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“But I do. While you were away, I got more than a glimpse into this life. I know who our father is, what he does. I have come to accept it . . .” Would I have been like her if that night had never happened?
I look at her, and for the first time, I wonder if her naiveté is just a mask. My sister is way more intelligent and stronger than I ever thought possible.
“What I want to say is, if you want to leave, do it. You’ll always be my sister. I will make sure our family survives the fallout.”
With that, Viviana leaves me, openmouthed and flabbergasted.
I spend the rest of the day locked in my room.
Leading up to Saturday, my mind is a scrambled mess.
***
“Ready?” My mother enters my bedroom, where I’ve sequestered myself since the jewelry supply incident.
“Yes.” I stare at my reflection in the green body-hugging satin dress. I strap on my black sandals, and my mother smiles at me, but it’s always with a trace of caution.
My father and sister wait for us downstairs. I search for my father’s gaze, but all he’s done in the last few days is ignore my presence. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. At least when he scolds and punishes me, I have his undivided attention. Now it’s like he has come to terms with me being a lost cause. I guess this is how things are with my father, his love is conditional to standards I could never meet.
During the ride to the Moretti’s, my sister shows my father videos on her phone. He smiles, looking less strained, but that’s no wonder. At least one of his daughters meets his high standards. I drop my elbow on the window and stare outside as the city lights pass by. With every mile, my heart pounds, a merciless beat interwoven with thrill. This fight between wanting to see Cato and needing to throttle him tears me apart.
My sister’s words replay in my head, but I shove them away. I don’t like him, and I am not jealous. Why would I be?
The driver opens the door in front of a red-brick townhouse. I expect my father to remind me to behave; instead, he takes my mother and sister’s hands. I trail after them, and it’s so painfully real he cut me off, that I stumble on my feet. They don’t turn around as I try to regain my balance.
Cato’s entire family greets us in the hallway, and I plaster a fake smile on my face. There is raucous talking going on, and I go through the greetings in a daze, my eyes searching for him.
Dario, my future brother-in-law, leans against the wall. The brothers are similar, yet Cato’s features are more sharpened, rugged. His brother’s preserve some lightness and playfulness. Maybe that means he has less blood on his hands.
“Cato is on the phone. He’ll be here any moment.” Dario winks at me, as if reading my thoughts.
“I don’t care,” I snap.
“He’ll have his hands full with you, I see.” Dario smiles at another guy I recognize as their cousin. Marco whistles, a playful grin curling up his lips, while his hardened eyes reveal the easygoing persona is a mask. When no one is paying me any attention, I slip up the curved staircase. There has to be a quiet place in this house.
A long hallway greets me with art decorating the walls. I get lost in the paintings depicting the seasons. Suddenly, the air shifts to something headier, his unmistakable scent slapping my senses stupid.
“Are you searching for me,cara?” That low voice glides like silk right down my chest and between my thighs.
I turn around, slamming into his hard chest, and his arms wrap around me. He’s dressed in a black dress shirt and slacks, both fitting his sculpted body perfectly. He wears black so well, as if the color were made especially for him, which is so unfair. His chest produces a heatwave that cuts off my air supply. Those eyes of his burrow into my soul, seeking a way to conquer me from within. He’s fire and my neurons turn to ash at his nearness.
“You wish. It’s just too loud downstairs.”
He bursts into laughter, and despite knowing better, my lips part into a smile.
“What kind of Italian-American are you?”
I shrug, and he takes my hand, enveloping mine, in his larger one. My skin buzzes with the warmth of his touch. For a second, I forget who he is. But then I rip my hand from his and sneer, “Don’t touch me.”
The easiness flies away, his entire body turning unreadable.
“I washed them,cara.”
Irony drips from his sinful lips, and I say, “I can still see and smell the blood on you.”
“Then get used to it. Neither of them will ever disappear.”
I hate to say it, but there is something mesmerizing about his cruelty.
