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Kaye, flustered from both the unexpected pull-over and my disturbing confession, stammers out a response. They chat briefly, and then the officer bends down to look at me in the passenger seat. “Here’s my insurance card,” Kaye offers, extending a thick, plastic card to the police officer.
His eyes barely register the card, his gaze fixated on my bruised face. “Miss, are you okay?” He disregards Kaye completely. He leans in closer, his expression filled with concern. “Do you need to be seen by a doctor?”
Instinctively, I turn away from him, shielding my bruised cheek, and feel a rush of embarrassment flood through me. “I’m fine, officer.” The last thing I need is the police getting involved in my family troubles. If I bring a suspicious cop home, Giovanni is likely to kill us all.
The police officer moves around to my side of the car, taps on the window, and waits for me to roll it down. He crouches down until we’re at eye level, leaning on the door for support. “Ma’am, would you feel more comfortable getting out of the car to chat?”
I’m barefoot because I didn’t think to put on shoes before going downstairs in my own home, and then I ran away without grabbing a pair of flip-flops. The last thing I want is to get out of this car and try to explain to a police officer that everything is alright. “I’m fine, Officer. We went out last night, and I got into a fight with some girl at a bar. It’s no big deal.” If I’d said I’d gotten in a fight with my boyfriend or a family member, it wouldhave been considered a domestic dispute. Saying I got hit by a stranger in a bar gives him no reason to investigate further.
But he surprises me. Instead of pressing the matter, he simply reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a business card. “If something like this ever happens again, you call me,” he says, his voice tinged with a note of authority. He hands me the card, and his eyes hold a depth of understanding that catches me off guard. “I know things can escalate when you kids are out partying, but there’s no reason to be getting into fights. You should put some ice on that and take some ibuprofen, okay?”
Relief washes over me as a small smile graces my lips. I nod quickly, grateful for his unexpected empathy. “We were just on our way to the store. Thank you, officer.”
He glances across the car at Kaye, giving her a weary smile. “Keep an eye out for stop signs in the future, alright? You two have a good day.” And just like that, he walks away, allowing us to continue on our way without reprimand.
“That was crazy,” I laugh nervously.
Kaye puts the car in drive and merges back onto the road. “Chris, should I be worried about you? Who is this guy that your family wants to marry you off to? And why does your uncle think you’re seeing Nic? Are you two together?”
I want to answer her questions honestly. I know I owe her that much after dragging her into this mess. But the weight of my situation presses down on me, leaving me overwhelmed and unsure of what to say. The truth feels convoluted and messy, while a lie seems like too much effort.
“I don’t know everything. Gio showed up this morning and said that he heard some rumors about my conduct. He said the bestway to squash the rumors was for me to get married.” Half-truths slip from my lips, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the car window.
Kaye wrinkles her nose, her face a picture of disappointment. “An arranged marriage, though, Chris? That can’t still be a thing, right?” She does not sound impressed.
“It’s complicated,” I mumble, wishing I had a simpler explanation to offer. Arranged marriages aren’t common in the United States, not even among Italian families anymore. But my mother grew up in a very different culture than I did. Her family’s roots in thecosa nostradictated how her life would be led. She hoped that my life would be different, but it’s shaping up to be eerily similar.
“I think you should stand up to Giovanni,” Kaye suggests as she pulls into a gas station parking lot. “You don’t have to marry some stranger if you don’t want to. Especially now,” she adds, concern etching her features. “You’re only eighteen, Chris. You have your whole life ahead of you. What happened to bad boys and bad decisions?”
I wish it were that simple. I wish standing up to Giovanni would solve everything. But there are forces at play that go beyond my will. If the bruise on my cheek is any indication, Giovanni won’t stop until he gets what he wants. But my heart sinks, knowing that explaining this to Kaye isn’t going to be easy. She won’t understand.
“You’re right,” I lie, forcing a smile on my face. “I’ll talk to Giovanni. I’ll tell him I don’t think this is in my best interest.”
Kaye smiles, her warmth radiating through the car. “Good. I’ll get some ice for your face. You need anything else while I’m inside?”
Shaking my head, I watch her retreat into the store, a mix of gratitude and uncertainty swirling within me. I’m thankful for her steadying presence, but her plan won’t work.
There will be no telling Giovanni that I don’t want to do as he says. It was only a tap on the cheek this time, but what if it’s more next time?
What if he follows through with killing me?
Chapter 27
Christine
The bruising on my cheek where Giovanni hit me the night before has turned a deep purple and is painful to touch. I alternate between ice packs and hot water bottles in an attempt to reduce the swelling, but my face still feels puffy and heavy. I take Ibuprofen every four hours and pray for a miracle.
The sharp sting of Giovanni’s ring slicing the corner of my lip lingers as the only visible wound that hasn’t worsened. Though it stopped bleeding and formed a scab by the next day, it remains crusty and sensitive to touch. The skin surrounding the cut is a patchwork of red and pink.
Niccolo calls me, texts me, and even pops up in my Facebook messages uninvited to threaten to show up at my dorm if I don’t respond to him. I tell him I’m alright and I just need time to think.
In truth, I can’t face him yet; I’m afraid that he’d see the bruise Giovanni left, and he’d try to kill my uncle. Giovanni is a force of nature, and Niccolo, on his best day, wouldn’t stand a chance against him.
When Monday rolls around, my face is still too mangled to go to class. It isn’t until Niccolo calls me and demands to know where I am that I realize I should have said something to him in advance.
“Where are you?” He barks into the phone.
“I’m sick, Nic.”
