A couple of oranges will do. My stomach protests loudly, but I don’t want to risk waking Ruffo up by setting about making something else for breakfast. I’m reaching for the fruit when a low whine sounds behind me, and I freeze.
Slowly, I turn around to find a big, black dog sitting barely an arm’s length away.
“Um… Hi there,” I whisper, trying not to make any sudden moves. How come no one mentioned a dog to me?
He whines again, then licks his nose and lips, and opens his big mouth in a wide yawn, emitting a little squeak.
Then, with a wiggle of his body, he gives me a goofy doggy grin, letting his pink tongue hang out.
Carefully, I extend my hand toward him, keeping my palm facing down, allowing him to approach me in his own time.
Immediately, though, the pooch licks the back of my hand and offers me another doggy smile, standing up and crazily waving his docked tail.
“Oh wow, you’re still just a puppy,” I whisper, noticing the dog’s juvenile size and clunky paws that seem too big for his legs. “Do you want some pets?” Crouching, I run my palms up and down his neck. “A good boy like you certainly deserves some pets, don’t you think?”
A warm, wet tongue slides up my cheek. Once. Twice. Then the puppy pushes his head into my hand, my chest, my neck.
“You’re going to knock me over.” A small giggle escapes me. The furry baby must be close to seventy pounds. “Are you hungry, too? Want me to see if there’s some chow for you around here?”
That slightly rough tongue licks the back of my hand as I stand up and start looking through the cupboards for where the dog food might be kept.
“I assume you’re not interested in sharing an orange with me,” I say, opening the oversized refrigerator.
My family never had an abundance of money.
We always managed to get by with frugality, coupon clipping, and just generally being less wasteful.
But no matter how tough things got, the four shelves in our small fridge were always stacked with containers of leftovers (usually of things Mom prepared at her job), some make-ahead dishes like a soup or a sauce, or a couple of pieces of homemade pie that I got to have upon getting home.
Whatever was there was always delicious and made from scratch with someone in mind.
Dad’s favorite chicken cacciatore. Mom’s beloved gnocchi bolognese.
And pasta carbonara for me. Regardless of what we had, whenever I opened the fridge, I experienced that warm feeling of a happy and safe home.
A testament that our place was lived in and not just for show.
The inside of Ruffo’s fridge is practically empty.