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“Why?” I ask.
It’s been eating at me for hours. Why would that son of a bitch control what his wife fucking eats? And, more importantly, why in hell do I give a fuck?
“Excuse me?”
“The breakfast,” I say.
When she doesn’t reply, I glance in the rearview mirror, expecting to find her glaring at me for daring to ask. She’s not glaring. The expression on her face is hard to interpret. Her lips are pressed tight, and her eyes are bulging. An instant later, she bursts out laughing.
It’s like magic. Unrestrained, high-pitched laughter that reminds me of chirping birds. I should be watching the road, but I can’t take my eyes off her. I’m so captivated by the sight that I ease my foot off the gas pedal so we don’t crash and stare at her.
“I’m sorry, butthe breakfast?” She snorts and erupts into another round of giggles. “Do you have something against compound sentences?”
I want her to keep laughing but I’m not sure how to manage that. In all the time I’ve spent in the Pisano household, I don’t think I’ve seen Ravenna Pisano laugh once.
“Maybe,” I say.
She shakes her head and wipes under her eyes with her fingers. “Thebreakfastis one of Rocco’s things. He likes to emphasize that he’s the sole provider in our household, so, sometimes, when he’s not home during a meal, I only get bread and water as a reminder.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. “How often issometimes?”
“A couple of times a month.”
A horn blares somewhere behind us. I step on the gas pedal and turn my focus back to dealing with traffic. When I look in the rearview mirror a moment later, Mrs. Pisano isn’t smiling anymore.
We drive the rest of the way to the mansion in silence. I try really hard to keep my eyes on the road, but they keep wandering to that damn mirror every couple of minutes. After I park in front of the house, I pick up the shopping bags from the passenger seat and get out. Mrs. Pisano has already left the car and is walking toward the front door, clutching the sides of her white coat at her chest.
I’ve been so deep in thought that I realize Alessandro has followed me up the stairs only after I come to a stop in front of my bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, I turn around and reach out to take my bags, but when my fingers wrap around the ribbon handles, he doesn’t release them.
“Has your husband been hurting you?” Alessandro’s deep voice comes from above my head.
My body goes still. I swallow and, not looking up, shake my head.
His huge hand enters my field of vision as he takes my chin between his fingers and tilts my head up. I should be intimidated by his towering over me while his dark piercing eyes bore into mine, but his touch is featherlight, and he doesn’t make me feel threatened. His gaze is steady, and I realize his eyes aren’t black, but the deepest shade of blue.
“I could have sworn they are black,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Your eyes.”
The tip of his thumb starts moving to the side, tracing the line of my jaw. A tingling starts in my stomach. I close my eyes for a moment and enjoy his touch.
“I asked, is he hurting you?”
Can I trust him? Should I risk telling him the truth? If it was just my life on the line, I would. But I can’t risk the lives of my mother and brother. If Rocco finds out I’m trying to escape, he would probably kill us all.
“No.” I open my eyes. “Of course not.”
Alessandro nods and releases his hold on the bags. The finger on my chin lingers for a moment longer before he turns around and heads back down the hall.
I take off my coat, then carry my purchases to the bed and start putting away the things I’ve bought. Silk blouses. Cashmere sweaters. Shoes that cost more than six months of my mom’s rent. Rocco insists that I wear only particular brands, preferably something where the logo or labels are visible. Sometimes, I feel like a walking billboard, advertising just how rich my husband is.
People love to talk behind my back, especially at parties. They gossip about how well I did, snatching a prize like Rocco. A real-life fairytale about a poor girl who ends up married to a capo. One who showers her with expensive jewelry and clothes. They have no clue what happens behind closed doors, and how those shiny trinkets are used to cover up the bruises.
I would gladly trade it all to get my old life back.
My family, who I’m allowed to visit only under supervision. Friends, who these days turn their heads in the other direction when I happen to unexpectedly meet them while I’m out. I’ve stopped calling, so they think I believe I’m too good for them now. And my dreams of going to college and finding a good job so that I can help my mom. I want those back.
