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I’ve replayed this same fantasy in my mind so many times that it feels like an obsession. In reality, I have no idea what kind of person Marcello actually is. I don’t know what he likes or dislikes, his politics, or the way he treats his mother. There’s not nearly enough interaction with him to figure out whether or not he would be a good father in the first place.
Even still, I imagine him standing across from me, pouring me a glass of wine without having to ask if I want one to begin with.
Throughout the rest of the night, I deliberate the pros and cons of a months-long work trip to the place where my true sexual awakening took place. The whole country has this shroud of sensual energy around it whenever I think about it, and it’s all thanks to one man who happened to catch my eye at a bar one night. Am I really that impressionable?
If I’m being honest with myself, I’ve needed the break from my routine for years now. My career has been steady enough that I haven’t suffered hunger or homelessness, but I haven’t been able to take much time off for myself since I have the boys. Would my brother be able to take them for the duration of my work trip?
Dave said I’m going to be compensated for my time there in addition to my salary. Once I find out how much the extra pay would be, I might be able to make a sounder choice. I could always use the money; there’s no question about that.
I lie down on the couch with my legs hanging off one end. Even though I want to think about this opportunity from a professional standpoint, it always comes back to Marcello. I feel like a schoolgirl with an obsessive crush.
Iwasthat girl, with no friends to speak of and reclusive hobbies that allowed me far too much creative freedom. My relationships with them existed solely in an alternate reality of my own making, and I fear that I’m slipping back into the same headspace.
Sometimes when I’m feeling overwhelmed by my life, I try to imagine what it would be like if everything had gonerightfor me. Where would I be if I had found a husband who insisted on taking care of me while he worked? How much easier would my life be if I’d only had one child instead of two at once? Would I be indulging old hobbies and interests that I’d had to put to the side in order to care for my boys and maintain my career?
It feels wrong to imagine such a thing, but there’s always an inverse to this story. Of course, having a husband seems like it would make things easier, but then I remember how miserable all of my married friends are. None of their husbands do jack shit around the house, and they create as many messes as their kids do. The stay-at-home moms are bored out of their skulls to the point that their conversational skills have suffered dramatically from the lack of adult interaction.
It’s been easy to take my freedom for granted when I consider how annoyed I would be if I had to share every goddamn inch of my space with a man. Every big decision would have to be made with him in mind. I’d be forced to compromise on each detail of my life to maintain equality. I wouldn’t ever have had the mental space to climb as high up in my dream job as I have.
When I think about it from that perspective, I’m really very lucky to be offered this opportunity.
I listen closely to the sound of my boys transitioning from fighting over an action figure to fighting over who will play which character in their favorite video game. As much as I love them, I think that a trip to Italy would allow me the chance to recenter myself and avoid the burnout that I’ve been powering through for the last six months.
It would make me a better mom.
We’re going to go with that theory.
When seven PM rolls around, I tuck the boys into their beds as they restlessly attempt to fight their sleepy eyes. Archer resolutely stares up at the ceiling to avoid sleep while Calvin recognizes the pointlessness of doing so. I admire both of their abilities to form their own conclusions, even if they don’t always make the most sense.
I pour myself a glass of wine, making sure I really taste it after I’ve waited weeks to finally open this bottle that I got as a gift. It’s been so long since I had a drink, and at the very least, it’ll take my mind off Italy for a while.
ChapterSix
MARCELLO
The night drags on as I lie awake, unable to sleep. I’ve been struggling with this for a few weeks now, and I’m not certain what could be causing it other than stress.
It’s no secret that I’ve been trying to fly under the radar for weeks now, dodging bullshit charges as I do what I can to maintain leadership over the men who have been calling me their leader for the past ten years. They all know that something’s up, and I’ve gone over multiple contingency plans with them in case something happens to me.
And at this point, anything could happen.
My mind hasn’t been quiet since I found out that theDirezione Investigativa Antimafiahas an extensive case file on me that they’ve been working on filling out for months. I have no idea when their investigation of me started, and even worse, I suspect that someone on the inside had to have informed them in order to receive amnesty.
No idea who it could have been, but when I find out, there will be hell to pay.
I knew going into this that the stakes were higher than I could truly understand until the blade came down on my neck. I believed that it would be murder charges, maybe something a little less bold but not by much. The way my father kept these fucks off his back was by paying off the feds, but when he died, he left no such connections for me. He burned every last bridge that his sons could have used to stay out of trouble. Fucking prick.
When it’s good, it’s really good. The money flows easily and quickly, and the people who work for you are easy to keep happy. There’s not nearly as much overhead or bureaucratic nonsense to worry about, and most average people are too scared of you to try and do anything about it. I understand why my father made the mafia his lifelong career. I’ve never doubted it for a second.
But now, I understand the true price of all that wealth.
Just as I’m about to head over to my medicine cabinet to take the last of my prescription sleeping pills, my phone starts to ring.
My stomach drops, and I run back over to my bed to answer my phone. Who would be calling me at this hour?
“Hello?” I say as I answer. The number is unknown, and a million of the worst possibilities run through my head.
“Hey, it’s Tommaso. I just got a new burner. I should have let you know,” Tommaso replies. “I have some news about your case. It’s good and bad. Which do you want to hear first?”
