Chapter 10 Annetta
ANNETTA
Squealing erupts from the stove. I curse and flick off the burner, blowing into the frying pan as curls of blackened pork drift smoke back into my face.
Usually, I like cooking. If I follow the rules, I get a specific result. Every time, without fail.
Except today.
I already burnt two pork shoulders, my roux was too watery and then too dry, and I skinned my finger chopping the carrots.
I blow out a long stream of air, throw my apron onto the kitchen counter, and sit cross-legged in front of the massive living room windows, leaning my forehead against the cool glass with a soft plonk.
I’m learning to sort my days into good and bad.
That first month at my parents’ house after I came back to Chicago?
Bad. I barely remember those days, but I recall how dark it was, like I was one of those jagged-tooth, eyeless fish floating at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.
Except, even that sounds kind of cool. I was more like a sea cucumber, barely existing in the gloom of my grief.
I laugh a little, my exhale forming a mini cloud on the window pane. Serafina would lecture me about calling myself a sea cucumber. She didn’t like to hear me insult myself.
“Don’t listen to Mom,” she had told me as I brushed her hair into a tight, high bun for her ballet lesson.
Mom made no attempt to lower her voice as she bragged to her sister over the phone that Serafina was going to be the lead for her next dance recital and that I “was such a good helper.” I’d called myself Serafina’s stage mom.
“If you practiced with me, you could be just as good,” Serafina said.
I remember smiling through all the bobby pins in my teeth as I shook my head.
That was something Mom and Serafina didn’t get, although at least Serafina tried to understand.
I didn’t care about being the best in ballet or the strongest in Pilates or having the highest grades in high school.
It mattered if I was helping the people I loved.
I liked being a helper. I was the first person anyone in the family called when they needed babysitting.
Serafina came into my room when she needed someone to quiz her or to listen to her presentation.
Those things used to give me purpose, but I now know that they shielded me from reality—nothing I do matters. Serafina was the best at everything she did, and a hit-and-run killed her. I was a good wife to Frederico. He still cheated on me.
There’s supposed to be this benevolent God who’s marking off good deeds and bad ones, but in the end, being good or bad doesn’t change a thing.
The pre-heated oven beeps at me.
I take a deep breath. It’s just the bad day talking.
Sometimes I wake up, and I know it’s going to be one of those days where the grief stains everything in dark, muddy colors, and all I can do is move as little as possible.
The emotions are supposed to exist only in my head, but they feel as real as a brain tumor.
Sometimes I can fight them off, sometimes I just want to laze in them and cry, and sometimes they’re a low hum in the background, but they don’t ever go away, no matter how much I wish they would.
In a few minutes, I’ll stand again, turn off the oven, take a thirty-minute shower, and go back to bed. Valeria can bring takeout for Dom. I won’t want to eat today.
Tomorrow, I’ll pull out Serafina’s laptop and make another design for the party invitations. I’ll slow cook the pork—delicious, and hard to mess up. I’ll get on the rower again after Dom leaves the house.
I don’t want to face his rejection. It’s too humiliating, and I already have plenty of negative thoughts to deal with.
Maybe if I go through all the motions of what I used to enjoy, I can trigger some forward momentum.
Maybe tomorrow will be a good day.
As I move to stand, one of the cars in the street below the apartment building catches my eye.
It’s a shitty silver car, out of place compared to the others in this neighborhood, mostly luxury vehicles.
It sticks out like a sore thumb. I’ve noticed it a few times before, but I thought nothing of it.
Today, though, the driver is standing outside the car.
He has dark hair. And a white shirt.
I throw myself back, crawling on my hands and knees until I can’t see him anymore. My heart pounds in my chest.
It’s an overreaction. Just a random man on the street. Not… not my late husband looking up at me through the window.
My hands shake as I run them over my hair, and a laugh strangles out of me. Paranoia, that’s all this is. The depressed woman with major trauma finally has a mental break.
My phone in the kitchen catches my attention.
I could call Dom, but he already thinks I’m a fool for making such a big deal about the elevator. What about my brothers? Dad?
I clench my hands into fists.
I could talk to him—the person in the car. Or at least, I’ll get close enough to see his face. I can leave the penthouse. Dom has guns all over the place.
I’ll do it myself.
I march toward the kitchen, aiming for the gun I know is tucked away in one of the drawers. But as I step forward, the elevator dings.
All the courage drains out of me. Icy fear roots me to the spot.
It’s just another empty elevator. It’s on the fritz.
The doors peel apart, and a flash of dark fabric moves behind the sliver of an opening.
I run.
I quietly hurl myself up the stairs and race to the master bedroom. My fingers crash against the lock, clicking it shut, and I dive for the nightstand table to yank out Dom’s gun. With its cold weight in my hand, I hide behind the bed and point it right at the door.
For several minutes, I can barely breathe, listening for any sound.
When nothing happens, I pull my phone out of my back pocket.
“Please,” I whisper to myself as I call Dom. “Please.”
He doesn’t pick up.
I call him three more times, my heart pounding as I strain my ears to listen for movement in the hallway.
He doesn’t fucking pick up.
My vision blurs with tears as I call Carlo next. He always has men with him and drives fast.
When he picks up on the first ring with a, “What’s up?” I nearly sob with relief.
“Carlo, there’s someone in the house,” I hiss into the receiver. “Please hurry. Dom’s penthouse. Hurry.”
Tires squeal, and a man yells at Carlo.
“Shut the fuck up!” he shouts at them. Then, to me he says, “I’m coming. Where are you hiding?”
“I’m in Dom’s room. Upstairs.”
“I’m not far away. Just hang tight. I’m on my way—”
The call drops.
My phone rings again, but something in the hallway rustles. I quickly turn off my phone with trembling hands.
Skritch, skritch.
There.
I think?
I can’t tell if my mind’s playing tricks on me, but just as I’m about to turn my phone back on, there’s a dull thud outside the bedroom.
It’s a Glock, so there’s no safety to switch on. I’ve shot one once before with Rafa at the range. My hands sweat, but I hold it as steadily as I can.
I can do this.
I can do this.
Footsteps slowly grow louder until they’re in front of the bedroom door. The door handle jiggles. My finger twitches on the trigger.
And they walk away.
I wait for a long time, what feels like hours, expecting them to return, but they don’t.
With my left hand, I pull my phone back out and turn it back on. There are a dozen missed calls from Carlo and one from the apartment complex.
I call Carlo first.
“Tell this fucker to let me up,” he screams into the phone.
“Sir, if you don’t calm down, I will be calling the police,” says a voice I recognize as the doorman’s.
“It’s my brother,” I whisper. “Please let him up.”
The doorman sighs, but several minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. “Hey, it’s me. Carlo.”
I throw my gun on the bed and race to the door, scrambling to unlock it. Carlo wraps me in a quick hug, then looks me up and down.
“There’s no one here,” a man calls from downstairs.
“You okay?” Carlo asks.
“I—yes. They didn’t come into the room.”
“Did you see who it was?”
I shake my head, and he looks a little doubtful, but he doesn’t say anything about it. “Why don’t we get some food downstairs?”
I don’t want to make food for my brother’s friends, but my hands are trembling, and I want to be alone even less, so I nod.
Downstairs, three of Carlo’s friends are splayed out on Dom’s couch. Russell has a bandage around his neck and is the only one not openly staring at me.
“Heard a ghost, Serafina?” Mark asks. He’s my least favorite of the bunch, with his dead eyes and stupid jokes. He sprawls his thin limbs over the couch like a creepy puppet.
I ignore him and turn to the kitchen to pull out cut meats for a snacking tray. This is what’s expected of me. I stay silent. I make food.
As I slice paper-thin cuts of the meat with shaky hands, Carlo’s friend Checkers speaks up, “I can’t believe we’re missing the Velvet Kitty for this.”
“Yeah, Carlo, when are we getting out of here?” Mark asks. “Your sister ain’t gonna strip for us.”
“Shut up,” Carlo says without any heat.
Same old, same old. All the men in my life do is talk about honor and loyalty, unless it’s their friends stepping on their wives or sisters.
“You doing okay?” Carlo murmurs.
I press down on the knife with the heel of my hand, carving away a nearly transparent slice of meat. My hands are moving steadier now that some of the adrenaline has drained away and a fog of apathy is settling back into place. “Yeah.”
Carlo scrubs the back of his neck. “Do you want to come with us? We’re going to get a few drinks.”
There’s no such thing as a few drinks with Carlo, but when I glance up and see the dark skyscrapers stretching out beyond the windows of the living room like a handful of jagged teeth, I feel lost.
Dom still hasn’t called me back.
What’s the point of all this?
Without looking at Carlo, I shrug. “Sure.”