2. Valentina
Chapter 2
Valentina
I know my mamma has decided to make her grand entrance into my room, not because she says hello like a normal person, but because she gasps like a soap opera actress and sputters, “ Dio mio … Your hair! Valentina, what have you done to your hair?”
“Nothing much,” I say nonchalantly, capping my tube of blood-red lipstick. The gold lettering of the label pops in the light, reminding me that this particular shade is called I eat men’s hearts for breakfast. “Just went back to my natural colour. Got tired of dealing with my roots.”
Yeah, right. I love getting my hair done. I love makeup and perfume and every single type of sparkle that is available to adorn the female body. Well, every single type except for my cupcake-esque engagement ring. The one my fiancé Dario didn’t even bother to give to me himself but rather passed off to my papà, who then passed it off to my mamma to give to me instead.
“Let me see you,” Mamma snaps. She flaps her hands at me, indicating that she wants me to rise from the plush pink chair I’m seated in in front of my white vanity table. I do so, stepping out from behind the chair so that she can get the full effect.
Antonio blew my ribcage-length, now nearly-black hair out in big, Old Hollywood waves. The dress is all black, with off-the-shoulder sleeves, a plunging neckline, and a tight fit all the way down until it flares at the knees mermaid-style.
“You look like you’re going to a funeral!” Mamma practically wails.
I look down at my very exposed cleavage, then gesture at the big sweeps of black liquid eyeliner and dark red lips.
“Pretty sure if I tried to step into a church looking like this I’d get smited on the spot. Smote? Whatever.”
Mamma sucks her teeth and makes the sign of the cross.
I turn away from my mamma’s horrified expression to take in my reflection once more. As dramatic as she’s being, I kind of understand her reaction. This isn’t my usual look. I’ve been some shade of blonde, from honey to near-white, for years. And usually, I’m decked out in all manner of sequins and shimmer and lace, often pink. My room is a testament to my typical taste. The entire place is done up in pastel hues of cream and dreamy rose. Velvet and satin and frills galore.
I look completely out of place standing in the middle of it all, so severely wrapped in black with these red, red lips.
If it weren’t for the August-tanned tint of my distinctly olive-toned Sicilian ass, I would look like a curvier Morticia Addams.
“I thought you were going to wear that dress we picked out on your birthday. The beautiful champagne-coloured one,” Mamma reminds me, sounding slightly desperate. Her own gown is a pretty ivory silk. My old hair and dress choice would have complimented her look perfectly.
“I changed my mind.”
I don’t want to look soft and pretty tonight. I want to look like I eat men’s hearts for breakfast, goddamnit. Even if most of the experience I have with men is limited to my mob boss father, my psychotic-yet-somehow-loveable cousins Elio and Curse, and the soldiers serving our family.
“Tonight is important,” Mamma reminds me, as if I don’t already understand that. This marriage is the culmination of my life’s duty in my parents’ eyes. An alliance meant to continue growing the Titone empire.
I know my place. I’m a Titone. I’m not going to screw this up.
Besides, I’m already engaged to the guy, and he’s getting just as much as my parents, if not more, out of this match.
What could possibly go wrong?