15. Lydia
LYDIA
My hands won't stay still in my lap as Anastasio brings the car to a slow stop at the curb.
People are already gathering on the lawn outside of the cathedral. Through the tinted glass, I look at the belltower spearing into the summer sky, casting a long shadow under the hot sun like it knows that it’ll outlast everyone who ever kneels inside it.
Around the door, a crowd is already gathering. Men in dark suits, women in a panoply of colors and styles. I can see and hear the buzz of conversation and laughter even behind the glass, and all of it reminds me that this is a world that I’ve been dragged into.
I twist the simple gold band around my finger, look down at the rich red fabric of my dress that rides too high up my legs, and suddenly wish I could stay here in the car rather than get out to face that crowd.
"Breathe," Nico says quietly.
I look and find him watching me in his charcoal dark suit. He’s chosen a blood-red tie for today to match my dress, and he even pinned a fresh red peony in his jacket lapel to complete the look.
“I am breathing.”
“Piccola, you’re holding your breath,” he says. “Here.”
His hand finds mine, and for a moment, warmth dances up my arms. The gesture is small but it helps. Slowly, I lace my fingers into his, and a knot loosens in my chest.
Sure enough, I was holding my breath.
“Just breathe, piccola,” he says again.
Nodding, I do my best to suck in a breath. But all I manage to do is make a strange sound in my throat as nerves threaten to overwhelm me.
His fingers tighten around mine, sending another tremor of heat rushing through my core that both adds and dissolves the tension in my belly. And just like that, I find myself being able to breathe again.
Anastasio gets out of the driver’s seat and opens Nico’s door.
The hot Long Island summer greets us as soon as it swings open. Warm air wraps around my exposed shoulders and legs, leaving the skin sticky and slick with sweat. My dress clings to my skin, and the sweet wet scent of summer grass coats my throat with every nervous breath.
“I’ll be right here next to you.” Nico’s thumb moves across my knuckles. “Stay close and you’ll be fine.”
"Easy for you to say. You’re their Don."
“And you are my wife,” he reminds me. “They’ll kneel for you the same as they’ll bow for me.”
Without releasing my hand, Nico steps out and helps me out of the car.
The sound of the conversations rises like a swarm of angry bees.
Sweat runs down my exposed back, and he lets go for just a moment before he loops his arm around my waist. His fingers press against my body, and somehow his touch feels even hotter than the sun beaming down from the sky.
But as long as he’s holding me like this, I don’t feel as exposed as I do. I give him a nod, lift my chin, and let him walk me inside.
Thankfully, the inside of the church is cool and dim. The smell of old wood and candle smoke greets us as we enter. Voices echo off the high ceiling, and every head turns when we cross the threshold.
The crowd parts instantly for us, and conversations die as Nico leads me towards the row of pews. He pauses here and there to nod, and receive the respect he’s owed.
I keep a neutral smile on my face with each step, and notice how every man is doing their best to keep their eyes focused on Nico and not at me.
I wonder if he’ll actually make good on his threat to bury any man who dares to even look at me.
We've barely made it past the font of holy water when three men peel off from a group near the side aisle, and approach in measured steps. Beside them are three very beautiful women who are wearing clothes that are not the least bit as revealing as mine.
They make a show of their wealth with what looks like color-coordinated Hermes handbags, Louboutin heels, and impossible-to-miss diamond rings and necklaces.
Unlike the men, the women look at me openly. Even from here, I can see the unmistakable judgment in their eyes as they approach.
“Who are they?” I whisper into Nico’s ear.
“My consigliere Dante, my oldest caporegimes Ezio and Benito,” Nico answers me as he nods at each one. “And their newest wives.”
Lovely.
"Don Nico." The oldest one with a broad chest and silver at his temples bows. "Permit me to offer my sincerest congratulations on your wedding."
“Thank you, Dante,” Nico replies. “How is that leg of yours?”
Dante pats his thigh once. “Nothing that a good soak in the hot tub won’t fix. We want to talk to you before mass. Family business.”
Nico’s hand tenses slightly around my waist, and I know that he is being tested for where his priorities belong. Is it reserved for the woman he calls a wife, or is it reserved for the duty he must carry out?
When he doesn’t release me, I put a hand on his arm and tell him. “Go, I’ll manage.”
He looks at me for a second longer than expected. Concern swims to the forefront of his amber eyes. But then, he gives me a nod, the warmth of his hand pulls away, and he walks with Dante and the two other men to a more secluded corner.
I catch one word before the noise of the murmuring crowd swallows the rest.
Greeks.
Suddenly, I’m reminded of the fact that to these people, I might as well be wearing a stolen crown that had been promised by a contract to another woman.
The air suddenly starts feeling much colder.
The three wives circle around me like sharks, and I can practically hear the judgment turning in their heads.
They're younger than their husbands, and none of them look a day older than twenty-five. Dante’s wife is a sharp-cheekboned brunette wearing a bright yellow dress that rides higher than mine. She has a cream-colored jacket draping over her shoulders.
The one to her right is a blonde wearing a scandalously low-cut little black dress that exposes her ample cleavage.
A thin elegant chain holding her dark blue Hermes clutch runs right through the valley between them.
She’s wearing stiletto heels that look more appropriate for a nightclub than for church.
The one to her left is a blonde who is decked out in pink from top to bottom, from the bow in her hair, the ribbons around her heels, and down to the matching pink of her toenails. Her lips are turned in a way that makes me think she once sneered too hard and then her face got stuck like that.
“So you must be the girl that Don Nico chose to marry over Apollonia,” Dante’s wife says as she looks me up and down, and her brow rises when she sees my bared shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Lydia,” I keep my voice even.
“Mila,” she replies, and then points first at the little black dress, and then at the pink blonde. “This is Carina and Talia.”
“Nice to meet you all.”
"We heard so much about you already." Carina tilts her head. “For Don Nico to give up Apollonia, you must be very special.”
“So special,” Talia sighs dramatically and looks at her nails. “Whose family did you say you were from again?”
“I didn’t,” I reply.
“Oh, my mistake then.” She gives me a putrid sweet smile, all pink lips and no teeth. “Would you care to tell us?”
“You wouldn't know them,” I say.
"No." Mila's smile widens. "I don't suppose we would, what with such a quick and private wedding ceremony and all."
“He certainly is not his father,” Mila adds. “Don Leo was always fond of a good party.”
I don’t say anything in return. If these women know even a fraction of what I know about Don Leo, none of them would have anything good to say about Don Leo.
“Love the dress, by the way.” Carina reaches out and fingers the thin sleeve hanging off my arm. “Where’d you get it?”
“At a boutique in Soho.”
Her smile widens. “But which one?”
“Oh…” I pause, trying desperately to remember the name. But I hadn’t been paying attention when Anastasio brought me there. “I don’t remember.”
“Such a shame,” she tuts. “I would love to visit and choose a design as… bold as yours.”
“Yes, very bold,” Mila says. “Did no-one tell you about proper decorum in a church?”
I want you to wear it to church. So that I can identify every man who dares to look at you, and know exactly who to bury after.
But while no man is looking at me, I can’t say the same about women.
All three of them stare at my bared shoulders in disdain.
And all around, the older wives are doing the same in their own little circles.
Hands rise up to cover their mouths. Whispers take flight on wings under the arched ceiling, and I know the topic of their gossip even without hearing a word.
“No-one’s really told me much of anything,” I lie, suddenly resenting that Nico took what was supposed to be my weapon against him into another way for him to humiliate me.
“Well that’s obvious,” Talia murmurs. “If they had, you’d know about every protocol you’re breaking right now.”
“Now, now, be nice, girls.” Carina smooths her own covered sleeve. “She doesn’t know any better. But I suppose that’s what happens when the Don picks a common girl like her up off the streets.”
My face flushes hot and I want to shout that she’s one to talk, with her tits practically falling out of her own dress. But I know that’s exactly the kind of reaction they’re looking for. And I know that if I react now, all I’d do is cause a scandal that will make its way to Nico.
And if that happens, then my life will only get more miserable. I’m sure of it.
So, I do my best to keep my face as neutral as possible. “I think I’ll go find my seat. It was lovely meeting you all.”
“Yes it is, Mrs. D’Ambrosio,” Mila bows mockingly. “You and Don Nico simply must join me and Dante for brunch one of these days. I’m sure we’ll have so much more to talk about.”
“I’m sure we do.” Pretty sure we don’t.
I start walking away from them, and there’s no mistaking the peal of laughter that bursts out between the three of them. The buzzing murmurs are growing louder now, and I take a seat at a far corner of the pews.
But it’s impossible to hide here. Eyes keep turning towards me. I reach up and hug myself tight, and I swear I can hear more laughter rising up all around.
"Don't mind them." A warm and low voice rises from my left.
An older woman is standing to my side. Her eyes are kind with visible laugh lines crinkling at the edges. She’s wearing a simple navy dress and a little girl in a white pinafore holds her hand, half-hiding in her skirt.
"I'm Elena," she says. "My husband Sal is an associate of your husband’s. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. D’Ambrosio."
There’s no malice in her voice, and the warmth of her eyes tells me that her pleasure is genuine.
I muster a small smile at her. “Good to meet you, Elena.”
“Here.” She pulls out a soft cream scarf from her bag and holds it out to me. “The stone makes it cold here, even in the summer. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold on your first mass with us.”
It's a small mercy and a small lie. But I accept her gift with trembling hands, and wrap it around my shoulder. Warm relief pours into me as soon as I do.
“Thank you.” I smile at her again, before looking back at Mila, Carina, and Talia still gossiping amongst themselves.
"They feel threatened," she says quietly. "Their positions and money come from their husbands. As do the rules that they would impose on you. But never forget this, Mrs. D’Ambrosio. Their husbands kneel to yours, and they must kneel to you."
"I don't feel like anyone kneels for me."
"But they must." Elena's eyes soften. "Remember what you are. You're the Don's wife, and there isn't a woman in this church who stands above you. Be brave, my dear, and you’ll be fine."
Be brave.
The words go straight through me and out the other side, and my palm can feel the duffel bag strap biting against it.
Be brave, baby. Be brave for me.
I don't let it show on my face. But then I look down and see the little girl's small fingers laced through Elena's as she leans into her mother, and a fresh, hot ache opens up under my ribs.
"Thank you, Elena, that means a lot." I manage.
Elena squeezes my arm once and moves toward the pews with her daughter, and I'm alone again.
I need air. I need a wall to put my back against and a minute to breathe where no one is measuring me.
I turn and start toward the quieter end of the church, past a row of dark wooden booths in a separate alcove, and that's when I hear them behind me. They're not bothering to lower their voices much now, sure that I'm out of range.
"...cheap," Mila says. "Did you see how she just stood there? No family, no name, no idea how anything works."
"He'll get tired of her," Carina says. "Once he’s worn her out."
"How long do you think it’ll be?" Talia laughs softly. "Disposable girls like her are a dime a dozen."
The words follow me down the aisle. Cheap. Disposable. A dime a dozen. From three women who were bought and dressed for exactly that purpose. The words are so backwards that I'd almost laugh if they didn't sting.
But they do sting. Every one of them sticks under my skin like a splinter. And as much as I want to convince myself otherwise, there’s a part of me that’s scared that they might be right.
I keep walking, past the alcove towards the row of confession booths. I just want to hide for a moment. I just want to be alone for a while.
I duck into the nearest one and close the door behind me.
Outside, the murmuring gossip dies down to nothing more than an angry whisper, and I sink quietly onto the narrow wooden seat while a single tear beads at my eyes. I pull Elena's scarf tighter, and finally, finally, let myself breathe.