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I turned around and scowled at her.
“Isn’t your wedding night supposed to have brought you closer to your wife?” Marco commented drily.
I clenched my jaw, not bothering to answer him.
I watched as he opened and bit into one of the brownies. “Your wife’s right: these are pretty fucking good.”
I glared at Marco. The traitor—he was supposed to be on my side.
CHAPTER 11
ANNUNCIATA
We arrived at the brunch, and I could tell that Lorenzo was pissed at me.
I’d been getting brownies out of my pocket—that was all. How was I supposed to know that he was so paranoid?
I was tired after yesterday’s long day, and I hadn’t slept well last night. It was the first time I had slept in the same bed as a man, and I had sensed every sound and movement from him during the night, not to mention the angry waves coming off him after I’d refused to have sex with him.
When we walked into the clubhouse, I was met by the sight of the virgin sheet.
They had been brought here about an hour earlier, and someone had draped them across the stage at the front, ready to be inspected by everybody.
My family greeted me, led by Ma and Fidella, and what followed were endless embarrassing questions about my wedding night.
Nothing about my engagement or marriage has been private so far. Everything, including the first time I had sex, was a matter that the Fratellanza and Imperiosi could demand to discuss, deeming it essential to the wellbeing of their alliance.
Thank God Lorenzo had faked the blood. I had hoped he would do that, but if he had been pigheaded and refused, I would have been facing an interrogation about whether I was actually a virgin and thus fit to be his wife. I had banked on him wanting to preserve his pride though: if he admitted that he hadn’t had sex with me, his own men would see him as weak and feeble for showing mercy to his unwilling bride instead of forcing her.
“How did you find last night?” asked Fidella when we had a moment to ourselves.
“It was fine.” I couldn’t really talk about it with so many people milling around us.
“Really?” she asked, looking at me with concern.
“It was as fine as it could have been,” I shrugged, not knowing what else I could say about something that hadn’t actually happened.
Her voice was quiet. “He didn’t do anything you didn’t want, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.” At least that was one thing I could be truthful about.
I watched as this morning’s celebration was led by the groom’s side. They repeatedly toasted the virgin sheet, happy that their great Underboss had brought me to heel.
The tables groaned with copious amounts of food: mortadella, prosciutto hams, cheeses, fresh-baked breads, burrata-filled tomatoes, arancini, panzanella, Sicilian orange cake, and many more. To drink, there was champagne, limoncello cocktails, and plenty of rich coffee.
As people mingled and gossiped, I looked around the clubhouse, recalling all the good times I’d enjoyed here: family functions, Mexican nights, tennis, and swimming with friends from other Imperiosi families.
I wasn’t looking forward to moving to Chicago. I was really going to miss Venetiville and Staten Island. This was the only home I’d ever known.
Some people referred to Staten Island as New York’s ‘forgotten borough’—it was the third largest of the boroughs in terms of land size, yet also the least populated. That’s what gave it so much room for family homes and green spaces. Papà liked it here and thought it a good place to raise a family, particularly since attitudes were more conservative here than in the other boroughs.
Venetiville was located within the Todt Hill neighborhood, and the mansions had stunning views since this part of the island was over 400 feet above sea level. The Imperiosi families also benefitted from a high degree of privacy here, as our gated community was secluded and self-sufficient. My childhood in Venetiville had always felt safe, privileged and happy.
I remembered when I’d first been considered old enough to take the Staten Island ferry without my parents—although I’d still needed to take one of my brothers or cousins as a bodyguard. As a child, I’d always loved going to the St. George Ferry Terminal to make the thirty-minute trip to the Whitehall Terminal in Lower Manhattan. There were so many fond memories of time spent at other local places too, like Staten Island Zoo and Silver Lake Park.
I knew that some people might find my family to be a little loud or over-the-top, but they were warm, generous, and loving people.
Lorenzo was the complete opposite: cold, brooding, and unforgiving.
