Chapter 14 Besiana
Besiana
Ispend the morning in the Rosetti library, losing myself in poetry.
Each word pulls me away from the mansion’s bare walls and empty hallways.
Emily Dickinson is my guide. She has more to say to me than anyone in this house.
Her voice is urgent and true, not cold like the gray November light that pours through the long windows.
I'm deep in one of her poems when Carmela bursts in, bringing with her an explosion of sound and color.
“Dom wants me to take you shopping,” she says. Her eyes flash with mischief. “I hear you have a talent for spending exactly the right amount. This time? No math.”
I close the book. It's one thing to ignore a poet. Another to ignore a Rosetti.
The Rosetti mansion looms in the rearview mirror as we get into the car and drive down the busy New York streets.
The massive building fades against the skyline while Carmela chatters away in the driver’s seat, and I do my best to keep up.
She accelerates like a getaway driver, weaving through traffic with terrifying speed.
“Remember, Besa,” she grins, “no math this time! We buy everything!”
Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I find myself laughing. As we near 5th Avenue, chic pedestrians spur Carmela to drive faster, and she narrowly avoids a delivery truck as it jolts out of the way. The car barely halts before she grabs my hand.
"We're having fun today, and that's final!" Carmela's voice is determined, and I smile at the younger woman's energy.
Dom has put Carmela on a mission. She doesn’t stop moving, pointing at every window display.
“Where to first?” she says, glancing at me like I might run away.
I smile, almost. “You choose.”
“Oh, I will!”
She leads us into a store with a door so heavy it feels like entering a vault. The smell of leather and luxury is intoxicating, almost too much for my senses. I glance at a price tag, and Carmela smacks my hand like I'm a naughty child.
“No checking the price,” she says, grinning like she caught me stealing.
“I thought your brother's instructions might include something about budgeting,” I say.
“He said to show you how to shop without overthinking.” She pulls a bright, silky dress off a rack and shoves it at me. “Like this! Try it!”
Her enthusiasm is contagious. Soon, we're surrounded by a rainbow of fabrics, each one brighter than the last. She piles me high with dresses, shirts, pants—all things I don’t usually wear, fewer structured collars and more flowing fabrics.
As I step into the dressing room, I wonder what my father would say.
He trained me to be efficient, to never waste time or money.
Here, I feel like I’m breaking all the rules.
The dressing room is large, full of mirrors that reflect my every move.
I take a deep breath, feeling a bit daring and a bit nervous.
The gown Carmela has picked for me is bold, breathtaking, so different from anything I’ve worn before.
Its fabric is a deep emerald green, rich and silky, shifting as if it's alive when it catches the light.
The cut is dramatic, off the shoulder and sweeping down to the floor like something a princess might wear for a grand ball.
I hesitate for a moment, remembering the careful, conservative styles my father insists on.
This dress would make him furious. The thought sends a thrill through me, and I slip it on. It feels like a rebellion.
I step out of the dressing room, my heart racing.
Carmela spins me around like I’m her personal doll. It should be annoying, but it’s not.
“You look amazing,” she says, admiring how the gown shimmers in the light. “That’s the one!”
“I don't think it's—”
“You have to get it!” She doesn’t let me argue. I feel dizzy with color, texture, and choice.
“Your family will think I’m ridiculous.”
“My family loves parties,” she says, picking out a yellow scarf. “You can wear it to your birthday!”
“Birthday?” I try not to sound too shocked. “We never celebrated birthdays.”
“Never?” Her eyes go wide.
“My father said serious crime families don’t do that.”
“Wow.” She ties the scarf around her neck and looks thoughtful.
“Well, we do! You can wear it to your first Rosetti party!” She throws the gown over her arm and skips to the register, leaving me to follow.
I hesitate for a second, but there’s no point resisting.
When Carmela sets her mind on something, it happens. She’s a lot like Dom in that way.
Carmela insists on paying, waving me off with a laugh as I open my mouth to object.
“I’ve got it.” She’s not taking no for an answer.
I follow as she skips to the register, the gown swinging on her arm, as lively and bright as she is. She hands the dress to the clerk with a brilliant smile that almost sparkles.
“We’ll take this!” she cheers, and soon the gown is being wrapped in tissue paper.
As the saleswoman rings it up, Carmela chats away, telling her how it’s a gift for her new sister, how she has amazing taste, how they’re celebrating. The clerk gives me a quick, knowing look, and I smile back, feeling like I’ve been swept up in a whirlwind.
Carmela swipes the credit card, clearly an expert at that, and turns to me, eyes gleaming.
“Let’s find you a purse!”
We leave the store and head to a handbag boutique. I feel lightheaded, almost giddy. Like I’ve lost track of who I’m supposed to be. Maybe the Rosettis aren’t my enemies. Maybe I’m not theirs.
“Okay, Besa,” Carmela says, linking her arm through mine. “Do you like leather or faux leather? Tan or bright? Actually, don’t answer that, we’re getting you something bold and wild.”
The next store is smaller, but every bit as expensive. A bag in the window costs more than some people earn in a year.
The store is sleek and glossy, with glass walls, high ceilings, and perfectly arranged displays.
I try not to gasp at the prices. Carmela doesn’t flinch as she strolls in like she owns the place.
Her confidence is unnerving and appealing at the same time.
The clerks eye her Rosetti determination, and I think they know they’re about to make their biggest sale of the year.
"The only thing you should be worried about," Carmela says, nudging me, “is how you’re going to carry all these bags home."
We float through the aisles, each bag more extravagant than the last. Soft leather, rich colors, gold accents—everything screams luxury and excess. Carmela watches my every reaction as if she’s trying to figure out what I might like. I’m not even sure I know.
"Let me guess," Carmela teases, smirking at my hesitation. "You’ve always dreamed of a conservative, brown briefcase?"
“More like a canvas tote,” I say, teasing her right back. But, of course, I would never leave home with anything less than a Jimmy Choo.
“Not today, Besa," she laughs. “We're going wild, remember?”
She swings a metallic bag off the shelf and catches a mirror of herself doing it, making a face full of mischief. “How do you say ‘go big or go home’ in Albanian?”
I shudder at the reminder of my father but catch myself before it shows. “How do you say ‘slow the hell down’ in Rosetti?”
“Listen up,” Carmela says. She clears her throat like she’s about to do a magic trick. “A me rri prapanica shume e madhe me kete?”
The words hit me like a punch. Albanian. She is speaking Albanian. A language that echoes with my father’s rules and demands. Carmela's pronunciation is shaky and playful, but my father's voice slices through my mind, precise and cold. I forget to breathe.
I can hear him now, reciting the harsh syllables like commands. He would make us practice until we got it perfect. He said it was part of our legacy, something we had to hold onto, something we could never let go of, even if it meant cutting ourselves off from everything else.
I forget where I am for a moment.
Instead of the glossy boutique, I see the dim rooms of my father's mansion and smell the old books and stiff furniture. A place where fun was never allowed, where everything was serious and planned, where birthdays were just another day on the calendar.
Carmela's words bring all of it flooding back, and I’m not prepared.
I shudder, and this time I can’t hide it.
My heart thunders, and my breath comes in shallow gasps.
It's terrifying how one little phrase can make me feel like a child again, scared and trapped.
I struggle to focus. The metal bags on the walls glint too bright, the air feels thin, and my vision starts to blur around the edges.
Carmela is in the middle of it all, her eyes wide, waiting for me to respond.
“Wow, I totally butchered it, huh?” She laughs, but when she sees my face, her expression changes. “Besa? You okay?”
I can’t speak. Her attempt was innocent, sweet, even.
But all I hear is anger and control. My father only spoke Albanian when I’d failed him.
When punishment came next. Carmela stands there, unsure of what to do.
I have to get out of this store. Out of this conversation.
My instinct is to look for Dom. He’d know what to say, how to make this stop spinning. But he’s not here.
“Besa?” Carmela’s voice is soft.
I blink, trying to pull myself back. “I’m sorry. I—”
“Was it awful?”
“No, it was...” I force a smile. “Surprising.”
We step outside, and the November air hits my cheeks. I can finally breathe again.
We walk a few blocks, Carmela careful not to say anything that might startle me.
She must think me such a fool. My heart slows, but the confusion lingers.
Dom ordered Carmela to take me shopping.
Not because I’m an asset or a tool. Because he wanted me to have fun.
To belong. My father never gave me anything without a price.
Here, I don’t know what’s expected of me.
“You sure you’re okay?” Carmela asks. She stops and tilts her head. Her eyes are too sincere for someone in my life.
“I’m sure.”
“You want to head back?”
“Maybe... maybe we could do one more store.”
She beams like I’ve given her the best gift ever.
I let her guide me to another boutique, her energy warm and safe.
Dom’s family is nothing like mine. I knew this when he married me.
But what I didn’t know, what I couldn’t know, is how much I’d start to need it.
To need him. My father trained me to believe in loyalty over love. I don’t know what I believe in now.
Carmela picks out a pair of shoes in a striking emerald to match the gown and insists on buying it for me. When she asks if we should head home, I surprise myself.
“Let’s do lunch,” I say. “Somewhere really expensive.”