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Hannah’s face falls and she throws a pillow at me. I dodge it with a laugh, stabbing some pasta with my fork and sliding it in my mouth.
Tastes miserable too.
“That’s unacceptable!” She cries. “All of that tension and you don’t even sleep together?”
“I know, killer,” I say with a full mouth. I had to get myself off when I got home. And even then once wasn’t enough. My little pink vibrator hasn’t seen that much action in months. My libido’s been a bit off since I left London. I tell myself it’s because I've been busy but I know that’s not the case.
Hannah puffs her cheeks out. “So all in all, a terrible date?”
I take a swig from my drink, shaking my head at her whilst I do. “Not at all, I think it was the best date I’ve ever been on.”
Her eyebrows shoot up all the way to her hairline. “Are you sure you’ve not got brain damage or something? You almost got shot, then his little brother basically walked in on you in the middle of foreplay and that’s a good date? You’ve been out of the game too long.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Well when you put it like that, it sounds awful, but other than those two incidents I had a great time. Enzo’s a lot of fun.”
“Well, you’ve got to see him again. It wouldn’t be fair to waste all that and not sleep with him.”
I let out a sigh. “If I do, it’s purely sex.” It has to be.
4:38 PM
Enzo
16
Enzo
Present-day
Manhattan, New York City
The next week is uneventful. I had a meeting with Sean Murphy and the date for my wedding is set for August 25th, just over a month away. The engagement party is tonight. Where I'll finally meet my fiancée. I always knew I would have an arranged marriage. It's the norm amongst mafia families and I was never bothered about it. I barely gave it any thought, but now I can’t seem to get rid of the feeling of dread surrounding it.
I also can’t seem to stop the thought of Casimira invading my brain. I’m constantly unfocused, my brain drifts back to her any chance it gets and the more I fight it the worse it is. I can no longer appreciate an attractive woman because every time I do, I find myself comparing all the ways they don't measure up to her. And nobody ever measures up to her, that's the problem. Her face is like it's been carved by the devil himself to tempt me and those fucking eyes. Fuck. If eyes could kill me, they'd be the ones to do it. I go the whole week without contacting her through nothing but sheer willpower.
“You look fine.” Luca groans at our sister where she stands in the mirror of Salvatore's penthouse, fixing a stray curl back from her face. She's been at it the whole car journey over. Nervously fixing her hair and picking at her nails. She's like this every time we have to attend an event like tonight. She hates being in the public eye, hates being around large crowds even more.
She makes a frustrated face at herself in the mirror, grabbing the cardigan from me and putting it on for the sixth time since we arrived. I scrub a hand over my face. “Just leave it on or take it off. It doesn't matter.”
She ignores me, fastening the buttons of her white cardigan over the lilac shirt dress that ends mid-calf. She wears a lot of similar silhouettes when she leaves the house, materials that disguise her body as much as possible, frills and light colours that enhance her youth and innocence. Nothing like the painted jeans and worn-in sweatshirts she wears at home. She's a completely different person around our dad and any of the players in our world. Feminine, conservative clothes and a demure personality. It’s similar to the personas we all take on outside of the house. We all transform into the people our world finds acceptable.
She finally relents and comes to sit beside me on the couch as we wait for Salvatore. She starts biting her nails and I grab her hand, squeezing it. “Stop looking so nervous, everything will be fine.” I’m trying to be as comforting as possible although I’m not that convinced myself. This will be a tense night, to say the least. We have a long and bloody history with the Irish so this will be a small engagement party to minimise the risk that it turns out into an all-out blood bath.
She shifts in her seat. “I can’t help it. You know I hate these types of things. It sets my nerves on edge.” Fran doesn't just look like Ma, she's a carbon copy of her. Neither of them was cut out for this world. Fran can’t stand any kind of violence, even on TV it makes her uncomfortable. She's never once come to see Raff or Luca fight at the club.
Tap, Tap, Tap.
My head spins to Luca where he sits in one of the armchairs tapping his fingers against the leather armrest. My jaw clenches and my chest tightens. I take a breath trying to ignore it but then he speeds up his taps, inserting pauses every now and again so the rhythm is erratic.
My back locks up and my fingers tighten around my glass. “Stop.” I hiss through clenched teeth.
My voice snaps him out of wherever he just went in his brain and realisation crosses his features as he flattens his hand against the armrest.
“Sorry.” His voice is barely loud enough for my ears but of course, Fran picks up on it. She frowns at Luca. “What are you both talking about?”
We both share a look before saying, “Nothing.” at the same time. She wrinkles her little nose but decides to leave it.
Drip water torture was another one of the methods my father used. I was twelve when he first used it. Dragged that fucking machine into that god-awful room, strapped me to the chair and so it began. Hours of an ice-cold drop of water dripping on the same fucking spot in the middle of my forehead. The rhythm was steady, then erratic so you never knew when the next one came. I cried after three hours. Begged him to stop. Offered him anything if he just stopped that fucking drip, drip, drip. Begging and crying never worked though. Only guaranteed he would do it again until we didn't break.
