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No matter how hard I try, it’s near impossible to recapture that fragment of myself. It’s escaped me, like so many other broken pieces…
The next hour passes with more discussion. We switch topics from the holiday dinner to another get-together that Melissa will be hosting at the Cicero estate. She’s one of the younger wives like me, which means she’s more into keeping things light and fun.
The topic eventually turns to our husbands. Some of the ladies crack jokes about their husbands’ philandering ways. Something I’ll never get used to—the casualness with which they mention how their husbands are rarely around, or how they step outside their marriage. It must be different when you’ve been taught from birth this is how marriages in this lifestyle work.
Rochelle swallows the last of her second Bellini and eyes me with interest. “How’s the baby problem going?”
“Rochelle,” Silvia hisses.
“What? Can’t I ask a question?”
“Mike and I struggled conceiving at first,” pipes up another wife, Annabelle Serrano. “We were thinking about going the IVF route before it finally happened for us.”
“Well, most men won’t wait long,” Rochelle says, handing her empty flute to a waitstaff. “What’s the point? There’s always somebody younger, willing and waiting. I hardly pay attention to anything Vic does. Do you know this little bitch called me on my phone to tell me he’d been wining and dining her? He got the girl pregnant, but he made it all go away. Scared the shit out of her so she’d get an abortion. He knows not to let any of those ditz-for-brains be bold enough to contact me again.”
My insides turn cold listening to the conversation, though I don’t chime in. It’s crossed my mind before how long Giovanni is willing to wait on me. If he’ll someday move on to another woman who can give him what he wants—not only a big family but an heir to his throne. Five years in, I’ve failed. My body has refused to let it happen. Instead, it’s attacked each and every fetus as it grows inside me.
“Will you stop being such a Debbie Downer?” Melissa rolls her eyes, bringing her drink to her lips.
Rochelle shrugs. “What? I’m just saying…if she can’t give him what he wants, another woman will.”
“Rochelle!” gasps Silvia. “No need to be so brutal.”
“Well, time is brutal too. The clock’s ticking. She’s about to be thirty. Giovanni’s traditional, ain’t he? He wants a big family, doesn’t he? If she can’t give him that, then he’ll go somewhere else. Not saying he’s gonna leave her or anything, but you better believe he’ll find some hot, youngItaliangirl who can—”
“Get the fuck out of my house,” I say, my voice cold and authoritative. It’s a tone that’s almost foreign to me, but one I’ve developed after years of being the wife of the most powerful man in the family. I’m shaking as I order them out, curling my fingers tightly around my glass. The glass might shatter if I clench any harder.
Something inside me has snapped. Hot, angry tears arrive, though I don’t let them fall. Not in front of these stupid bitches.
“GET OUT!” I scream when they don’t move fast enough.
They hustle as my raw scream fills the room. The staff stands idly by, unsure if they should help the ladies go or stick around to comfort me in some way. They break in half and attempt both. Some shepherd the women into the foyer and out the front door. A few cautiously approach and ask if I need anything.
I ignore them all, my skin burning hot but my insides ice-cold. I feel sick. Sicker than I did after the doctor’s appointment. Yet I wander from the den, down the hall adorned with gold-accented molding and cylindrical Roman columns. I drift into the kitchen, garnering stares from the cooks and other kitchen staff on shift. They glance at each other as if silently questioning what I’m doing, but lacking the boldness to stop me.
With a staff that caters to our every whim on our estate, it’s rare for me to appear in the kitchen. I stop in front of the large pantry and select the first bottle of wine within reach.
A Zinfandel that’s been around longer than I’ve been alive.
Finally, one of the cooks steps forward. “Mrs. Sorrentino, I can fix you a substitute. Very potent and similar in taste. It will be quite satisfying.”
I’m not supposed to have wine—or any alcohol, really—but in the moment, I don’t give a fuck. I pry open the bottle as the staff nervously watches on, pouring a generous amount into my glass. My hand still shakes as I carry it with me, along with the bottle, upstairs to the master bedroom.
“Dolcezza, you can’t!” Carlotta starts, chasing after me.
I let the door slam shut in her face. Rochelle’s words triggered me more than they should’ve. Deep down, even through the haze I’m in, I can recognize I’ve made myself look foolish and emotional. The haughty, harassed looks some of the wives gave me as they rushed out tell me all I need to know.
This will be gossiped about for weeks.
The cracks forming in Giovanni Sorrentino and his wife Falynn’s marriage. My reaction will only fuel their speculation there’s trouble in paradise.
The thing is, I can’t say they’re far off… not anymore…
I shouldn’t expect any sympathy or decency out of those women. None of them are my friends. My friends are Tasha and a handful of the girls at the Dollhouse. I can be myself with Tasha without the pressure of playing a part. No social rules or requirements. Even if I want to be a drunk mess, Tasha won’t judge.
I pick up my MacBook and call her on FaceTime. She’s the only one who will talk me down in a moment like this. She answers as I guzzle down half my glass.
She’s at her apartment, her hair tied up in a colorful head wrap. “Hey, girl,” she says, stepping into her bathroom with her makeup bag. “You don’t usually call me so early, so I know something big went down—is thatwine?!”
