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Mama gives me a knowing look before walking to the door. “Make sure you look presentable,” she says as she closes the door.
Presentable on the outside and a mess on the inside. Growing up, Mama always treated me like glass. These days, she treated me like an explosive that could go off at any moment. Perhaps, that is what I am, a volatile substance prone to explosion. The word ‘explosion’ awakens something within me, and swiftly I was transported back to gunshots, screams, and a war that started just because I was attracted to the wrong person. Good intentions only pave the way to bad outcomes, something I had ended up learning the hard way.
An hour later, I am freshly showered and dressed. I am wearing a simple white dress with a minimal amount of make-up to present myself as demurely as possible. I practice my fake smile in the mirror, fully preparing myself for the forced and tedious conversations with my husband-to-be and his family.
There’s a knock at the door, and papa walks in. “Everybody is waiting for you,” he says while holding his arm out.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it.
I take his arm, and we walk down the staircase. “Good practice for your wedding day.”
I look at him but don’t react. What is there left to say? He knows as well as I do, that I will be going through with the wedding no matter what. I sometimes wondered whether Mama had any doubts about her own wedding and the man she married. Did she ever contemplate the amount of blood on his hands as she slept next to him each night or fact that her sons are killers just like him.
I ponder if she ever thought that beneath the white marble mansion she lived in, there was a tainted foundation of vice that helped build it. Mama never made any reference to being the wife of a Don. She was a typical Italian housewife, and perhaps she honestly believed that her prayers at Sunday mass would be enough to rid herself of her husband’s sins.
“You look like you’re going to a funeral.” Papa snaps irritably. “I thought your ma said you and Pietro got on like a house on fire the other night. He’s a good boy. Don’t screw this up, Sophia, especially after last time.” His eyes flash at me threateningly, and I nod.
What he really wants to say is don’t cause another war. Don’t run off with the son of a rival family and expect not for there to be consequences. He doesn’t have to say anything, the guilt is already embedded within me, and nobody will let me forget.
“About fucking time, I was about to eat my own hand,” Claudio says grouchily as we arrive in the gold embossed dining room.
“Language,” Mama’s Aunt barks at him. “No respecta,” she says in a heavy Italian accent. “You’re lucky I don’t wash your mouth out with soap.”
“Mi dispiace, Zia,” Claudio says, bowing his head down but giving me a slight wink making Zia tut at him again, though I knew she wasn’t actually mad.
“You already know Don Vincenzo and his wife Lady Carmela, Pietro, Angela and her fiancé, Don Croccifixio De Luca.” Papa says in a low but commanding voice.
My eyes take in all the familiar faces until I reach the last person at the table, his eyes burning into me.
Charcoal gray eyes.
It’s him. It feels like someone has just sucker-punched me.Heis Angela’s fiancé?
“Call me Rocco,” he says lazily as his eyes bore into mine.
I stand there dumbly for a second until Mama impatiently motions for me to sit down. I bow slightly to Don Vincenzo and Don Rocco before I take my place next to Pietro, ensuring I avoid Don Rocco’s gaze. I can already feel my neck start to heat and I don’t want to start blushing and draw any further attention to myself. Don Vincenzo stands up and makes a toast with my papa, though I can’t concentrate enough to pay any attention until something is mentioned about bringing the families closer together and fortifying old bonds with new ones. Something to that effect.
He turns towards Rocco and Angela and congratulates them on their impending vows. As everybody else faces Rocco, I take the chance to look at him myself. He doesn’t appear moved or even particularly interested in what Don Vincenzo is saying. His eyes remain their steely gray and barely wander towards Angela, who is sitting next to him. In fact, his body is shifted away from hers. He is dressed in a black suit and a crisp white shirt. How did he make such a simple ensemble look so sexy? I try to turn my gaze away from him, but it’s impossible not to stare. Instead, I focus on Angela, who, although should be thrilled, seems as if she rather be anywhere but here. Her hands are clasped together on her lap so tightly that I wonder if her circulation has been cut off. She still has that despondent expression that she had at her engagement. Rocco lifts his glass lazily to acknowledge the older Don but doesn’t say anything.
Little by little, conversation breaks out around the table. Two other men enter and sit down at the end, and I notice they are wearing an almost identical suit to Rocco, although theirs are navy with a red handkerchief in the jacket pocket. This is the sigil of the ‘captains’, to show they are part of the De Luca regime. Rocco doesn’t wear one, because he is the boss—capo di tutti capi.
The dreaded wedding conversation arises, and mama jokes about a double wedding for Angela, Rocco, Pietro, and myself. Which is enough to send a hot sweat through me. Rocco’s eyes lock with mine and this doesn’t go unnoticed by papa who gives him an icy glare.
“I hear two of your bookies got turned over in the Bronx,” Pietro says to Rocco, twirling a cigarette in his hands. “I guess that following in your father’s footsteps is harder than you thought, huh?” Pietro continues smugly while Claudio looks at papa warningly, sensing danger.
“The bookies who got turned over were informants, and they were dealt with like they should be with no ties back to me. I always take the head off the snake before they get close enough to strike. Maybe that is why I’m a made man, and you’re still walking around with your thumb up your ass. I don’t remember you being so chatty when your brother got clipped, Pietro, you were too busy crying like a bitch over his dead body.”
There is a deadly silence at the table. Not only had Rocco insulted the bride’s brother, but also his bride-to-be’s dead brother, Simone. Angela looks nervously around at her papa, who simply shrugs not wanting to make a scene. However, Pietro stands up suddenly his eyes filled with rage. Rocco and his men already anticipate this and rise seconds before him. Three guns are pointed at him as the tension rises to a breaking point before Pietro can even get his own gun out. When he does, he rocks the table, sending a bottle of red wine flying into my lap.
Better wine than blood,especially after last time.
The bloody war between the Sicilians and the Russians that I had caused by following my heart almost led to my own destruction as well as countless others to their deaths. My hands are now covered in wine, but in my head, it’s blood. Pietro is supposed to be the penance to right my wrongs, despite every feeling in my body, I know I need to marry him to redeem myself.
“Enough!” Papa stands up angrily, Claudio and Don Vincenzo follow suit.
“Sit down, Pietro,” Don Vincenzo says warningly.
“You heard what he said,” Pietro says, his eyes narrowing as his finger rests on the trigger.
