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“Nothing personal, it’s just business.”
—Otto Berman
THE FEELING OF ABANDONMENT HURT THE MOST, LIKE I HAD A LOST OF PIECE OF MYSELF.
Moving into the penthouse that was meant for Angela Rossi to occupy was agonizing, Rocco wanted me as far away as possible.
Every reminder of him was like a thousand knives being thrown into my heart. It was the pitiful looks Rocco’s men shot me when they thought I wasn’t listening or the fact that conversations always stopped when I walked into rooms, yet after a while, I learned to tune them all out.
The weeks had all rolled into endless days of misery, but we were now in the holiday season. It was my favorite, or former favorite, time of the year. My chest ached each time I saw Christmas decorations or anything festive. I hadn’t even attempted to put up a tree in the penthouse. My boxes were still unpacked, and I hadn’tcooked once. Most nights, Lucia and I just ate takeout and watched bad T.V.
It took a while, but Lucia had finally been convinced that I was telling the truth. Every now and then, she would chide me for not telling her the truth earlier but aside from that, she was all I had. I spent more time with my parents now since I had no marital commitments. I never told them that Rocco and I were separated, I just feigned that he was busier than usual because of the war with Chicago, a plausible explanation that was partially truthful. Nobody knew what happened that day in Brooklyn. Although I held on in my heart that we would get back together, I knew deep down that would never forgive me. Every time Rocco had seen me since that time, which was few and far between, he regarded me as a perfect stranger. He wasn’t mean or angry. He was perfectly polite, which was even worse. I would have preferred if he took his anger out on me and we worked through it, but he didn’t.
Unbeknownst to me, Mama had personally invited Rocco to the house for Christmas. I had previously told her he was busy, but she ignored me and directly invited him herself. Rocco obliged her request to keep up appearances, but privately I wished I was here alone. It was exhausting trying to pretend that I was happy. I had to restrain myself from crumbling inside each time he put his arm around me or his hand on my leg. All memories of affections that were long gone.
At times, I feel myself giving him tiny side glances just to try and work out what he was thinking, but his eyes never met mine. They remain focused ahead, his jaw clenching in rapt concentration. We’ve never spoken about when he came to the house on his motorbike, His helmet obscuring his face, but I still knew it was him. I could sense it; I almost felt his presence as if an arrow was hanging over him, pointing down. I wanted to run towards him, but I didn’t. I had already hurt both of us more than I could have ever imagined, and I wouldn’t run that risk again. I walked away, and I never looked back. I often thought about that day and about the subsequent days afterward, I listened out for the familiar roar of the motorbike,but it never came.
When everything first happened, I tried to call him, but he just hung up when he heard my voice and the times I tried to see him, he just stared right through me until I stopped talking and walked away. Lucia tried to reason with him, but he just ignored her to the point where I told her to stop trying because I didn’t want to ruin their relationship. Thick snow is beginning to heavily fall, obscuring the expensive cars parked outside with white flurries.
“There is a storm warning for tonight, I guess you two will have to stay here,” Mama says. “I’ll get Anna to make up a room for you.”
“It doesn’t look too heavy,” Rocco states, but it’s clear that the weather has turned for the worse as heavy winds have started brewing.
“Don’t be silly, it won’t clear for hours,” Ma says tutting.
Several weeks later, I am in the Falcone home, watching Sophia’s eldest brother Gennaro carve the Christmas turkey. Although I had refused the invitation twice, Gabriella Falcone was a hard woman to shake off and a harder one to dissuade. Reluctantly, I had accepted the invitation to Christmas, although it was taking every inch of willpower within me to pull off the happy couple act. With every touch, smile and look it becomes impossibly hard to not blur the lines.
Sophia sits next to me, looking dazzling in a red criss-cross dress. Her hair is tied up in a sleek bun, showing off her high cheek bones and graceful neck. My hand lingers over her knee, and I feel her body receptive to my touch as she trembles slowly before giving me a wishful look. Once I realize what I am doing, I remove my hand and I see her smile falter.
The rest of the evening is spent smiling and nodding at all the right cues and playing our parts in this little act. I know Sophia’s family go all out for Christmas from what she told me before, and I wasn’t disappointed with what is on show. My eyes are temporarily blinded by the luxe, gold glitter Swarovski crystals that cover every inch of the home and a giant tree decorated in green, gold, and red baubles. Elegant large ice sculptures adorn the gardens that have also been lit up. As much as I am impressed by the vast amount of money that has been spent on this, it doesn’t feel homely. More so, this feels like a museum, cold anduninviting.
Later in the evening, I am invited by Paolo to have cigars in his office; an old Falcone tradition. I am surprised by the request, I know Paolo dislikes me and the feeling is very mutual. We sit there in silence for a few minutes as I watch his eyes sizing me up, the tension between us can be cut by a knife. I can almost feel the antipathy radiating from him.
Unlike the rest of the mansion’s bright and shiny veneer, his study is dark and modestly decorated. There are very few family photos on the wall, one with Paolo and his sons and the other of Sophia. Her blinding smile and delicate eyes causing me discomfort and I shift my focus back to Paolo.
“Take a cigar Croccifixio,” Paolo says cordially, but the smile on his face doesn’t get past the indifference in his eyes.
“What do you know of Ivan Romanov?” I say, cutting to the point.
“A relation of Chicago, I presume?” he says, apathetic.
“One of your intended Russian in-laws, actually,” I say, staring back at him and giving him a shrewd look.
“Is this the part where I’m meant to look surprised?” He says mockingly, while lighting a cigar.
“You omitted the part about Sophia being engaged to Anton Romanov when I signed the contract to marry your daughter,” I say my voice starting to rise.
“You wanted her, not the other way around. Besides, it’s not like your family is exactly squeaky clean, Croccifixio.”
Normally, if anybody else had taken such a cheap shot at my father, I may have just put a bullet in their skull. He knows I can’t, and that’s why he says it with such ease. Motherfucker.
“This is different,” I say, standing up and feeling incensed with rage.
“Sit down, Croccifixio,” he barks.
“Please,” he says, lowering his tone and indicating with his hand for me to sit. “What happened with Sophia…” He speaks in a weary voice, “it was a teenage blip and she learned her lesson. The hard way.”
“Someone has been leaking information to the Russians, someone almost got me shot,” I say reluctantly sitting down.
