Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Kristen
The bathroom mirror has a crack running through the corner. I found it that way when we moved in, and the landlord swore he'd replace it. That was eight months ago.
I lean closer to the glass, careful to angle my face away from the fracture so I don't look like some cubist painting while I apply mascara.
The catering company wants us polished but not flashy.
Makeup required, hair pulled back, invisible enough to blend into the background while we serve champagne to people.
The mascara wand trembles slightly in my grip. I set it down, press my palms flat against the chipped porcelain sink, and breathe.
You can do this. It's one night. Eight hours. Then home.
From the bedroom, I hear Lily giggling at something on the screen. Peter Pan. Again. We've watched it so many times I could recite the dialogue in my sleep, but the sound of her laughter makes my chest ache in the best possible way.
I finish my makeup. Foundation to cover the dark circles, blush to fake some colour in my cheeks, lipstick in a shade the company calls "professional nude" which sounds vaguely inappropriate if you think about it too hard.
My hair goes up in a neat bun, the way they want it. I've always preferred it back anyway. Jack used to hate it, said it made my face look too round, my jaw too sharp.
Funny how everything he hated about me feels like a small victory now.
I check my reflection one more time. The black polo and slacks are freshly ironed. My comfortable flats are scuffed but clean.
"Mommy, come watch!" Lily calls out.
I abandon the bathroom and find her sprawled across our bed, our bed, because this apartment only has one bedroom and I'll sleep on the floor before I make her do it.
She's in her favourite pyjamas, the ones with the little stars that are getting too short in the legs, and her dark hair fans out across the pillow.
Wendy is flying across the screen, and Lily's eyes are wide with wonder.
God, I want to crawl into that bed beside her. I want to pull her warm little body against mine and watch Peter Pan for the hundredth time and forget that in thirty minutes I have to go serve finger foods to strangers while smiling like my feet don't hurt and my heart isn't breaking.
"I have to go to work, baby girl," I say softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress.
"I know." She doesn't take her eyes off the screen. "Grandma's coming."
"That's right."
The doorbell rings, and my stomach drops.
Speak of the devil.
I kiss Lily's forehead and make my way to the door. Through the peephole, I see her.
My mother.
Mary Thomas stands in the hallway with her purse clutched in front of her like a shield and her lips pressed into that particular line that means she has opinions she's barely containing.
She's sixty-two but looks younger, thanks to good genes and the kind of meticulous self-care that comes from believing a woman's appearance is her primary currency.
Her blonde hair—salon-maintained to hide the grey—is styled in soft waves.
Her outfit is coordinated down to the earrings.
Even for babysitting, she looks like she's ready for a luncheon.
I unlock the deadbolt and open the door.
"Kristen." She says my name like a sigh. Like I'm exhausting her just by existing in this tiny apartment instead of the nice house Jack provided.
"Hi, Mom."
She steps inside, her eyes doing that sweep they always do.
Cataloguing the cramped space, the secondhand furniture, the evidence of my choices.
I watch her take in the Goodwill couch, the mismatched plates drying in the rack, the water stain on the ceiling that appeared last month and hasn't gotten any better.
"The hallway smells like cigarettes," she says.
"The neighbour smokes."
"You could talk to the landlord."
"I could do a lot of things."
Her mouth tightens. I feel the familiar exhaustion settle into my bones. The weariness of having the same silent argument over and over without ever actually saying the words.
Why did you leave him?
Why won't you go back?
Why are you doing this to yourself?
My mother isn't a bad person. I know this.
I know it the way I know the sky is blue and Lily's birthday is in March and the debt collectors will call again tomorrow.
She raised me alone after my father left, worked double shifts, made sure I had clothes and food and a roof. She loves me. She loves Lily.
But she was raised by a woman who believed that men should be coddled, that a wife's job was to smooth over the rough edges, that keeping a husband happy was worth any personal sacrifice.
My grandmother stayed with a man who drank too much and talked too little, and she called it devotion. My mother absorbed those lessons like gospel.
So when I left Jack, when I finally packed a bag and took Lily and walked out of that beautiful house with its beautiful furniture and its beautiful lie of a marriage, my mother couldn't understand.
He didn't hit you, she'd said, like that was the only metric that mattered.
And I'd wanted to scream at her. I'd wanted to explain that there are ways to break a person that don't leave bruises. That Jack had spent years making me smaller and smaller until I barely recognised myself.
That he'd controlled the money and criticised my body and made me ask permission for things that should've been my right. That he'd looked at other women while I stood right there and made me feel like it was my fault for not being enough.
But I couldn't say any of that. Because if I did, I'd have to watch my mother's face as she realised that the charm Jack used on her was the same charm he'd used on me. The same manipulation. The same playbook.
She fell for it too. And admitting that Jack is a monster means admitting she was fooled.
So instead, we do this. This careful dance around the truth.
"Lily's watching Peter Pan," I say, grabbing my jacket from the hook by the door.
"Again?"
"She loves it."
My mother softens, just a fraction. Whatever her feelings about my life choices, Lily is untouchable. "She's a sweet girl."
"She is."
I shrug into my jacket, check my phone for the time. The catering company van picks us up from a central location, and if I miss it, I don't work. If I don't work, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid—
Don't spiral. Not now.
"There's leftover pasta in the fridge," I say. "She already had a bath. Bedtime is eight, but she'll try to negotiate for eight-thirty. Don't let her."
"I know how to handle my own granddaughter."
"I know you do."
We stare at each other. There's so much hanging in the air between us. I want to hug her. I want to shake her. I want to ask why she can't just see what Jack really is.
But I don't have time for any of it.
"I'll be back around midnight," I say instead. "Maybe later, depending on cleanup."
"Be safe."
Be safe. Like the danger in my life is the late-night subway ride home and not the man she keeps telling me to reconcile with.
"Always am."
I slip past her into the hallway, and the door clicks shut behind me. The neighbour's cigarette smoke clings to the air, and somewhere below, someone's playing music too loud.
I take the stairs two at a time.
Nico
I stand at the base of the double staircase, checking my watch for the third time in two minutes.
Seven forty-three. The gala starts at eight.
Tonight's my turn on rotation. Pietro handled last month's charity auction. Lorenzo took the opera fundraiser before that. We trade off escorting our sister or their wives to these social obligations like prisoners drawing lots for yard duty.
None of us want to be there.
Lorenzo's absence tonight feels like a physical gap in the compound's architecture. He and Sophia moved out. Bought two floors in a high-rise downtown, all sleek glass and modern lines.
Good for him.
I mean it. Mostly.
My brother spent fourteen years frozen solid after Luna's—his ex— betrayal. Watching him thaw for Sophia, was the closest thing to hope I've felt in years.
But Lorenzo carried secrets.
Our father had another family. A whole other life none of us knew about. Lorenzo discovered it years ago and kept it buried. Aria will never know unless Bruno decides to weaponize the information during one of his cruel episodes. And Bruno—
My jaw tightens.
Bruno kept secrets too. The argument between him and Lorenzo some weeks ago nearly brought the walls down around us.
"Scale of one to ten, how boring will tonight be?"
Vittoria appears beside me. She's wearing green with her dark hair swept up in an elegant twist. She looks beautiful. She looks like she's holding herself together with hairpins and willpower.
"Eleven," I tell her.
"Fantastic." She adjusts her clutch, checking her phone for the fifth time. "At least there's an open bar."
"You don't drink."
"Tonight I might start."
I study her profile. The slight tension around her eyes.
Vittoria is twenty-three years old, and she's already lost her father and her oldest brother.
Watched Bruno transform from the golden heir into something bitter and broken.
Seen Lorenzo move out, Pietro become Don, our mother retreat to denial.
She's drowning, and she keeps pretending she can swim.
"Vic."
"Don't." She turns to face me, that false brightness firmly in place. "I'm fine. I'm always fine. Tonight will be fine. We'll smile at strangers, make small talk about charity initiatives we don't care about, and be home by eleven."
You're not fine. None of us are fine.
I don't say it. What would be the point? We all play our roles in this family. Pietro is the reluctant Don. Lorenzo is the diplomat who escaped. Bruno is the broken heir. And Vittoria is the princess who holds us together by pretending everything's normal.
Me? I'm the one who watches. Who sees the cracks spreading through the foundation.
Who does nothing to stop them.
"Mother's taking forever," Vittoria says, checking her phone again. "I texted her ten minutes ago."
"She's probably still with Bruno."
Vittoria's expression flickers. Just for a moment. Then the mask slides back into place. "He didn't want visitors today. I tried this morning."
"I know."
"Do you think he'll ever..." She trails off.
Be the brother we remember? Stop punishing everyone for his own pain? Forgive himself for surviving?
"I don't know."
It's the most honest answer I can give.
Footsteps echo from the east wing. Aria appears first, resplendent in champagne silk, diamonds glittering at her throat. Carmela follows in blue, her expression the permanent disapproval of a woman who's seen too much and forgiven too little.
"Finally," Vittoria murmurs.
Aria descends the stairs with the grace of someone who's been attending these events her entire life. Her smile is perfect. Her posture immaculate. Only her eyes betray the strain. Slightly too bright, slightly too determined.
She doesn't know about Giuseppe's secret family. Doesn't know the husband she mourned for years was living a double life. Lorenzo made that choice for her. Decided the truth would destroy what's left of her world.
Maybe he's right.
Maybe ignorance is the only mercy we can offer.
"Nico, darling." Aria reaches the bottom of the stairs, pressing a kiss to my cheek. "You look handsome. Doesn't he look handsome, Carmela?"
"He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else," Carmela says flatly.
Not wrong.
"The car's waiting," I say, offering my arm to my mother. "We should go."
Vittoria falls into step beside Carmela, still scrolling through her phone.
I guide them toward the door, past the security station.