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The luncheon itself is at this somewhat dated but cute place called Da Pietro’s, in their private dining room on the second floor. Bianca’s told me no less than three times that the cannoli here are “to die for” and has been coaching me on the way here about what to expect, but I can still feel my nerves jangling as we get out of the car.
“You’re not at all Italian, right?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Did you ever go to a Feast of the Seven Fishes, or one of the saint’s days?”
“Negative.”
Bianca chews on her bottom lip. “No big family or anything, either?”
“I don’t see how this is supposed to help my nerves.”
She makes a face. “Sorry. Just trying to prepare you. These ladies can be…”
She trails off, and I wince as I glance up at the facade of the restaurant. Already, I can see a dozen or so older Italian women gawping at me from the second-floor dining room window and murmuring with each other.
“Cold, nasty bitches?”
“Well,” Bianca’s mouth twists. “Yeah. Some of them, at least. A lot of them are married to seriously powerful heads of families, and some of them basicallyarethe heads of families behind the scenes. It’s all very Game of Thrones. Some of these women are friends, meanwhile others want to kill each other through their smiles.”
“So, play nice, or one of these ladies will have me whacked before dessert?”
Bianca giggles. “It’s notthatbad. Just… Yeah, play nice.”
“Hey, I did wear my bestest black jeans.”
It’s the one piece of my outfit I’ve kept as “me”—my own little act of defiance for this dumb luncheon. Gabriel already hinted pretty heavily I shouldn’t come dressed like I’m going to a punk show.
So, I’ve paired the black skinny jeans with a silky dark maroon top that comes down to my mid thighs, and a pair of black chunky heels borrowed from Bianca. WhichIthink looks pretty sharp until we walk in, and I’m the only woman in the entire place not wearing a dress.
Great.
But pretty soon, I’m just lost in the blur of new faces. Bianca introduces me to a Mrs. D’Amico, who’s first cousins with Vito Barone and who organized this entire thing. She warmly welcomes me with a big smile, embraces me, pats my thin waist, and tells me to order two entrees.
And honestly, the luncheon ends up being nottooterrible. I end up sitting with Bianca and a few other women who are genuinely nice. The only weird thing is that they insist on gushing overDante’s and I “relationship” and wanting to know the details of our “courtship”.
I end up making up a story involving both of us walking around a corner at the same time and spilling coffee and orange juice on each other, which I one hundred percent stole fromNotting Hill, but whatever. My table full of new lunch friends buy it and think it’s the sweetest story ever.
I’m taking a break from lying my ass off to worry down sweet potato gnocchi when Bianca leans close with a low snicker in my ear.
“So, should I call you Julia from now on?”
“Shutup. I had to think fast!” I hiss back. “I didn’t expect all of these people to seriously think I wasin lovewith your brother!”
Bianca snickers. “I mean, they do and they don’t.Mostof these women married for arrangements, so they get it. But there’s also this weird element of group denial, and they all want you to play along.”
“That’s…fucked up.”
“Tell me about it?—”
“Why don’tyoutell me what exactly happened to my son’s face, you sleazy little bitch?”
We whirl at the sharp words. Behind us, backed by a sneering little crowd of women who were giving me the stink eye earlier, is a stern dark-haired woman in an aggressive shade of teal. She glares at us down the bridge of her nose like we’re dirt on her carpet.
I went to an all-girls’ private school. I also grew up hanging around the Crown and Black offices, watching female interns, paralegals, and junior partnerseat each other alivefor coveted promotions.
I can smell mean girl energy a mile away. This womanreeksof it.
