AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Falynn
PLAYLIST: ? MOST MEN - AMBER MARK ?
“Mrs. Sorrentino,the ladies are waiting in the den,” Dante says. He extends his hand to help me out of the car, his hold firm but considerate at the same time.
Today was a rare outing to a local clinic. Normally, my medical appointments are held in-house, but since Romano needed some tests done, Dante and my security detail had to take me.
Giovanni hired him as yet another enforcer type to oversee our massive twenty-acre estate. Though he resembles the rest of the security team—a meathead Italian-stallion type that’s all muscle and brawn—Dante’s different than the others. He’s more sensitive, slightly more personable whenever I’m around him. Where the others are strictly business, he at least pretends to see me as more than some valuable artifact that needs constant, around-the-clock protection.
Familiar with men and how they work, I’ve gauged he has a crush on me. I’ve caught some of the guys on Giovanni’s crew checking me out in the past. Just regular male once-overs when they think I’m not paying attention, anddefinitelywhen Giovanni isn’t around. But with Dante, it’s something else entirely; he treats me as more than the boss’s wife. More than an attractive woman he eye-fucks whenever he gets the chance.
I’m my own person, and he’s sensitive to that.
“How was the doctor’s visit?” he asks as we walk up the mansion’s front steps.
I cast him a saccharine smile so fake, it makes him laugh. “As wonderful as always.”
“Says everybody when they’re a lab rat.”
“Isn’t that what everyone dreams of? Being poked and prodded and force-fed drugs.”
He shakes his head. “Reminds me of when my uncle Russ came down with pancreatic cancer. He became nothing more than an experiment to the docs.”
“I can relate.”
“Hopefully it’ll get better,” he says. His hand lands on the small of my back as he guides me up the rest of the steps. A split second later, he seems to realize his error, yanking it away as though burned by a hot stove.
I pretend it never happened. IlikeDante. The last thing I’d want is to get him in any kind of trouble. Giovanni would slaughter him—or any other man—if he so much as breathes wrong in my direction, let alone put his hands on me in too intimate of a manner.
Besides, my attention’s elsewhere. Today I’m hosting the wives of other high-ranking men in the family. It’s a weekly social engagement where we sit around, sip drinks, gossip, and pretend we like each other.
Carlotta usually handles the arrangements. I can’t be bothered to care otherwise.
I don’t fit in with these women. I’m not Italian. I didn’t grow up in the lifestyle, groomed from birth to be a Mafia wife. I’m the outsider. They may respect me based on my status as Giovanni’s wife—their husband’s boss—but I suffer no delusions thinking we’reactuallyreal friends.
If there was ever a chance to dethrone me as Queen Bee of their little clique, they wouldn’t think twice. They’d gladly twist the knife in my back.
“Falynn, sweetheart, you look gorg as usual,” says Melissa Cicero. She sits by the window, the sunlight illuminating her golden zigzag curls. “Is that dress from Oscar de la Renta’s spring collection? I need that in my closet.”
Rochelle D’Apolito scoffs. “Mel, baby, you’ve got to have the figure to pull that off.”
“You’re one to talk. You don’t get an opinion when you’re over the hill.” Melissa sips from her Bellini cocktail with her penciled brows arched. A few of the other women chime in with small laughs.
Rochelle lets it roll off her back, one of the older wives in attendance. She directs her attention to me, her face no less lined with criticism. “We’ve been waiting for half an hour, so we started on drinks and appetizers. I hope you don’t mind, Falynn.”
All eyes fall on me. I offer a polite smile to the women gathered around the den like a committee of vultures. It’s hard to say if I’m convincing enough, if I play my role well enough. Years ago, when Giovanni and I first married, I tried hard. I put so much effort into befriending these women, assimilating to their social rules.
These days, I don’t have the energy. After this morning’s appointment with Doctor Romano, I just want to go upstairs and curl up in bed and wait out the nausea and exhaustion.
But, unfortunately, the show must go on. Rules are rules. The schedule is the schedule.
One of the waitstaff offers me a virgin Bellini I graciously accept, and I take my seat at the center of the group.
“We were discussing the get-together for the holiday,” says Silvia Tirenze, one of the few wives I can tolerate. I’ve known her the longest out of anyone in the group. We first met back when Giovanni and I still lived in Vegas and she had married his soldier Dominico. She pats me on the knee in solidarity. “I was telling Rochelle about your idea for the holiday dinner.”
I sip from my drink, pausing for a moment, before I explain what Silvia’s talking about. A few ladies murmur their agreement. Some others, like Rochelle, purse their lips and share dissatisfied glances. Nothing I say or do is good enough. There will always be a problem.
The women break out into more chatter once I’m finished. I let them speak, relieved more than anything to have a break from the spotlight. In the past, I used to enjoy socializing. Giovanni once teased I was a social butterfly; he said my smile brightened entire rooms.
