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I nodded.
She was right; I needed rest and care to survive this.
As I entered my childhood bedroom, the flood of memories washed over me. The pale lavender walls, adorned with posters of my favorite bands and movie stars, felt oddly comforting. The familiar scent of vanilla lingered in the air, the remnants of countless candles my mother used to burn to help me sleep during my restless teenage years. Members of Green Day and Blink 182 stared at me from right above my bed.
I collapsed onto the plush bed, exhaustion weighing heavy on my eyelids. Moments later, my mother appeared in the doorway, a tray in her hands. A warm bowl of chicken soup and a cup of chamomile tea sat atop it.
“Here, sweetheart,” she said, placing the tray on the bedside table. “You need to eat something and get some rest.”
I smiled weakly at her, grateful for her unwavering care. I sipped the tea, but something about the soup smelled off, so I didn’t touch it.
I fell asleep immediately and had weird, feverish dreams, something that only happened to me when I was ill. Tristan was there, whispering sweet words in my ear, his fingers tangled in my hair as he pressed himself into me.
Then everything turned black and white and then bright colors burned behind my eyes.
I woke up choking, more nauseous than I had ever been, and drenched in sweat. Thankfully, the scent of caffeine called me from the kitchen, and I thought I might be able to do something to calm my pounding headache.
The rich scent of Mama’s frittata filled the room, mingling with the faint aroma of sangria. The crystal glasses sparkled under the chandelier’s soft light, and I could feel Carmen’s scrutinizing gaze on me as I picked at my food.
“You’re late for brunch,” Carm said. “That’s not like you.”
I pushed the frittata around on my plate, my appetite nonexistent. The room seemed to spin as Carmen’s words washed over me, her voice a distant echo in my ears.
“I’m sorry,” I managed to say, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t sleep well last night, and I woke up feeling sick.”
Carmen’s eyes softened with concern as she reached across the table to touch my hand. “Are you okay? You look pale.”
“I don’t know,” I whispered, tears welling up in my eyes. “Everything feels like it’s falling apart, and I don’t understand why Tristan would do this to me.”
“Adriana,” my mother greeted me, her tone warm despite the somber atmosphere. She was wearing a floral kimono, her straight blonde hair falling just below her shoulders. “You’re finally up.”
I laughed, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “Sorry, Mama. This flu. It’s killing me.”
“Nothing to worry about,” she said. “Your dad stayed home from work. We need to talk to you about everything that’s happened.”
My heart dropped in my stomach as I took a sip of my coffee. As I sipped it, the rich bitterness did little to dispel the taste of betrayal that lingered in my mouth.
“Your father and I were just discussing Tristan’s decision,” she said. “We can’t let his family get away with this.”
My dad emerged from the door that led to his workshop and I realized that he had been listening to this all along. Ugh. I didn’t have it in me to talk them out of this.
“There’s no need to do anything, guys,” I said. “Mom, Dad, you can’t just hurt people because they don’t want to marry me. If you did that, you would be hurting almost every eligible bachelor in Boston.”
Carmen laughed, but my parents didn’t.
“This is no laughing matter, Adriana,” my mom said. “Silvio and I have already discussed it...”
“Retaliation is necessary,” Dad finished for her. “I’ve already spoken to some of our capos about possible options.”
“Wait,” I interjected, setting my cup down hard enough for the liquid to slosh over the rim. I had wanted revenge, but right then, I was so tired. Revenge didn’t seem appealing at all. “That’s not the answer. We don’t need more violence between our families.”
“Ade, you know as well as I do that if we don’t respond, they’ll see it as a sign of weakness. I gave Callahan and his sons plenty of time to do the right thing,” Silvio countered, his gaze unwavering. “We cannot afford to appear weak.”
“Then what?” I asked. “More bloodshed? More heartache? Is that really what our family needs right now?”
“Sometimes there is no other choice,” my father replied. He walked up to me and pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “You know I wouldn’t do any of this if it wasn’t necessary.”
“Dad, I understand your desire to protect our family and our reputation, but retaliation will only lead to a never-ending cycle of violence,” I said. “If we continue down this path, we risk losing everything we’ve built.”
