Chapter 7 #3
“Trust me.” Mom reaches for a corkscrew in one of the drawers and a bottle of white wine Valeria brought over.
“It sounds easy now, but planning out an event for the whole family is a big task. Serafina would be happy to help. You just let her know what days work for you to come over, and she can do whatever you need.”
Behind Mom’s back, Valeria raises one eyebrow at me, as if to say, really?
I shrug. I guess.
“Okay, Mrs. Barbara,” she says. It’s hard to tell, but she does look a little relieved at the offer of help. “That’d be great. Thank you.”
Mom flaps a hand in her direction. “Don’t mention it. That’s what family is for.”
Valeria nods toward me. “I’m free tomorrow. I’ll text you.”
Just as she’s pulling out her phone, the elevator, tucked in the short foyer around the kitchen wall, dings. I snap my head toward the sound.
Dom? Back so early? Or… no, it’s not… it can’t be…
I can’t move, my feet glued to the tile, my heartbeat sputtering like the flame of a flickering candle.
“Sera?” Valeria asks, staring at the side of my face.
Three women I’ve never seen before round the corner, each of them with a suitcase or backpack, and the panic inside me withers.
“Jan!” Mom exclaims, spreading her arms wide and approaching the oldest woman of the group.
They wrap each other in a hug, then turn to me.
“Serafina, this is Aunt Jan,” Mom says, like that name means something to me.
I’m still trying to catch my breath from the insane thought that those women were hitmen sent by my late husband’s family, and now I’m fixing my mouth into a frozen grin as I dig through my memory for this woman’s name or face. Did Serafina know her?
“Bah! You don’t remember me,” Jan says with a raspy smoker’s voice. “I used to change your diapers when you were a kid. Your mom and I go way back.”
She gives me a firm hug, dousing me in floral perfume, her soft body pressing against mine. When she pulls away, she sifts her fingers through my hair, and I actively repress a full-body shiver at being handled by a stranger.
“So, what’re you thinking?” she calls over her shoulder to Mom while she examines my hair. “Highlights?”
By the time the women are finished with me, I feel as sexy as a plucked chicken.
I’ve been waxed from the neck down and had my eyelash extensions filled in.
My acrylics are replaced with glossy, champagne-colored nails, and I’ve been given a pedicure and a facial.
My hair now has the same subtle lowlights Serafina used to wear.
Except for the waxing session, which I thankfully got to do upstairs, Mom hovered over us the entire time like a bee at a picnic, voicing her opinion often. Valeria escaped hours ago.
After all the beauty treatments, I stand to the side in the kitchen, an abandoned doll, while Mom and Jan catch up on family gossip.
Serafina and I always had a rigorous beauty routine, but Mom’s added a few extra steps since I’ve been gone. I don’t know how Serafina kept up with all of this—all I want to do is go lie back down and take a nap.
I consider sidling out of the kitchen to head back to my room. Would Mom follow?
Just as I’m on the cusp of sneaking away, Jan finally says her goodbyes and leaves the penthouse.
Mom picks at a few grains of rice on her plate, leftover from the sushi she ordered us all for dinner and licks the sticky grains off her fingers like she’s not counting every calorie.
I glance at her coat, just within arm’s reach.
“So,” Mom says, as she carries the takeout containers to the trash. “A visitor came by the house the other day.”
I couldn’t care less, but maybe she’ll leave faster if I play along. “A visitor?”
“Giulia Chiarelli.”
My mouth goes dry, and Mom gives me a knowing look.
“She spoke with Dad. Said the family’s heartbroken about her son’s death. They want to have dinner with you,” Mom says in a meaningful voice that makes me break out in a cold sweat.
“I can’t,” I whisper in a choked voice.
When Giulia sees me, she’ll know. If anyone from Frederico’s family sees me, they’ll know.
“You’ll have to, but we have time.” Mom circles the kitchen counter to lay her hand over mine. Our nails match. “We’ll make sure everything’s perfect, okay?”
I thought I wasn’t going to see anyone from that life ever again. That was the whole point in marrying Dom. He’s supposed to protect me and my family.
I swallow. “Mom—”
“Sweetheart, you need to do this for yourself as much as for your dad.”
“What have you done?” Mom asked me when I stood, exhausted and weak, at my parents’ front door. Shock and horror painted her face. “She’s dead. What did you do?”
“Don’t be difficult,” she adds before kissing my cheek and leaving.
I lie sprawled over the living room couch later that evening, wearing only Dom’s shirt again, and raise the bottle of Chardonnay to my lips, lifting my head just enough to keep the wine from spilling out of the sides of my mouth.
I’ve never done this. I’ve never been alone with my thoughts, and definitely never long enough to relax.
After Dom’s rejection and Mom’s attention, I was exhausted and jittery until I spotted Mom’s open wine bottle in the fridge.
I haven’t yet forgotten her motherly advice the day before my wedding.
Get him drunk so he doesn’t realize there’s no blood, and get pregnant as soon as you can.
It was a great plan with only one flaw—my husband doesn’t want to fuck me.
I take a big swig, ignoring a prickle of anxiety. I won’t be like Mom and Carlo, who escape way too often into a bottle—I’m just getting drunk tonight, and then tomorrow, I’ll use the rest in a sauce.
I squint at the digital clock on the microwave in the kitchen. Well, technically, I’ll make the sauce today, seeing as how it became “tomorrow” about an hour ago. I should be in bed, but with my fucked-up circadian rhythm, I’m wide awake.
At least the sparkling lights of the city below and Dom’s fish tank make me feel like I’m not the only one up so late. It’d be almost comfortable if it weren’t for the creaking sounds the high-rise building makes in the far recesses of the penthouse.
Creeeeeak.
I glance upstairs. I know the sounds happen because the building is flexing with the wind—it doesn’t make it any less creepy.
I bet Dom doesn’t get scared of the sounds. He probably never gets scared of anything.
I take another swig of wine.
People are supposed to drink because it makes them happy and loose, so why does each sip sink me deeper into a bad mood? I scowl at the microwave clock. How is Dom not home yet?
Completely alone, I scoff loudly.
I still can’t believe he said no to a fucking blowjob.
He doesn’t want me?
Good.
Great.
I don’t even like giving blowjobs, and I hate gagging. I’ve already had to grin and bear it for one husband. I’m glad Dom doesn’t want that, too.
My chest rises and falls, and I sip a little more from the bottle.
What I want is a man to please me for once. I want to be the selfish one who gets to come, roll over, and fall asleep, exhausted and sated. I want a man to tend to my needs. To see me storm into the house and anxiously wonder how he’ll guide me to the bed to eat me out, to dissipate my anger.
I only realize I’m smiling when it slips off my face. I take another gulp of wine, crisp and bitter.
Okay, I don’t want that, necessarily. I’m not an asshole.
I just want a man to care.
I huff bitterly into the mouth of the bottle. Fat chance.
First, I found a husband who wanted too much, then I found one who doesn’t want anything. Maybe I’m just not cut out for marriage.
I swing my head back and blink slowly at the ceiling. So, then what?
The elevator dings.
I sit up immediately, the world blurring a second too slow around me.
Is he home early?
Part of me panics at the thought of being caught unawares, tipsy, and wearing only his shirt like a lover. The other part of me, the old programming that’s determined to please him, thrills.
Try to deny me now.
I lurch off the couch toward the foyer to catch a glimpse of the elevator just as the doors split open.
And there’s no one inside.
The sweet anticipation curdles in my gut. My mouth goes dry, and my heart thuds in my chest. The short foyer tunnels to the completely empty elevator, opened wide like a dying man’s last desperate breath.
It shouldn’t do this. It only opens if someone has a key code or they call up first. This is impossible.
The doors stay open for a long time, as if tempting me to enter, to let myself be eaten, but drunken bravery—or fear—keeps me rooted to the spot.
The moment the doors whisper closed, I bolt.