9. Lydia
LYDIA
There are worse babysitters than Anastasio, I guess.
For one, he drives like a normal person, which after Nico is almost disorienting.
He has this habit of shaking the hair out of his eyes every couple of minutes. Even more so when he laughs, which he does every now and then as he switches the radio from one talk-show to another.
He’s handsome in his own ways. But when he’s next to Nico, he might as well be a wet cardboard cutout. And somehow, as I twist the ring on my finger that reminds me of my new situation, I like the idea that I’m married to a man that I find maddeningly attractive.
Even if I never wanted the marriage in the first place.
"Go ahead," he breaks the silence as we cross the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan. “Ask.”
"Ask what?"
"Whatever you've been building up to ask since we left. You keep doing this." He taps his own open jaw and clamps it shut.
Dammit! I had a whole plan of being pleasant to soften Anastasio up so that he might drop his guard enough to reveal some information. Like maybe Nico sent someone to investigate my mom’s house after dinner, or even some other information that I might be able to use against him.
But I guess you don’t survive for this long in this world by not being observant.
So, I choose a different approach altogether. "Why does he want me at church on Sunday?"
“You’re not very familiar with Italians, are you?”
“My mom’s half-Italian if that counts.” I shrug. “Makes a mean ziti.”
“Any asshole with a cookbook can make a ziti, so it doesn’t count,” he replies. “Especially if she hadn’t been bringing you to church.”
“Oh come on, you can’t be serious about this.” I roll my eyes. “Nico is the last one who should believe in God with the number of people he’s killed.”
“That’s what confessions are for. Priests are vow-bound to never betray a confessor.” Anastasio chuckles. “You’d know that if you spent any time at church.”
“So that’s the real reason he’s bringing me? Because he’s a God-fearing man?”
"Well, not exactly,” Anastasio drawls. “Real reason is that everyone who matters will be there. Rumor’s already spreading about how he tore up the Greek contract for some girl no one's met." He changes lanes. "They want to see if it was worth it."
"And what do you think?"
"I think a war's expensive." Anastasio glances over. "And I think it’s pretty damn interesting that Don Nico refuses to tell me a single thing about you, other than the fact that you’re important to him. For all the years I’ve known him, he’s never done that before.”
Really? I wonder what other things Nico’s never done before. My mind turns to dinner last night, and I can’t help the blush that makes its way up my cheeks as I remember his cock emptying in my hands while I sucked his thumb.
Or how good it felt licking his cum off my fingers, knowing that I can make him lose control.
My teeth tug on my bottom lip, and suddenly I’m very glad Anastasio isn’t sparing me any more glances than he needs.
“So either you're nothing,” Anastasio continues, snapping me out of my own dirty thoughts. “Or you're a knife at his throat."
“That almost sounds like a compliment.”
“Just making conversation.” He shrugs.
“But now that we’re making conversation,” I say. “How long have you been working for my husband?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“Really? Were the two of you beating kids up for their lunch money?”
“Nah,” he replies. “He was the one beating up the other kids for stealing mine.”
Of all answers that he could’ve given me, that might’ve been the last one I expected.
“Do you really expect me to believe that kids used to beat you up for lunch money?”
“I was a scrawny kid who grew up poor.” He merges into the exit lane towards Soho. “Mom and pop scrimped and saved just enough to send me to a good school, where the rich kids loved reminding me of where I came from. Except Nico. Pulled two big kids who were busy shoving my face in the asphalt.”
I don’t say anything as I take in what Anastasio tells me.
For all I know, this is all just another lie that he’s spinning on behalf of Nico.
But there’s a sincerity in his voice that I can pick up.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that sincerity is one of the hardest things to fake.
“Is that where he got that scar on his face?” I ask. “From defending you?”
“No.” The easy laugh disappears from Anastasio’s face, and I know that I just asked something that I shouldn’t have asked.
“Then how did it happen?”
His face turns serious, and this time, he doesn't answer my question.
He takes one more turn, comes to a stop in front of a boutique in Soho, and kills the engine. “Don’t go prying too hard into your husband’s past. You might not like what you find.”
When I was a little girl, I always dreamed about the day I might earn enough money to shop at a boutique where there aren’t any price tags, because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.
But what sets this boutique apart is that there are only mannequins, and no rows of dresses for me to look or try out.
Not that it makes it feel any less surreal.
“Good morning, Mrs. D’Ambrosio.” A young woman in a fitted black dress who’s probably not that much older than me approaches as soon as I walk in. “We’ve been expecting your arrival. Would you care for something to drink? Water? Coffee? Champagne, perhaps?”
“Oh.” I blink at the unexpected offers. “Water will be fine.”
“It’s her first time, Sophie.” Anastasio winks at her. “She’ll get used to it. But I’ll take a champagne if you’re feeling generous.”
“Is Mr. D’Ambrosio aware that you’re drinking on the job, Stas?”
He shakes his hair out of his eyes, laughing. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Sophie’s face reddens slightly. “I’ll be back with your drinks.”
As she walks away, I notice Anastasio following her ass with his eyes. I can’t help but feel how absurd all of this is, and wonder if Sophie knows just what Anastasio really is. They certainly seem familiar enough.
“I take it this isn’t the first time you brought a woman for Nico here?”
“Actually, it is,” he replies as he walks down the rows. “Usually I like to come alone. Do a little window shopping. Sample some goods.”
“By all means, don’t let me stop you from doing what you do best.”
“You know,” he muses. “You’re a lot more fun than I thought you’d be.”
“That’s because I’m not being dragged unwillingly from one place to another.”
Before he can respond, Sophie returns with a glass of water for me and a flute of champagne for him accompanied with a coy blushing smile. He picks up the glass and flashes her a toothy grin in return, sending the blush higher up on her face.
“I’ll be by the door,” he says to me. “Sky’s the limit, Mrs. D’Ambrosio. Make him proud.”
“So,” I start haltingly as Anastasio takes his position by the door. “How does this all work? All I see are just dresses on mannequins. Nothing for me to try on.”
“We start by taking your measurements, and then you tell us the exact styles that you want. And if you see anything on the mannequins that you like, we can make the immediate alterations to fit you.”
“Oh.” Trepidation creeps into my heart.
I wasn’t expecting that. The truth is, as much as I want to shop at a place like this, I don’t actually know what to say now that I’m here. And I get the funny feeling that I’m being judged right now somehow.
Sophie, sensing my discomfort, offers me a reassuring smile. "Don't be nervous if you’re having trouble coming up with something. I can walk you through the process before we take your measurements, like what kind of an occasion you’re dressing for.”
That surprises me. “My husband didn’t tell you?”
“He did not,” she replies. “All he said was to make you happy. And that’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
Huh. My teeth find my lower lip again as I take in the full meaning of what Sophie says.
Somehow, the idea that Nico wants to make me happy has never really crossed my mind.
But as soon as I think about being happy, a different thought slithers into my mind, and guilt splashes me like a bucket of ice water.
I’m standing in a boutique about to have a custom dress made when I have no idea about just how Mom is doing–if she’s even alive.
And the thing about guilt is that once you feel it, it doesn’t ever go away.
Sophie looks at me, her smile still perfect and fixed on her face, and I’m forced to match her energy.
“I want something that’ll make a statement,” I say. “Something that’ll turn heads.”
“Oh, how fun! How much of a statement are we talking about?”
“Enough that people will be talking about it for weeks if not months.”
She nods enthusiastically. “We can definitely do that. Do you have any particular things that you might want in your dress?”
I squeeze my hand and I swear I can feel Nico’s cock throbbing between my fingers again. He wants me to be happy without letting me leave? He wants me to show up in perfectly fitted outfits?
Fine, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
"I was thinking something backless,” I say. “And I think I want it to be red.”
“Right this way, then.” Sophie directs me towards a set of changing rooms. “I’ll have our seamstress team bring a toile over, and they can talk you through the full process.”
“A what?” Twall? I’ve never heard that word before in my life.
“It’s a simple piece of fabric that our seamstresses will use to test the fit and the shape before they cut into the real material.” She explains. “Now, I’ll leave you to their capable hands and see you again when you’re ready to finalize your purchase.”
“Thank you, Sophie.” I nod once we step inside.
“Of course, Mrs. D’Ambrosio.” She gives me another perfect smile, gestures at several women waiting nearby, and then walks away towards the entrance where Anastasio is waiting, heels clicking eagerly with every step.
The fitting process is something that I wish could’ve happened for my actual wedding dress. An army of seamstresses descends on me quickly, and drapes a shapeless piece of blank muslin cloth over my body.
Then come the million questions, each one more overwhelming than the last as they try to discern just exactly what I mean I want. With every suggestion from me, they cut away more and more of the fabric.
Slowly, the dress that I intend to turn into my weapon against Nico starts to emerge.
The back opens to the base of the spine.
The skirt is a modest knee length, but the slit running up the left thigh will expose my entire ass the moment I sit down.
The dress is cut so that my shoulders are exposed all the way down to my forearms. Then, I brazenly ask the seamstresses if I can sew crystals into the neckline and where I can have a row of the whitest pearls running down the exposed back in a single straight line.
It turns out that when your husband can book you an entire day’s worth of custom dress fittings, the answer is always yes.
I stand in front of the mirror and do a small twirl to see the fit. Even without the red color I’m asking for, I know it’s something that’s going to leave him gawking and furious, especially in church.
There’s so much skin showing that I might as well be naked.
Perfect.
Nico is going to be fucking furious when he sees me wearing this to church, and by then, it’ll be too late to make any changes.
By the time I see Sophie again, it’s almost noon, and my stomach is rumbling. In addition to the dress I had custom made, I also chose a few simpler designs that come directly off the mannequins.
There’s a dark green off-the-shoulder wrap dress and a black evening dress with a neckline that plunges all the way down to my bellybutton.
And just so that I have something to wear for the day, a pair of tailored ivory shorts with a cream-colored blouse and a pair of strappy sandals that I’ve already changed into.
As Sophie rings me up, I can’t help but notice that her hair is just a little bit disheveled, her lipstick has been reapplied, and that she looks a little bit less steady on her feet than she had been when I walked in.
She keeps sneaking glances over towards Anastasio standing next to me, biting her lip as she does so. It doesn’t take a genius for me to figure out what the two of them were doing while the seamstresses were busy with me.
“Your custom dress will be ready for pick-up at day’s end.” Her voice is huskier and more breathless than it had been earlier. “And your total comes out to a little over five hundred thousand dollars.”
The number is so staggeringly high that I stand there blinking stupidly before I look over at Anastasio. “Um… how do I pay?”
“Charge it to her husband’s account, Soph,” Anastasio says nonchalantly.
“Right away.” She gives him a coquettish smile and taps away at the register. “Will that be all today?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I think so.”
“A little over five hundred thousand,” Anastasio says as Sophie packs up the other clothes I bought. “That’s almost enough for him to care. Well done. Anything else you might like while we wait for your clothes?”
My stomach growls audibly when we reach the door. “How about some lunch?"
"Lunch it is," he says, and holds the door for me. “Let’s go.”