Chapter 6
SIX
Madi
I ’m barely two steps into my mother’s kitchen when the overreactions begin. Caterina Ricci is nothing if not dramatic.
“Oh, thank God,” she crows, slamming down the newspaper she was reading. Mother Dearest doesn't look happy to see me. “Were you out all night?” she questions, her eyes wandering down my sparkly sheer dress to my bare legs and Doc Martens before gliding back up to my face. She’s disgusted; the emotion shows in the curl of her lips and her fiercely clenched jaw.
Luckily, Adrian walks in behind me and her face changes at the sight of him. To anyone else, the shift would be jarring. Her emotions change so quickly, pure disgust and anger to happiness in the blink of an eye. But my mother’s shapeshifting abilities aren’t new to me. When she’s trying to impress someone, she’s the most delightful woman you’ll ever meet. But once the doors close, her claws come out to play and her focus squarely settles on me. She won’t yell while he’s here, standing behind me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his black slacks. No, Caterina will be the perfect host for Adrian. She’ll keep her anger tucked away, neatly under the surface until the moment he leaves.
But I’ll take the reprieve while I can get it.
“No, Caterina,” Adrian answers my mother’s question for me, a habit I hope is infrequent in our pending marriage. “I picked her up last night.”
“Oh, thank God you found her!” she coos his praise. “God knows what would have happened if anyone else found her in that… dress .” The comment is coated in sugary sweetness. Doting over Adrian’s perfection while getting in a dig at me.
“Really, Ma?” If she knew something almost did happen last night, she’d lock me up in my room right after spitting out the words I told you so.
My wonderful, loving mother has been telling me for years that everything about my appearance sends men the wrong message. My hair makes me look unfit, my outfits unappealing. Every signal I’m sending is telling men: look at me, I’m easy and slutty and broken. She can’t comprehend that everything I do isn’t to please the other gender. And there’s something about your mom calling you a slut as a teenager that makes it hard to gain any self-esteem.
“You’re the one who sent him after me,” I add, kicking off my Doc Martens and leaving them in a heap by the door. I can see my mother’s eyes twitch as she looks down at the shoes, but she keeps her lips wound up in a tight smile. Can’t send Adrian the wrong message and make him think she’s anything less than the perfect mother .
Appearances are everything, after all.
I think a girl and her mother are supposed to have some kind of unique bond. At least, that’s what a million hours of television have taught me. There’s supposed to be this mother/daughter relationship that is unbreakable, but if that is a thing, it doesn’t exist in this house.
My happiness is the last thought on Caterina’s mind. The first is making sure I walk down the aisle and marry Adrian Russo.
“Yes, I sent him after you.” My mother spins around, pressing her hands on the counter as she hangs her head, the perfect portrayal of a grieving mother. “Your brother…” She can’t even finish the sentence before her words fail and a sob leaves her lips.
Laughter bubbles up in my throat, but I swallow it down. I can’t tell if my mother’s grief is real. Do sociopaths care about anyone other than themselves? Surely, a woman who would marry her daughter off unwillingly is a sociopath. Right?
“Caterina.” Adrian moves to my mother in a few swift strides, pressing his large palm to her back and soothing her cries. “I’m so sorry about Marcus.”
Ugh . The sight makes me want to hurl. I run both of my hands through my hair. My mother is making me crazy, and Adrian isn’t helping anything. I’m not sure if I want to punch him or… never mind . I shake the almost dirty thought from my mind.
“Your brother wouldn’t want this,” she says steadily, lifting her hands and wiping the imaginary tears from her eyes. “Wouldn’t want me crying before your big day.” She’s dramatic in the way she pats at her under eyes and sniffles loudly.
I roll my eyes. How would she even know? Marcus wasn’t much of a brother or son, more like a dictator, controlling every move that happened in this house. He saw the world as one big chess game and we were all just pawns on his board. Pawns he wasn’t about to let make any moves on our own, God forbid we fuck up his long game. But I guess none of that matters anymore. His long game, whatever it was, is gone now. Just like him.
“We’re still having a wedding?” I question, blinking my brown eyes to feign ignorance when both Adrian and my mother turn to me. “I mean, I would hate to interrupt everyone’s grieving by being selfish. We should postpone.” When she narrows her eyes at me, I add, “Just until we find him.”
Without a body, this could go either way. But we all know that Marcus didn’t just go missing. That’s not what happens in this life.
Adrian’s lips have tilted up into a slight smile, and I think if my mother wasn’t standing next to him, he’d laugh. Does he find my attempt to cancel our marriage amusing?
“No,”—my mother waves dismissively—“what’s selfish , Madalena, is trying to take this one piece of joy away from everyone.” She turns to Adrian as if she can’t stand to look at me anymore. “Thank you, bello , for bringing my daughter home.” She pats his shoulder affectionately. “I have to get her ready for the wedding now. We’ll see you at the rehearsal dinner, si ?”
“ Si, ” Adrian confirms, leaning in and giving my mother a peck on each cheek. He gives her one last smile before he turns to me, taking two long steps into my orbit.
I don’t back up this time, unlike last night, when he had me pinned against the wall.
“Be good, princess,” he whispers, low enough that my mother won’t hear. “And in twenty-four hours when you’re mine, maybe I’ll give you a reward.”
“It’s more like thirty hours,” I correct him. “But I guess that’s close enough.” I can’t help but to let the corners of my lips tilt into a smile.
Adrian’s eyes glimmer at my comment. I think the sick fuck likes it when I mouth off to him. My comebacks and child-like brattiness have the habit of pissing off most men in my life. But Adrian smiles like he has a secret. Maybe he’s a glutton for punishment? I’m not sure. But either way, the cocky asshole is intent on marrying me.
So I’ll have to find more than just sassy comebacks to make him realize what a goddamn mistake he’s making.
I promised him I would steal his life for taking mine, and I intend to keep it.
I manage to shower and change my clothes before my mother drags me out of the house to my hair appointment. I’m not sure why I need an appointment the day before my wedding, but I keep my lips sealed and go anyway. Arguing with my mom is futile. We both inherited the same Costello genes, and this family has had a stubborn streak for three generations. We’ll never come to an agreement; both of us will argue and say nasty things until someone cries. That’s always how it ends, with one of us going just a bit too far and hurting the other’s feelings. Then we’ll ignore each other for a few hours and eventually apologize and make up, but nothing will ever change.
“Vanessa!” My mother greets her longtime stylist with a hug and a peck on the cheek. The dyed blonde woman I’ve known since I was ten gives me a smile and a look over. Her eyes linger on the strands of blue in my hair. She hates it, refused to dye it that color, so I did it myself. Much to my mother’s dismay, she wasn’t successful in trying to control every aspect of my life.
But the look on her face says today is different. She and Adrian want this marriage to happen, and nothing I say is going to change their minds.
“Can you fix that mess?” my mother asks her friend, both sets of eyes landing on my hair.
“Yes,” Vanessa says confidently, her hand patting the back of her chair in a gesture for me to sit down.
“Thank God.” My mother huffs out a breath. “She can’t get married with such an… offensive color on her head.” She clutches a hand to her chest as if that’s the worst possible situation. Another ache rattles through me. My mother is more concerned about the color of my hair than the man I’m marrying. She has no cares about if we get along, if he treats me well, if he even loves me. Not to mention, she hasn’t even asked me my opinion. All she cares about is making sure her status isn’t lost.
I’ve avoided wedding planning at all costs, but I know my mother has spent hours putting together what she believes will be the wedding of the century. In this family, the men run the businesses and the women plan parties. Her entire self-esteem is based on how good of an event she can throw, and my mother refuses to let anyone else in this city be better than her.
“What’s offensive about blue?” I question, crossing my arms over my chest as my mother stares at me like I’ve offended her.
She presses her lips into a thin line. “It’s not normal ,” she says, stressing her point.
What’s not normal is what our family does to support themselves. What’s not normal is how we flaunt our wealth around the city, pretending we’ve earned it the same way everybody else does. What’s not normal ? It’s us . But she’ll continue to pretend my hair is the problem.
I don’t say any of that, though. Instead, I march over to the shampoo chair like a petulant child who’s being forced to do something she doesn’t want. I give my hair one last look in the mirror before a cape is draped over me and Vanessa leaves to start mixing the dye.
“Do you think you could drop a curling iron in there while you’re at it?” I ask, laughing at my own joke. The assistant Vanessa tasked with washing my hair freezes her movements, her hand still on the faucet.
“Madalena, stop that nonsense right now,” my mother scolds me. Now I’ve really done it.
I give her a smile. “Well, Mother, if you don’t want people to make suicide jokes, you should stop forcing arranged marriages on them.”
The assistant pauses again, this time her fingers covered in shampoo and hovering over my head. She coughs a little, probably covering up the gasp. She’s not accustomed to what my mother would call our culture. Normal people don’t arrange the marriages of their children and use force when they don’t agree.
“Don’t stop,” my mother hisses at the poor assistant. Her hands spring into action, assaulting my head with the mint scented shampoo. “Honestly, Madalena,” she mutters, low enough that only I can hear. “It’s just hair. I don’t know what in the world is the matter with you.”
It’s just hair . Sure. But in a world where everything has been prescribed to me, every decision made for me, my hair was the only thing I had. And maybe it’s stupid for me to care so much, but it was the only thing I could count on to be fully mine. My life, my future, my body — all of it no longer belongs to me. But at least my hair could reflect who I really am.
My mother sighs heavily when I don’t respond. “I never could control you, ragazza. Maybe Adrian will have better luck.” She spins on her heel and leaves me there.
I try not to cry as Vanessa paints the globs of black dye onto my hair, wrapping them neatly in foils. I don’t want anyone to know how much this bothers me or how attached I am to the color of my hair. But when she spins me around to show me the final product, long, dark, and shiny locks framing my tanned face, I break. Just for a moment, just a slipup when my facade cracks and my lips twist and it’s obvious that I hate it more than I can bear.
But then I straighten my features and nod at Vanessa and stand from the chair.
They’ve made me into a perfect little doll for my new husband, but it won’t tame me. Won’t make me compliant.
I still plan to make that asshole miserable.