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Chapter 16
Carla
I look down at my phone as a text message comes through.
I am having brunch at this fancy uptown Hispanic restaurant where the mimosas are the best part, and Phoebe clicks her tongue at me to let me know that she does not approve of the interruption. I am out with just her because Nicola is out of town, visiting her sister and her mother after the birth of her niece. Phoebe had to stick around for work, so she is lonely and using me as her crutch since I am also alone too. Well, not that I am so broken up about it, but there is a certain emptiness not having Philippe here to ask me more questions about my lifestyle or to tell me what I'm doing wrong.
On the phone when we talked, he sounded apologetic, calmer now that he has had some distance. I guess I know that I could have gone easier on him too, easing him into who I am. But I am still trying to grasp at the straws of my freedom, and now that I have a strand or two, I am not going to let go for anything. Philippe is going to have to get used to the way I am because I can't change, and I don’t know how much longer I can put on this mask in front of those that can't handle the real me.
I know that he comes from something traditional. I don’t know a lot about him personally, and I haven’t tried either. Which is my fault. But I can guess at what it was like growing up for him; a Romanian family in Europe and an only son taught how to be the heir to the Sala Clan. I do know enough about The Clans from my brothers' dealings with them to know how they work. They are traditional misogynistic assholes, almost as bad as us...ALMOST. But still not quite as bad since their queen has equal footing as their king. Though, from what I understand, that has not always rung true.
"Bae?" Phoebe asks in a mocking tone, and I look up long enough to glare at her, and then I think better of it, looking back down.
She’s right - not about the bae thing but about me looking at my phone right now. I say I want freedom, so there is no reason to respond to Philippe’s message immediately.
Or at all.
"It was my fiancé, yes, just telling me he landed."
I take a swig of the hot drink Phoebe ordered for me. It's some kind of coffee. I don’t really have the stuff much, and when I do, it's almost always black with tons of sugar. But I felt like while I was here with her I would try something but let her decide what.
I look around thoughtfully as the warm liquid drains down my throat into my stomach. "Hmm," I tell her, catching some hints of cinnamon and vanilla. "Not bad. But probably not something I would have on a daily basis."
She snickers. "That’s because you have enough bitch in you to keep going all day without the caffeine spike," she teases, and I just grin at her. Not only is she right, but I pride myself on it. While my mother and father thought they were raising a proper, virginal princess they were really raising a monster in their image.
I have my mother's sexuality and selfishness and my father's temper and sense of justice. They created someone that could rule and make people suffer the way they can, but instead, they expect me to walk around with my head down and my legs spread.
That's not me at all.
"Thanks," I tell her with a dark laugh before diving into my salad, loaded with the works. No need to sacrifice flavor just because I am eating something good for me.
“So, you’re actually going to go through with this whole arranged marriage thing?” she asks, sipping at her own coffee, her eyes closing for a moment as if the flavor is orgasmic. It reminds me a little of when she cums.
“Yes, of course, I am,” I tell her in between bites. “What choice do I have? I have to get away from my father and all his rules.” Nicola and Phoebe are both from old Italian families as well, though Phoebe is only half. Her father shocked everyone by marrying an Irish woman, but that’s a story for another day. So, they know at least some of the way our women are treated and the expectations, though they know little about what my brothers and father actually do. That part will always have to be a secret. But this is the only reason they haven’t told me to run for the hills from this arranged marriage.
“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing there. He seems pretty uptight,” she says, but I can tell she will support whatever I do, even go as far as being in the wedding if I want her to be. Though, I think I will wait to ask since Philippe and I just barely got over our fight and what he said to me. I don’t need to bring up a sore subject like the women he caught me in bed with.
We chat a little longer as we finish our meals before I go to the apartment where I can only assume Philippe will be waiting for me. It’s been long enough that even if traffic was bad he must have made it by now. Unless he is planning on not staying with me this time around.
When I get there, walking inside, I stop dead in my tracks. I look around and realize there is mood lighting. Only the dining room light glows, and there are candles in a few places. It smells like lavender, but underneath is a hint of cleanser like the place has been cleaned in the last hour or so. We actually have a maid that takes care of things once a week, but this is not her day. So, this could only mean one thing.
I follow the flow of the candles into the light of the dining room to see that Philippe is sitting there, the table set and several open but otherwise untouched boxes of food sitting in the center of the table. “Is this a date?” I ask him, not sure on how to handle this. I still don’t know him well enough to decipher whether this is some grasp at control, my number one worry with taking on this relationship and marriage with him, or if he is genuinely trying to make me feel good about being with him. I know that mafia men can disguise cruelty in romance very skillfully, and even though he has been mostly kind beyond misunderstanding my lifestyle and who I am, it could be based on trying to make a good first impression. I feel that people only show their true colors after given enough time and comfort.
“It is a nice dinner between us. Whether or not it is a date is up to you,” he says, standing up and pulling out a chair for me. I eye him suspiciously, mostly because men don’t treat women like this in this day and age, not unless they want something. Not that I wouldn’t be happy to see what’s under all that pomp and circumstance of his and unwrap him like a Christmas present, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would be wanting only one night from me. And I am unsure if I can commit to more just yet.
A contractual marriage and a lifetime of making love are two very different things.
I sit down and let him push my chair in before digging right into the food family style and then passing it over to him. It is a comfortable silence that passes between us while we eat, which is fine with me. If we can’t have witty, sexual banter, then I would prefer this to any fake conversation about the weather or news. We at least seem to have that in common. Though, I do wonder how his mother is that he was able to come back so soon. She must be alright, but I am curious as to the details of it all.
Surprisingly, he eventually brings sake to the table. Even though he clearly has a problem with my lack of sobriety, he does know a good drink when he sees it. But one bottle between us I suppose will do little but take the edge off of life and all the bullshit. Maybe I do use the shit as a crutch sometimes, but my father’s voice is still in my head even now whether I like to admit it or not. And some days I just can’t stand to hear one more word of it.
I let the warm liquid slip down my throat leisurely and finally break the silence. “I am glad your mother’s okay,” I say, putting the feelers out there.
He nods at me, his eyes piercing mine for a moment. He is so buttoned-up, his hair cut close to his head, totally ordinary other than his very clear and piercing eyes. So, I choose to focus on those and pretend there is something there already that there’s not because I am reminded yet again how important it is that this works out for me. It is my only way out of my father’s clutches. And no matter how judgmental Philippe is, he can’t possibly be worse can he?
“She had some cuts and scrapes and a mild concussion. She seemed in good spirits. My father simply had her stay in the hospital as an abundance of caution,” he says dismissively, and it makes me wonder about the dynamic with his father.
“Is he a dramatic man, or is it something else?” I ask with a scoff.
