17. Federica
FEDERICA
Iam in bed by midnight. Physically, at least. Mentally, I am still standing on the sidewalk outside my parents’ house, with Valerio’s face in front of me and his words sitting between us like a body.
My parents are dead.
I roll onto my side, then my back, then my other side. The sheets are too soft. The room is too quiet. Everything in this apartment feels designed to absorb sound, which is convenient for rich people and terrible for women trying not to think.
I think anyway.
Of course I do.
Valerio’s parents are dead.
I remember Tom and Michelle Greco in their warm kitchen, with the overstuffed couch visible from the doorway and some old movie playing low in the living room.
I remember Michelle pretending not to notice when Tina and I stole handfuls of grated cheese from the bowl before dinner.
I remember Tom asking me about school, in a way that made me know he actually wanted to hear it. Not that he was waiting for me to finish so he could praise Camillo instead.
They were kind to me. They made space for me.
Now they’re gone.
And Rio had to say it out loud on a sidewalk because I pushed and pushed until the truth came loose.
I press my palms over my face.
God.
The look on him when he said it.
He didn’t cry. Of course he didn’t. But his voice had changed. One small fracture, and then everything underneath showed through.
It hurt to hear.
It hurt more that he let me hear it.
That’s the problem with him. One minute, he’s a wall. The next, there’s a crack just wide enough for me to remember the boy who used to sneak me olives while his mother laughed and begged us to stay out of the kitchen.
Rio.
I haven’t known what to do with that version of him for years. Apparently, I still don’t.
My phone is on the nightstand. I’ve checked it three times since Tito dropped me off. No messages from Valerio. No messages from Tina either.
Tina.
My stomach knots.
Is she safe? Is she with friends? Does she suspect about her parents? Has she been wandering around Europe all this time, sending me pastry jokes while her family collapsed back home?
I hate the thought as soon as I have it.
It feels unfair to her. Cruel, even. Tina would come home if she knew. She’d fight Valerio at the airport, steal his car keys, and yell loud enough for half of Queens to hear. That’s who she is.
So why hasn’t she?
I reach for my phone, open our chat, then lock the screen again.
No.
Not tonight.
Tonight, if I text her, I’ll ask the wrong question. Valerio deserves to tell her on his terms. It's their family. No matter how much it feels like mine too, I'm not part of it. This decision belongs to him alone.
Valerio’s warning coils through me.
The more you know, the more useful you become to people who want to hurt me.
I hate how reasonable that sounds.
I hate more that he included himself in the sentence like a fact. People who want to hurt me. As if hurt is his natural climate. He’d sounded like the rest of us are reckless for trying to stand near him without an umbrella.
His other words echoes in my ears. You have never been convenient a day in your life.
I close my eyes.
Ridiculous sentence. Barely even romantic. It’s basically an insult, really.
So why has it been looping in my head since he said it?
Maybe because my whole life, convenient was the best I could be. Convenient daughter. Convenient sister. Convenient emergency fund. Convenient woman to sell, convenient bride to sign, convenient body to keep at a legal distance with a clause both of us are pretending not to think about.
The moment he said those words, he’d looked at me like convenience was the last thing I could ever be. His eyes had stared at me like I was trouble.
And like he wanted nothing less from me.
I turn onto my stomach and groan into the pillow.
Wonderful. Fantastic. My standards are so damaged that being called inconvenient by a mafia capo now counts as foreplay.
The memory of his hand in mine at dinner comes back. The way he stood up for me when I had forgotten standing up was an option. He treated me like I was worth protecting.
Then the other night comes back too.
His mouth on mine. His hands. My back against the counter. The way he stopped like touching me was a crime and punishment had already started.
I am furious with him.
I am scared for him.
I want to shake him until every truth falls out.
I want to hold him until he sleeps.
I want to kiss him again, and again, and again.
I lie awake for a long time, listening for a door that never opens.