AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"I don't want to have to get married to wear colors like red and…and black." Carlotta's tone is filled with discontent.
It worries me. "Black is the color of mourning."
"Not in the real world, it's not."
Carlotta talks like everything outsidela famigliais the real world. She thinks the traditions and the culture of the mafia are antiquated and unrealistic.
In some respects, I agree with her. The prospect of living the rest of my life under Papà's roof, simply because I am unmarried, fills me with dread. It's supposedly for my safety, but I am in more danger here than if I lived on my own. I'd much rather get a job and support myself, but he'll never allow that.
Running away would be considered betrayal. Betrayal tola famigliacan be punished by death. I'm not ready to die, so I don't run away. Not yet anyway.
I have plans, plans I can't even tell Carlotta because once I implement them, I'll never see her, my aunt or my uncle again. Most importantly, I'll never have to see my father again and I will be able to stop wondering if today is the day he is going to killme.
When I run, I'll have what I need to make sure I will never be found.
"Please do not mention thereal worldas you call it at dinner," I implore my sister.
"Of course, I won't. I never tell Papà what I really think of mafia life. It would hurt him."
Hurt him? I'm not sure. But it certainly would make him angry. And when he gets angry, it is never my sweet, sunny sister who he takes his ire out on.
It is me. Whether it is because I look like Mamma and not a Jilani, or because I know his secret, my father despises me.
At five foot three, with more padding on my curves than Carlotta will ever have, I am the spitting image of our mother. At least before the plastic surgery, the incessant diets and the blonde highlights my father insisted on.
Papà even made her wear contacts that turned her hazel eyes green. Trying to make her into the image of the woman he'd wanted to marry when he'd been forced to settle for my mom.
I push away the unhappy memories of the past. "What do you think I should wear?" I ask my sister.
She grins and eagerly opens the door to my wardrobe. There is no closet in my bedroom because it is part of the original house, built over 150 years ago. It's a small bedroom too, but I don't mind. It has its advantages. Like a fireplace and being far away from my father's suite.
After perusing my dresses, yanking hangers this way and that, Carlotta's grin turns into a frown. "Don't you have a single decent dress?"
I'm not the clothes horse that my sister is. I don't care about designer labels or wearing the latest fashions. Most of my dresses are at least two years old. Not because papà doesn't give me a clothing allowance. His pride would not allow that.
It is because I've been buying designer clothes and returning them for the past three years, putting the money I get back in my runaway fund kept hidden in my room.
Papà doesn't notice my lack of fashion. Carlotta does.
"Where's that dress we bought when we were out shopping last week? It looked amazing on you."
I wave my hand dismissively. "I didn't like it and took it back."
"You'd never know you were so picky looking at the state of your wardrobe," she says repressively. She grabs the navy chiffon skirt I wore to my cousin's wedding a couple of years ago and hands it to me. "Hold this. I've got a top that's perfect for it."
"None of your blouses will fit me," I warn her.
Carlotta gives me a mischievous smile. "Well, it won't fit the same, that's for sure. It'll show off your girls."
I instinctively cross my arms over my generous breasts. "I don't want my boobs on display, thank you."
"Do you really think I have anything that would put them on actual display? I'm not allowed plunging necklines. I'm too young." Her tone makes it clear what she thinks of that.
Carlotta is gone only a few minutes before she comes back with a white silk blouse and I breathe a sigh of relief. Until I have it on. It's sleeveless, which I don't mind so much. Papà isn't stingy with the heating.
The soft cowl neckline is not at all provocative, but the silk must have some spandex in it because it's stretchy, clinging to my curves. Once I have the skirt on, my waist looks tiny, but my chest and hips look even bigger than normal.
When I complain, Carlotta assures me that I look great. Knowing no one's attention is going to be on me at the dinner, I decide it's not worth the argument with my sister to change into something else. I put on a pair of navy blue ballet flats.
