Chapter Five
Lily
On Monday at work, I’m distracted, my mind circling back to what happened that fateful night.
If Penelope, my boss, notices, she doesn’t comment.
Neither does she object that I took on Mira’s appointments, spreading them out to fill my days way over the allocated hours I was supposed to work.
But she knows how much I need the money, so she merely asks me to let her know if it becomes too much.
She could take some of the load off, and I am grateful for her looking out for us employees.
I have been a vet at the clinic for three years now after graduating and obtaining my veterinary degree. Even though I love my colleagues at the clinic and the patients we have, my dream is to open my very own clinic. I know I will one day. I only need patience and money.
Oh, and I just need to stay alive, too.
Easy-peasy, right?
I gently pet Libby, the adorable golden retriever puppy the Dubois family brought in for her first check-up and vaccinations.
Her soft fur feels like a comforting embrace as she gazes up at me with those innocent puppy eyes.
Once we’re finished, I turn to the little six-year-old girl standing beside me, her wide eyes fixed on me with a mix of anticipation and excitement.
“All clear. Libby is the healthiest puppy in town. What a brave little lady she is. You’re so lucky to have her, you know? And I’m sure she’s equally as lucky to have you looking after her.”
The little girl beams up at me, her toothless grin lighting up the room like a burst of sunshine.
“She sure is!” she replies with all the sincerity only a child could muster. “I take really good care of her. I take her for walks all the time, and we play together.” Then, she leans in close, her voice dropping to a secretive whisper, “And sometimes…I share my food with her.”
I can’t help but laugh, and her parents smile sheepishly in the background.
“That’s sweet, honey, but don’t give her too much, all right? Human food isn’t always good for dogs. And especially, never give her chocolate. It’s very bad for her.”
Lauren nods solemnly, her eyes wide with understanding. “Never,” she promises, her tiny voice serious beyond her years.
Once they’ve left, I lock up the clinic. The last of the staff has already trickled out for the weekend.
I sit in my car for a few moments before starting the engine, the silence enveloping me like a blanket. I need this time, only a few seconds, to gather my thoughts. It has been an exhausting week. I’ve nearly doubled my hours, and my body is protesting with every ache and fatigue that lingers.
I should call Mira, check in on her and her grandmother. We’ve exchanged a few texts, but nothing substantial has changed. Still, I put it off. Let tomorrow be the day. The mental exhaustion wins out, my mind too tired to fight it.
When I get home, I shower quickly, then collapse into bed, the weight of exhaustion pulling me into a deep, dreamless sleep. The world fades away, swallowed by blissful unconsciousness, until the sun forces its way through my blinds the next morning.
* * * *
The busy week was a blessing since it kept my mind off the head of the mafia, Il Demonio.
However, on this lazy Saturday morning, as I sit at the breakfast table, my thoughts inevitably wander back to him. In the light of day, he doesn’t seem so terrifying anymore. The dark, haunting memories of him begin to fade into a dull gray, softened by a week of work and distractions.
But I will not delude myself. I know better. The man is danger personified. Fear and awe hang heavy in the air when he is discussed, as if the mere mention of his name is enough to make him appear.
He took over as head of the Families after his father died ten years ago, and ever since, he’s ruled the underworld with an iron fist, unyielding, unrelenting.
His grip on power is absolute. His mother is still alive, but she has moved back to Italy, to her side of the family, only to come back to Boston when required.
People speculate, whispering in hushed tones about his very bloody deeds, but the man himself remains an enigma. Aside from the occasional official and social appearances, no one truly sees him. He is elusive, a shadow, secretive about every aspect of his private life.
His family’s mansion stands in one of the city’s most exclusive neighborhoods, an imposing structure that reflects their power. He owns several office buildings, each home to businesses both above and below board, their legitimacy as murky as his reputation.
It’s common knowledge that he owns everything—and everyone—in this city. His influence hangs over it all, a dark, suffocating cloud that touches every corner, every deal, every transaction.
If he wants to change his mind and still have me silenced for what I saw, there is no one and nothing standing in his way. A shiver runs down my spine despite the sun shining through the windows. Would he send his enforcer after me? Or would he take matters into his own hands?
After what I have witnessed, I am positive that Il Demonio would not shy away from doing his dirty work himself. God, maybe he even enjoys it.
Would he slit my throat? Or would he snap my spine?
Choke me to death with his big hands, wrapping his long fingers around my throat, cutting off the air?
All the while gazing at me with his dark, dark eyes, like he could suck out my soul from my body with just one look.
His big body caging mine in, his presence drowning out any resistance.
And his lips, my God, his sinful lips, would whisper dark, dirty things in my ear while his groin would grind into my lower abdomen, making me aware of the large bulk in his pants…
At that thought, my heart starts hammering. Tingles course down my spine and my nipples tighten to almost painful pebbles. And my pussy is definitely getting wetter by the second.
Shit, I am getting aroused by images of my murder.
What is wrong with me?
I need to leave this town ASAP, before he changes his mind about letting me live. And I vow that, until then, I will never cross paths with him again.
* * * *
In the afternoon, Daria is hosting a social tea like every other Saturday afternoon.
It always is a success and the other families’ wives and daughters are eager to come to share gossip around tea and cake.
Of course, Chiara’s and my presence are required.
How are we going to learn to be perfect mafia wives if we don’t attend to such important matters?
By halfway through the afternoon, I’ve already inwardly groaned at least twelve times, and Chiara doesn’t seem to be faring any better.
She sits beside me, her gaze distant, her mind obviously lightyears away from the endless gossip swirling around us.
The discussions about who’s the most likely pair in our circle, who’s sneaking around behind whose back, seem to fade into the background like white noise pulling us into an endless stupor.
Maybe I should call the Devil so he can put an end to my suffering. I snicker quietly at that thought, drawing unwanted attention to myself.
Daria has that pinched look she always wears when she looks at me. “Lily, dear child, why don’t you go get us some more tea?”
Of course, in front of the other wives I am always her dear child, she being a saint to raise her husband’s mistress’ daughter.
I obediently stand and collect the tray holding the teapot, sugar bowl and milk jug to head to the kitchen, almost fist-pumping for getting away for a few minutes.
Chiara sends a jealous glare my way and I give her a secret grin and blow her a cheeky kiss in passing.
It takes a while for the water to boil. Well, I may or may not have put the kettle back to boil at least three times, to make sure the water is really hot.
I pour the hot water into the teapot with fresh tea leaves.
Then I top off the milk and sugar and put everything back on the tray.
I can’t stall any longer, so I pick up the tray and go back to the sitting room where the conversation seems animated
“…wonder who he will marry? He should be thinking about having a wife. He is nearing thirty-five after all.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. As far as I am concerned, the poor unknown man can live his life alone with cats until he is sixty. Screw that, until he is crumbling to dust.
Life for mafia women is hard—we are always scrutinized, compared, judged and never deemed good enough. Apparently men are scrutinized too. But still, I have the feeling they have more leeway than us women and it bothers me to no end.
“Well, he always has a string of women on his arm, but not one holds his attention for more than a couple of weeks.”
“Maybe he hasn’t found the right one yet.”
“Or maybe he doesn’t like women,” I mutter distractedly under my breath, rolling my eyes.
Everyone jumps and turns shocked gazes my way.
Oops.
“How dare you speak like that of Mr. Santaluccia?” they screech in unison, and I am almost surprised they don’t cross themselves at the blasphemous words I just said.
Mr. Santaluccia? Double oops.
“Um…I mean, maybe he likes men, but doesn’t want to come out because of the backward society we live in?” I know I am digging my own grave, but I can’t seem to shut up.
They are furious. I even hear some curses in Italian.
“No way!” Daria chides. “That man is a player and changes women like shirts. And each one is more beautiful than the last one. He samples around while he can. He will surely settle down once he finds the perfect queen to be at his side.”
They all agree and go on about who this perfect candidate could be and how she should look to be worthy of him. Apparently she could be a perfect nitwit—that was acceptable as long as she was nice to look at. I groan inwardly, trying my best to hold my tongue before it gets me burned at the stake.
My mind is scattering again when a sentence brings my wandering thoughts to a screeching halt.
“…the perfect opportunity will be during the annual gala the Santaluccia family will hold in their mansion next month.”
I look up with dread. The annual gala is next month?
Oh, hell no! No, no, no!
They are talking excitedly. Of course, this event is the highlight of every year. Shame I missed out during the years of studying out of town. Not.
“Chiara will be stunning in the Vera Wang dress I ordered for her,” Daria proudly declares. Everyone coos and chimes in about what they and their daughters are going to wear.
“How about you, Lily?” Mrs. Rossi asks me, taking me by surprise.
“I, um… I am not sure if I will be able to make it to the gala. Work at the clinic has been crazy and—”
“Nonsense.” Daria interrupts my rambling with a pinched face. “She needs to be there to socialize. She has been missing so many opportunities already. How will she find a husband?”
And be out of here as soon as some unfortunate bloke is willing enough to sweep me away from your house? I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent the thoughts from flying out of my mouth.
All the ladies agree. “That is true. You are twenty-five years old now. Soon you will be too old to get married,” one of them says.
I grit my teeth and stay silent, not pointing out that Chiara also is nearing expiry date with her twenty-six years and she’s still not married. But I won’t do that to her. I hope that she will marry for love one day.
As for me, I want freedom. Twenty-five is way too young to be tied to a place or to someone.
Of course, I’ve had boyfriends in the past. But it never got too far. Some of them wanted more, but I wasn’t ready to commit, so I broke things off when I sensed that things were getting too serious.
“Needless to say, both of my daughters will attend. There is no way we will insult the Head Family by not showing up.” Daria huffs. She doesn’t even grimace when she includes me as her daughter. And just like that, my fate is sealed.