10. Cora #2
“Thank you for the mimosa,” I say. If Orla senses my insincerity, she doesn’t show it.
“It’s a bellini,” she corrects.
I don’t apologize for my gauche mistake.
Instead, I give the tiniest nod in reply.
I’ve already conceded enough as it is, forsaking the safety of being Samantha Greene for this alliance.
I’m in no mood to be any more ingratiating to the woman across from me.
I can rein in my hostility for power’s sake, but I’m not about to grovel.
We both sip without further comment. I hate to admit it, but the peach purée is heavenly. The cocktail itself could use a splash of liqueur, or even vodka, but that’s probably because I’d prefer something stronger to get me through this lunch with my mother-in-law.
“I’ve invited Brioni to join us.” She gestures to the empty chair at our table. “But whether I cancel our lunch before she gets here depends on you. I’ll not have her insulted by your rudeness. The choice is yours.” Her challenge makes me bristle defensively.
“Well, since you’re the one in charge of all the scheduling, I’d say the choice is yours.” It’s a sassy parry disguised as deference, the best I could come up with on the spot.
Orla purses her lips as I wrack my brain for who Brioni is. She’s not a member of the immediate family, or else I would’ve come across her name in my research. But I’m drawing a blank. Knowledge is power, and I’m coming up short.
Across the table, Orla appears to reach her decision, and doesn’t cancel our lunch. But I don’t count it as a win.
“Brioni is our neighbor,” Orla says. “She’s not involved in our undisclosed dealings, but she’s a dear friend to our family. She’s precious to us.” In a way you are not.
Her underhanded message rings clear as a bell.
This lunch is meant to show me where I rank, which is even lower than a non-family member who’s uninvolved with their mafia life.
I wonder if it’s too late for me to act out and have this thing called off.
But I’m in it now. Might as well stay the course and show Orla her intimidation tactics don’t work on me.
I brace myself for combat against this formidable O’Sullivan ally.
Brioni breezes in at two minutes past noon. And she is stunning. She has dirty blonde hair in loose waves, a peachy boho dress that flows like she’s moving underwater, and espadrilles with zero heel. Not that she’d need the height, she’s nearly six feet tall.
The heads of diners and waitstaff alike swivel to follow her across the room, but Brioni doesn’t seem to notice them as she beelines for Orla.
She greets my mother-in-law with a kiss on the cheek and an apology for running late, then introduces herself to me with a polite handshake.
Her entire demeanor is wholesome and innocent, out of place in this scheming world.
Strangest of all, she seems genuinely pleased to meet me. I’m completely off-balance as Brioni settles in her seat. Who is this person? And what exactly is Orla’s angle here?
When the server delivers Brioni her own bellini, she thanks him courteously, unfazed by his sudden awkwardness. She doesn’t know how beautiful she is, I realize. She definitely doesn’t know how to use her beauty as a weapon.
Draping her napkin on her lap, Brioni compliments how gorgeous the wedding was, how incredible that Orla coordinated everything so quickly, how glowing I looked in my gown. I marvel at how effortlessly sincere she is.
Brioni is everything I’m not, and Orla clearly adores her. That must be why she’s here. Brioni is the pinnacle of respectfulness, utterly demure. She’s the example of what Orla wants me to be.
In which case, my mother-in-law is going to be sorely disappointed.
Over the plate of tea sandwiches that Orla ordered for us, Brioni asks after Sloane.
Orla’s eyes crinkle with pride as she talks about her only daughter.
Sloane’s doing well at college, about to begin her final year of school.
I get the impression that whether she was actually too busy to fly home for the wedding is under debate.
Though Brioni, in all of her graciousness, gives Sloane the benefit of the doubt.
Brioni has the faintest Irish accent, and it gives her beauty an alluring edge.
Orla’s lilt is strong by comparison, and the more the two of them talk together, the more pronounced Brioni’s accent becomes.
From someone else it might seem like a falsehood.
But for Brioni, it’s as if Orla’s presence brings her the comfort of a happy childhood home.
Something like regret flickers in my chest, an indulgent self-pity that I shove aside. Is this another reason that Brioni’s here? So I can watch her and Orla, how close they are, and be made to feel like an outsider again?
I bite into a dainty triangle of cucumber sandwich. There’s dill in the spongy bread itself, and it’s so tasty I hope Brady had nothing to do with its development. I’d hate to give my husband any credit for something so good.
“Cora?” Brioni asks. I’ve clearly missed something, because it sounds like she’s said my name more than once.
“Sorry,” I say automatically. Brioni looks so kind and concerned that I find myself scrambling for an excuse. “I’m not used to being called Cora.”
It’s the truth, but where the hell did that honesty come from? I take another chomp of sandwich. With Orla, I’m defensive. But with Brioni, I’m disarmed. I swallow the lump of cucumber, and it’s painful in my throat. Is kindness a weapon?
“Ah, yes,” Orla says. “You’ve been going by Samantha, haven’t you?” There’s judgment in her words, and I’m back on my guard again.
“Yes,” I say firmly, refusing to be embarrassed. To Brioni, I explain, “I changed my name to Samantha when I moved here.”
Brioni goes pale, as if horrified that I’ve gone through something as traumatizing as a name change. And damn that kind concern of hers, because I want to reassure her that it wasn’t so bad.
“It was fun, actually,” I say. “I got to pick out all three names. First, middle, and last. I’d never had a middle name before.”
Both of my siblings have middle names. Charlotte Maureen Muloney and Connor Ronan Muloney. My lack of middle name was an oversight, which was fitting for how my parents overlooked me as the middle child, before my rebelliousness.
I’m just Cora Muloney.
Or I was.
“What’s your middle name, Brioni?” I ask, redirecting the topic.
“Rose.” She lowers her eyes to the table, her voice going soft. “After me mam.”
Orla reaches out to pat Brioni’s hand. Instead of pulling away, or even just accepting the touch, Brioni turns her hand palm-up, and they grasp hold of each other.
I can tell by the tendons in their wrists that Orla’s squeezing pretty hard.
And Brioni’s squeezing right back, as if Orla is transferring some of her own strength into the younger woman.
I sit back in my chair, an outsider so moved by this simple gesture my mind goes blank. I try to recall memories of my mom doing anything like that, and I can’t.
When I picture someone nurturing holding my hand, it’s Charlotte.
My sister meant well, calling me yesterday, and I now regret hanging up on her. We’re wholly different people, but she’s still my sister. I can’t blame her for accepting her role in this life.
If anything, I’m jealous that she fits her role so well, even if it’s a role I despise.
I loathed the mafia’s treatment of women from the moment I saw my father backhand my mother.
Connor, in his high chair, had flung mashed potatoes at our father, which he interpreted as his wife turning his own children against him.
He hit her so hard she fell to the floor, then he spat on her in disgust.
I was six.
Seeing our father lash out like that, seeing him get his way with a swing of his arm, I knew in my gut it was unfair.
And I wanted to wield that unfairness for myself, so I could use it against people like my father.
It’s not that I hate the mafia for its manipulations and violence and cutthroat cruelty—far from it. I hate the mafia for excluding women from those crucial, thrilling, empowering elements. For excluding my mother. For excluding me.
Across the round table, Orla and Brioni finally let go of each other’s hands. Brioni doesn’t belong in this manipulative world, but Orla’s been in it for decades.
Not just living, but thriving.
From what I’ve seen from her work so far, Orla’s mostly behind the scenes, but she’s incredibly efficient at what she does. And when she’s on the scene, in a room with her powerful husband, she’s at his right-hand side. Holding her own.
When I try to picture myself at Brady’s side, I scoff inwardly. There’s no way he’ll ever treat me as an equal like that, and besides, I don’t want to stay anywhere close to him.
I want to wield my own power in this misogynist mafia world.