Salvatore: An In Too Far Novel

by Cecy Robson

  When he told me he couldn’t come to North Carolina for Christmas because of his work schedule, I didn’t press, recognizing the hours he keeps. Perhaps I should have asked. “Is this the reason you wouldn’t come home with me?”

  “I didn’t choose Vin over you,” he says. “I was only trying to spare you from all this.” He leans in for a kiss, trying to reassure me. But it’s not enough to squelch the horrible churn in my belly when the gates clang open. “We won’t stay long?” I ask.

  “Dinner, dessert, and we’re out,” he promises.

  He pulls ahead, stopping in front of a large circular driveway. I almost expect a butler to rush through the double doors. But when they open, Vin steps through, followed by a young woman who reminds me of Amy Winehouse.

  “Hey, Sal,” Vin says, shaking Sal’s hand as he shifts the food he’s carrying beneath one arm. I try not to cringe when he kisses my cheek or think about where those lips have been. “Aedry, nice to see you again.”

  I nod in a way I hope appears polite and perhaps shy, instead of what I’m really feeling. Without meaning to, my thoughts wander to Donnie. She’s no innocent lamb for choosing to be with a married man, but I can’t help feeling sorry for her. She’s miserable during the best of times and so lonely when he’s gone. And Vincent’s wife . . . I don’t even know her and my heart breaks for her.

  Salvatore keeps me close to him as he bends to kiss her cheek. “Hi, Rita,” he says. “Good to see you.” He draws me to him. “This is Aedry.”

  Rita’s smile is wide and she immediately throws her arms around me. “Hi, Aedry. So good to meet you, sweetie.”

  “Hello, Rita,” I say. I return her hug. Like with Donnie, I sense her underlying loneliness, making it hard to keep my smile. “Thank you for inviting us to your home.”

  “Of course!” she squeals. She turns to Sal, smiling as if she approves. “This is who you’ve been hiding from us? She’s gorgeous―gorgeous,” she emphasizes in her thick Jersey accent. She lifts the tray of rolls and pie from his hands and leads us into the house. “Come in, come in, I’m dying to get to know her.”

  I hold tight to my smile. I don’t want to be rude or take my tray of rolls and smack Vincent over the head with it. Oh, wait. I do.

  The house-warming gift I purchased is going back to Macy’s tomorrow with the hopes I can exchange it for a castration set, or perhaps something with metal teeth I can rip Vin’s balls off with.

  “You all right?” Sal whispers in my ear.

  I nod and lie. “I’ve been fighting a migraine all day.”

  He knows I don’t suffer from migraines, but he runs with what I’m trying to say. “If you start to feel worse, let me know and I’ll take you home.”

  “Rita sometimes gets migraines,” Vin interjects.

  I’ll bet she does being married to you.

  “She can probably give you something she takes,” he offers, helping me out of my coat.

  “That’s not necessary. Thank you,” I say, watching him place my coat and Sal’s in the closet.

  As I feel my temper surge, I remind myself of what Vincent has done for Salvatore, his brothers, and the community. But a man who mistreats women isn’t one I can like or respect.

  My heels clip-clop across the white and black marble tile as I try to relax. “You have a lovely home,” I say. It is beautiful and modern, but almost too perfect. There’s no personality, only a reminder of the wealth within it.

  Rows of oil paintings and artwork take up every few feet. The expanse of foyer and hall are not overcrowded, but it’s clear each one cost a small fortune.

  “Thank you,” Rita responds, motioning to the food in her hands as Vin escorts Sal into another room. “What have you got here?”

  “Just dinner rolls and an apple pie,” I answer. “I didn’t know what I should bring and I was too intimidated to make anything remotely Italian.”

  Her laugh lifts my mood, but only slightly. “You’re a doll. Why don’t you go into the parlor? I’ll be in soon with some hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Oh, no. Please, let me help,” I tell her, hurrying behind her as she walks into an immaculate gourmet kitchen. I would have offered either way, but I’ll admit there’s a huge appeal in keeping my distance from Vincent.

  The hem of her tight black dress skims just above her knees. She’s my height, but tiny, with perfect round breasts I’m assuming Vin paid for.

  My eyes scan the large kitchen. I’ve never seen wealth of this magnitude.

  “What does Vincent do for a living?” I ask, wondering briefly if she’ll tell me something different than what Sal has. I shouldn’t doubt him, but this . . . this so much.

  “You don’t know?” she asks casually.

  “Salvatore doesn’t really discuss work much,” I answer, which isn’t far from the truth.

  “Oh.” She bends to remove a tray of tiny quiches from a large industrial oven. “He owns several businesses, hardware stores, diners, things like that.”

  It’s what Sal had said. But being here, I can’t help wondering how much money can be made from screws and Taylor ham sandwiches. “He’s also part owner of a few casinos,” she adds.

  I’m almost relieved to hear the news. Okay. That makes sense. “I’m surprised you don’t live closer to Atlantic City,” I comment.

  Rita raises her brows. “Ever been to Atlantic City?” She laughs when she catches my grimace. “Yeah. It’s nicer being close to New York, don’t you think?”

  “It is,” I agree. I wash my hands and dry them on a towel. “How can I help?”

  She gives it some thought. “I have tomatoes, fresh basil, and the best mutzadel here in Jersey. Would you prepare it and add some balsamic and oil?”

  She doesn’t tell me how to prepare it exactly, assuming I know. I can’t help wondering if she’s testing me. But if this test is about food, I might actually pass. “Of course,” I reply.

  She lays the items out in front of serving plate, but as she turns to the stove to stir a large pot of pasta sauce, my eyes travel to a box of toothpicks.

  “Do you mind if I use these?” I ask, when I realize that it’s cherry tomatoes and mozzarella balls I have to work with.

  “Use whatever you’d like, Aedry,” she answers, without turning around. “This is your house.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind,” I say, reaching for the small box. She’s trying to be nice. I need to do the same.

  I spear a cherry tomato, add a ball of mozzarella, a bent leaf of basil and repeat the process until I have what resembles a pretty flower. I place it on the plate and reach for another toothpick.

  “So . . . how long have you and Salvatore been together?”

  “A few months,” I answer, curving another leaf of basil.

  Her frantic stirs to the sauce slow. “As in three months?” She taps the spoon against the pot. “Or more?”

  I reach for another cherry tomato. She doesn’t know anything about me, but she wants to, even though I’m not certain Salvatore would approve of how much I’m telling her. “I was trying to spare you,” he’d said in the car.

  “We’ve been dating since the fall,” I answer, hoping I’m giving her enough, yet not too much away.

  “It’s been a while,” she says, her voice trailing.

  “Mmm,” I answer, hesitating when I realize she’s giving my answer a great deal of thought.

  In the silence that follows, I prepare another stem of basil, tomato, and mozzarella. I’m hoping she’ll move on or tell me more about herself. When she says what comes next, I almost fall to the floor.

  “Have you met her yet?”

  I place the stem on a plate, trying hard to keep my motions casual, even though I already suspect whom she means. “Who?”

  “Vincent’s whore,” she answers.

  In growing silent, I tell her exactly what she wants to know. She laughs without humor. “Come on, Aedry. I’m not blind. And I assure you I’m not stupid.”

  I turn s
lowly in her direction, my voice as leaden with sadness as my expression. “I don’t think you’re stupid, Rita.”

  She straightens, keeping her back to me from where she was placing my rolls in a wire basket. “She was here before me. So, she stays. But men don’t marry whores, do they?” She glances over her shoulder at me. “They marry good women like us. Those who cook, who wait for them to come home, those they’re not embarrassed to bring to church when they confess their sins, right?”

  I don’t answer, because she’s not really asking. She’s telling me how she feels.

  “Have you met her? Donatella?” She huffs when my expression gives the truth away. “I know her name and I know what she looks like. I followed them once, right before we got married.” Her voice cracks. “I wanted to see what she could give Vin that I couldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, meaning it down to my soul.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” she says, despite how her lips press together in her attempt to hold back her tears.

  I abandon my station, walking slowly to her side. Out of instinct, I embrace her, gathering her carefully in my arms.

  She stiffens against me with so much resentment, I’m sure she’ll push me away. But then she returns my embrace and tells me something I don’t expect to hear. “Thank you,” she says, sniffling. “I promise to be there when it happens to you.”

  I break away, taking a step back. She was crying on my shoulder seconds ago, but now those tears are nowhere in sight. “What?” I ask.

  She cocks her head, scrutinizing me closely as if I can’t possibly be this naive. “Come on, Aedry. Salvatore and Vincent are cut from the same cloth. Do you think your pretty eyes will spare you from the control over women men like them crave? It won’t be long before he leaves your bed for someone else’s.” Her irises sparkle with anger. “If he hasn’t already.”

  “He wouldn’t do that to me,” I say, hating the sudden doubt that quivers my voice.

  “Why?” she asks. “Because he tells you he loves you or swore before God that he wouldn’t?” She lifts the back of her hand, twiddling her fingers to draw attention to the large engagement ring and wedding band. “That doesn’t mean anything when power means more.”

  She motions to my side. It’s not until I glance down that I realize she’s pointing to my bracelet. “Did Salvatore give you that? What did it cost you? A night alone? Maybe more?”

  My mouth is closed so tightly, my teeth ache. She strolls toward me, her hips swinging, and her steps barely registering over the increasing pounding in my ears.

  She stops directly in front of me, sighing softly and shaking her head. “Whether you believe me or not, Sal will eventually get an extra friend to play with. Maybe more if he stays as tight as he is with Vincent.” Her voice is casual. But she laughs when she catches a glimpse of my face. “Don’t look so sad, Aedry. It’s all a part of the game.”

  She may have gone from tears to laughter, but I don’t find anything she says amusing. “What if I don’t want to play?” I ask her.

  “Ah, but you will play,” she tells me. Her smile remains, yet it’s not enough to hide the flickers of misery plaguing her face, and the sorrow lingering so close to the surface.

  Her attention fixes on the bracelet Salvatore gave me. I don’t fight her when she lifts my hand, not when I see how fast her light brown eyes pool with tears. “You’ll play, because you love him . . . tut-tut-tut,” she says when I open my mouth to deny it. “You know you do, despite knowing there’s more to Sal’s work than what he tells you.”

  My spine grows rigid enough to crack.

  “You’ll play the role of his devoted woman, you will,” she tells me. “Just like you’ll keep your mouth shut for pretty little things like this.” The tip of her long red nail taps over my bracelet. “In exchange, he’ll give you a nice house, his name, and babies. Those are good things, Aedry. There’s no shame in that.”

  Slowly, she lowers my hand, her hips swaying as she returns to the stove. I barely move, a feeling of dread tightening my chest hard enough for me to clasp it.

  As I watch, she opens the oven door and removes a covered dish. “Be a dear and finish up,” she says, blindly staring at the wall. “Vincent’s hungry. I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Aedry

  Vincent entertains us with stories all through dinner. Rita enthusiastically and repeatedly jumps in, adding to Vincent’s conversation in that animated way of hers.

  Vincent is very funny and a natural storyteller. Strangely enough, neither his ability to spin a tale nor his quick wit squelch my urge to nut punch him.

  This lying and cheating snake supports two women, lavishing each with gifts in exchange for their silence and obedience. He doesn’t care whom he hurts, turning a blind eye to the tears they shed for him. And for what? To feel more like a man?

  Bastard.

  Sal sweeps his thumb over my hand beneath the table. I don’t realize how hard I’m squeezing it until then. I glance down to see our interlaced fingers, hoping to find some comfort in the way his large hand presses against mine. On a different occasion, maybe his gentle hold would be enough to soothe me. Not tonight and definitely not here.

  I smooth my free hand over my skirt. This should have been a fun night out. The meal was delicious and Vincent and Rita went out of their way to make us feel at home. Rita bustled about, rushing to make certain everyone had everything they needed and more.

  “Sit, Aedry. You’re doing too much,” she said after I helped lay out the food.

  Vincent’s gestures were more showy. He opened a bottle of wine I couldn’t pronounce, nor was familiar with. The way Sal leaned back on his heels made me think it was outrageously expensive. And now, following the decadent dessert Rita spent hours preparing, they share a bottle of Scotch twice as old as I am.

  “And that’s when the little prick valet runs off,” Vincent says, laughing as he finishes his story. “But I don’t give a shit. I’m introducing myself and shaking a legend’s hand.”

  Rita rolls her eyes. “Aedry, I didn’t know what was happening. I’m like, where the hell is he going? I don’t watch football. I don’t know who this guy is.”

  “How could you not know him? He did that Nike commercial. The one with the puppy you like,” Vin adds.

  I’m barely listening to Vincent’s tale about how a parking valet brought him a famous athlete’s Jaguar, mistaking it for his. I’m so done with playing nice and I just want to go home.

  They laugh when he motions back to the picture of Vin with the guy at the Super Bowl. Sal chuckles, but I can only manage a weak smile at best.

  On the surface, Vin and Rita seem like such a happy, loving couple. It’s almost easy to forget that they’re willingly living a lie. But I’m just as bad, indulging them by keeping my mouth shut. And when it comes to Salvatore, I don’t know what to think. Regardless of how tight I’m clinging to his hand, I can’t help but be upset at him for accepting and being a part of this lifestyle.

  He knows I’m not happy. I can tell by the way his thumb continues to stroke my hand. I all but sigh with relief when Rita stands to clear the table. I rise with her, carrying my plate and Sal’s along with the tray of leftover pasta.

  “That’s a good woman you have there, Sal,” Vincent remarks as I walk away.

  Fuck you, I obviously don’t say, even though I can feel his seedy stare crawling along my spine.

  I’m rinsing the plates and setting them in the dishwasher when Rita sweeps in with the remains of our dinner. “Aedry, leave them. The maid will clean up in the morning.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, moving fast.

  I don’t like this dysfunctional relationship. In a way, I’m angry at Rita for putting up with it. Yet, I do feel sorry for her and for Donnie, too, despite her part in this. So, I fill the dishwasher and scrub a few pans. It’s all I can do for her.

  I’m drying my hands after wiping down the counter
when Sal and Vincent step into the kitchen.

  “Aedry, we should go,” Salvatore says.

  Rita throws her arms around me. “I wish you didn’t have to,” she says.

  I think she means it. Maybe she sees a shared camaraderie with me. If so, she’s wrong. No way would I put up with this arrangement.

  “Thank you for a lovely dinner,” I manage.

  “You’re welcome, sweetie.” She hugs me again, this time tighter. “Let’s get together for lunch next weekend. We’ll make a day of it—get our nails done, do a little shopping.” She whirls me around to face our men. “Vincent’s treat. Right, Vin?”

  Vin nudges Sal and motions to us. “See what having such a fine woman at your side is going to cost me?”

  “I’ll cover Aedry,” Sal assures him, glancing my way.

  He steps forward and into Rita’s outstretched arms to thank her for dinner. But when Vincent reaches for me, I can’t help recoiling from the reek of too much scotch on his breath and the way his kiss to my cheek lingers more than it should. The move is subtle, yet I don’t miss the intent or the offer behind it.

  And neither does Salvatore.

  Salvatore hauls me to him before I can completely break away from Vincent’s embrace, tucking me behind him. The two men lock eyes, their expressions tight, their stances rigid.

  For a moment there’s only silence and the promise of pain.

  Sal’s glare is as lethal as it was that night in the club when those men cornered me . . . seconds before he made them bleed and drew his gun.

  I don’t realize I’m not breathing until the air trapped in my lungs releases in a brutal rush at Vincent’s laugh. He takes us in, the way Salvatore shields my body with his, and the way Sal’s unyielding stare grinds a hole into Vincent’s face.

  “Never thought I’d see the day this would happen,” Vincent says, continuing to watch us.

  Sal’s only response is to ease his hand away from his hip. Unlike Vincent, Salvatore isn’t smiling.

  Rita steps forward, her hands clasped in front of her as her attention skips between us. She realizes a great deal went unsaid in Sal and Vincent’s tense exchange.