70. Allie
Allie
I gave myself three days.
Three days to mourn what I shouldn’t have to mourn. Because technically, you can’t lose something you never really had, right? That’s the saying. Can’t lose what was never yours.
Well, whoever came up with that rubbish can shove it.
Because it feels like I lost something. And for three entire days, I wallowed.
I ugly cried. I made dramatic declarations of independence to the walls of Kai’s guest room.
And I definitely sobbed into a pot of broth at work, which—not to brag—was a new low, even for me.
Turns out, tears do not add the perfect amount of salt.
They just make you feel pathetic while you dump an entire batch of soup down the drain.
Kai, being the only rational adult in my life at the moment, took one look at my blotchy, red, puffy mess of a face, sighed like a man carrying the weight of too much estrogen, and dragged me away from the kitchen line before I could contaminate another dish.
I’d crashed at his place because it was the safest, most uninvolved option.
Violet and Sienna had both offered guest rooms and aggressively supportive hugs.
Their husbands, in turn, had offered to kill mine, which, while stimulating, felt like a little much, even for me.
Marco had offered one of his many apartments, but I refused to take advantage of him again.
And my parents? Yeah, no. Going home would have felt like reverting, like undoing all the progress I’d made.
So, Kai’s guest room it was. Annnnddddd his couch. Because apparently, even the comfort of a high-end mattress couldn’t make me sleep right now. Instead, I spent my nights curled up on his sofa, reading Violet’s books—the only thing I’d remembered to grab before I packed up and bailed like a wimp.
Priorities.
Now, standing in the kitchen, wiping the last of my tears off my face like a an operating adult, Kai gives me a look. The one that says I should go home, cry in private, and stop freaking out the line cooks.
“You need to take another day,” he keeps his voice low.
As if the entire kitchen doesn’t already notice I’m an emotional train wreck.
Not that it’s hard to tell. Between the blotchy skin, the bags under my eyes, and that I’m currently sporting the pale, lifeless hue of an uncooked scallop, I’m not exactly radiating put together energy.
“I’m fine.” I wave him off, ignoring the way a server sidesteps me like I might burst into tears at any second. “I’ve spent enough time on your couch.”
“I’m well aware. Your body imprint has permanently embedded itself into the cushions."
“Okay, dramatic.”
“Just take the night off,” he insists, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve got dinner service. We’re fine.”
“You sure?”
“Considering you just cried into the last pot of bone broth, I think the prep team tomorrow will thank me for offering.”
I groan, tilting my head back toward the ceiling. “That was one time—”
“Twice.”
“—and it won’t happen again.”
“Take. The. Night. Off.” He slaps my purse into my hands and casually waves toward the entrance, where Vinnie is already waiting like the tyrannical, mafia-bodyguard-slash-big-brother I never asked for but I'm so grateful to have.
My eyes narrow. “Did you rat me out?”
Kai shrugs, completely indifferent. “Maybe.”
“I hate you.”
“Lies.”
Before I can argue, he leans in, presses a quick peck to my cheek, and slaps my shoulder in a you’re-a-survivor-kid sort of way. Then he’s turning back to the staff while I march toward Vinnie, muttering under my breath about traitors.
Because obviously, my misery is a group project now.
I don’t go back to Kai’s, where I’d inevitably plant myself on the couch, cry into a romance novel, and single-handedly deplete his tissue supply—which, by the way, I've done twice. No, I need reinforcements. The kind that only comes from a mother’s unsolicited wisdom and an endless supply of bone-crushing hugs.
So I go to my parents’ house.
Not to stay—hell no, thank you very much.
That would be like throwing myself into an emotional pressure cooker, where every communication is seasoned with guilt and a side of when are you giving us grandbabies?
No, I just need to talk to my mama. Because even though we lost time, she’s still my mother, and when the world feels like it's crumbling, she’s the one I turn to.
Even if she’s possibly the worst person on the planet for marital advice.
Vinnie pulls up, and before the car even fully stops, Mama is already floating down the porch steps like some tiny, well-dressed, vengeful angel. She practically rips the car door open and yanks me into her arms, squeezing me tight.
“I’m so sorry, Allie.”
Not principessa. Just Allie. And weirdly, I don’t mind. Maybe that means they’re finally letting go of the past, accepting my choices, even if those choices have led me to this moment—on the brink of divorce before I even had time to change my driver’s license.
Mama keeps her arm tightly around me as we walk inside, where Papa stands waiting in the foyer. The smell of cigars clings to his suit, warm and woodsy, and when he pulls me in for a hug, it’s the bear hug only a man who terrifies grown men can give.
He steps back, giving me a hard once-over. “Did you come to stay?”
I shake my head. “Just visiting.”
His face stiffens, his jaw clenching. “I will kill him.”
Mama swats him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I am ridiculous? You heard what he did. He deserves to have his kneecaps broken—at the very least.”
Mama rolls her eyes. “She loves him, you moron. Killing him won’t do her any good.”
“It would remove the sight of him.”
“And send you to prison,” I add, patting his arm. “While I appreciate the… offer… let him be, Papa.”
Not that Rico deserves anyone coming to his defense, but the man has enough obstacles without my father coming after him like some Cosa Nostra version of Liam Neeson in Taken.
I hate everyone knows I’m pathetic enough to have fallen for a man who could never love me back.
It’s demeaning. But it’s also why I came to Mama—because she gets it.
She married a man who doesn’t say I love you, but they’ve made it work.
They have a mutual respect, an understanding.
No cheating. No outside distractions. Which, in our world, is rare.
Cosa Nostra men treat infidelity like a hobby—a side quest for their criminal enterprise.
But my parents have something that works for them. And if I was going to settle for a loveless marriage, that’s all I wanted—respect. Which is exactly what Rico threw in my face waiting while I watched as he set it on fire. No wonder my mouth feels like ash.
“Come.” Mama tugs me toward the study, leaving Papa and Vinnie to do God knows what. Probably brainstorm unique and inventive ways to maim Rico. Which, knowing Papa, means I should explicitly tell Vinnie to intervene before things escalate past the threat stage.
We settle into the study, Mama already pouring me a cup of ginger and honey tea like she’s about to give some sage wisdom on me.
“So, are you going to file for divorce?”
Leave it to Mama to cut the small talk and go straight for the jugular.
I sigh, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. “I don’t know, Mama. We’re married.”
“He cheated on you. I know you can't forgive that, even though we were raised to ignore such things."
I stare into my tea. “Papa never cheated on you.”
Her lips twitch into a smirk. “That’s because he didn’t want to find himself with his balls cut off and stored in the freezer.”
"That’s… comforting.”
She shrugs. “The point is, Rico didn’t respect you. No one will judge you for leaving him.” She pauses, then adds, “His parents expect it.”
That flashes my attention up. “What?”
“I spoke to Cecilia this morning. She and Ricardo support it.”
Oh. Great. So now my in-laws have officially written us off. I don’t know what’s worse—my mother openly planning Rico’s demise or his parents acting like they just want to cut their losses.
Mama studies me, her expression softening. “You don’t want to divorce him? Even after what he did?”
I exhale slowly, my chest throbbing.
I do. I should. But I can’t admit it. Not yet.
I will accept a life with a husband who doesn't love me. But not a husband who shames me. Who discards me for a mistress—or worse, seeks them out to punish me. I might have been in love, but I’m not a nitwit.
The rest of the evening is filled with Mama’s compassion—her voice, her tea, her reassurances that I will be okay. That I deserve more. And as much as I want to believe her, I don’t leave feeling lighter.
If anything, I feel heavier.
Because deep down, I know what I have to do. I know what needs to happen next.
And unfortunately, it involves Marco.