by Anna Ray
“Next, dot the cavity with butter and arrange thyme sprigs inside,” Massimo tells me
I do so and finish by sprinkling the outside of the fish with salt and pepper and topping it with lemon slices. I fold edges of foil over the fish to seal it in and place it in the oven.
That should take about forty-five minutes, so do you want to get started on the sides and dessert?” he asks.
“Sure,” I reply as I wash my hands and clean up anything I used to prepare the red snapper.
While I prepare spaghetti with butter, garlic, and pecorino romano cheese and oven-roasted asparagus, Massimo makes the batter for the ciambella without needing my help at all.
“I’m impressed you remembered all the steps perfectly,” I say, as Massimo pours the batter into the ring-shaped tin and places it in the oven.
“I’m a quick learner. I always did well in school, even if my father and Carlo saw no real use in me achieving good grades.”
“When I have kids, I’m not going to pressure them to do anything. As long as they’re good people, they can live how they like,” I say, not even considering I might not make it out of this alive…
Massimo laughs. “Yeah, I can just imagine you with a brood of kids, teaching them to bake and kicking their asses in video games.”
“How about you? It will be all swimming in the Algerian basin and catching their own suppers!”
“I have to settle down first, like Teresa DeLuca is always so quick to remind me.”
“You be careful, she’ll be setting you up on blind dates before you know it,” I tease, though the thought of Massimo going on dates makes me irrationally angry.
“Oh, she already has. After the last disaster, I insisted no more.”
I settle at the breakfast bar and pour us both a glass of wine. “Oh, dating horror stories, do share.”
Massimo sits next to me and picks up his own wine. After taking a long swallow, he says, “Well, she was from a Mafia family, of course. Her name was Lucille Moretti.”
I can’t help snickering. “Oh, I remember Lucille. She used to babysit me when I was little and all the families got together for one of those massive parties they love. She was obsessed with pink and ponies. I’m assuming she grew out of it though, right?”
“Wrong!” Massimo says, and we both laugh. “She showed up to dinner looking like a rancher in a cowboy hat and boots and spent the entire night talking about how impressive her stallion, Zeno, was. The way she spoke about him was disturbing.”
“Oh god. What did you do?”
“Well, I knew the DeLucas would be pissed if I just ditched her, so we had a very awkward dinner. But by the time it came to dessert, I couldn’t take it anymore. I pretended something I’d eaten was making me sick. I paid the bill, called her a cab, and got the hell out of there.”
“Good thinking. Next time have your second, Donte, on standby to say there’s a family emergency or something,” I say, then take a sip of my wine. “That’s what Taylor and I usually do, and she’s saved my ass countless times. The worst was with this guy in my senior year of high school. He wasn’t from a Mafia family, but he was rich. So my father approved,” I add. “He took me out for dinner at an expensive restaurant, not that I would have cared. We could have gone out for burgers, fries and a milkshake. What’s important is chemistry, and me and this guy had none,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I don’t know if he’d even spoken to a girl before in his life. He was so awkward and totally clueless when it came to social queues. He just kept going on and on and on about his computer coding work. And not in layman’s terms, either. Everything he said was like a foreign language to me. In the end, I texted Taylor our code word, and five minutes later, she called me back saying there was a family emergency and I had to leave straight away.”
Massimo laughs, dimples forming in his cheeks as he does, and my heart does a little flip. “I’ll have to keep that in mind if Teresa sets me up again. Thankfully, she’s eased off since the incident with Lucille Moretti.”
“What about Taylor? You haven’t even told me if she’s okay or not. What did Francesco do with her after we left the bar?” I glance at the clock on the oven and see the red snapper will be ready soon, so I stand from the breakfast bar, drop the pasta into boiling water, and get cutlery and plates out of the cupboard.
Massimo huffs out a breath. “Taylor is fine. Francesco took her home, just like I told him to.”
I relax a little more, knowing my best friend is safe. “Do you want to eat at the dining table or in the living room?” I ask.
“I was thinking we could have it in the living room so we could watch Three Men and a Leg.”
“Three men and a what now?”
Massimo laughs and shakes his head. “Oh, it’s only the funniest Italian comedy movie ever. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of it.”
“When was it made?” I lay out plates and take the fish out of the oven to cool slightly before unwrapping the foil.
“In 1997,” Massimo replies, and I’m amazed he has this ability to remember trivial facts so easily.
“Did you study film at school or something? How did you even know that off the top of your head?”
He shrugs, blushes, and glances away. “I dunno. I just can.”
Trying to stop the conversation from becoming awkward, I plate up the fish and ask him to get the asparagus out of the oven.
“The ciambella looks about done, too, so I’ll take it out to cool.”
“Perfect,” I reply as I drain the pasta, tossing it with butter, garlic, and cheese.
“I’ll carry the plates; you grab the wine,” Massimo instructs, and we make our way through to the living room.
We settle in our usual place on the couch, and as we eat, I’m struck by how much like a date this is.
This isn’t a date, I tell myself. This isn’t even two friends sharing a meal. You’re his prisoner.
11
Massimo
I catch Alessandra watching me out of the corner of my eye and try to focus on the movie. Dinner was amazing. I’m proud of how well she prepared the red snapper, and I made the ciambella. It’s been the perfect evening.
Almost too perfect… and too “date-like.”
That wasn’t my intention when I brought the red snapper. I just wanted to keep my promise to her and repay her for teaching me to bake. The evening wasn’t supposed to go like this.
But as she sips her wine and giggles at one of my favorite parts of the movie, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if this were a date. It’s certainly the most enjoyable time I've had with a woman in a long time.
This would be so much easier if she were some spoiled brat or heartless bitch, but she’s neither. She’s warm, intelligent, gorgeous… I shake my head. I can’t be thinking like this.
Goddamn it, why can’t Giuliani just call back and agree to my demands and all this can be over…?
Will it ever be over? I wonder, knowing since meeting Alessandra, my life won’t be the same. She’s gotten under my skin and made me look at my life and what I want in the future differently.
Since she mentioned that I could use the skills I learned in the mob to go legit, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that. I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder all the time and worry about when the cops are going to bust DeLuca and me.
But I can’t just abandon Carlo. He’s given me everything. Without him, I probably wouldn’t be here. Even before I was born, he and Teresa were making sure my parents were taken care of. I owe him so much.
I start to wonder, if things had gone differently with my father, if he hadn’t been playing both sides and double-crossing DeLuca for Giuliani, what might have happened. With Bianca and my parents alive, would Carlo be looking for other ways to control all of Chicago’s underground, such as arranging a union between Alessandra and I?
I laugh out loud at the idea, and she glances at me. I have to play it off as laughing at something in the movie,
even though the last funny scene was five minutes ago. She must think I’m mental.
Maybe I am going crazy, thinking like this. My life doesn’t involve a happy ending. Giuliani dies and DeLuca and I control Chicago. Eventually, I marry someone for an alliance and take Carlo’s place at the head of the table.
What about Alessandra?
The question makes my chest tight, and I suck in a breath only for a cold, lead weight to settle in my stomach.
My orders from DeLuca are clear — kill Giuliani and the girl too.
The girl.
She isn’t some nameless, faceless rival.
She’s a real person with real feelings, and she’s sitting on the couch right next to me. If I moved over just a little, our bodies would be touching.
Suddenly, it feels like the walls are closing in around me. The air is too heavy.
I stand abruptly and grab our dirty plates from the coffee table. “I’m gonna call it a night,” I say, my voice coming out strangled, not sounding like my own.
Alessandra blinks and looks up at me. “Are you okay? There’s still thirty minutes left and — God, Massimo, what’s the matter? You’ve gone all pale.”
“Yeah, I just think I’ve been overdoing it at work.” I rush from the living room before Alessandra can argue — I’ve hardly been at work this week — and load the dirty plates into the dishwasher and breeze past Alessandra, heading for my room.
Once I’m alone and the door is locked, I step into the bathroom and turn the shower on. I remove my clothes and step under the spray of water, having set it slightly cooler than my usual preferred temperature with the hope it will help clear my head.
I close my eyes, and an image of Alessandra — sitting on the couch downstairs, drinking wine, and giggling — appears in my mind. I almost want to go down there and… I don’t know? Press my lips to hers? Tell her she’s free to leave?
By the time I'm done in the shower, my heart has stopped racing, and I know what I need to do — avoid Alessandra at all costs and ensure Giuliani agrees with my demands, which is easier said than done when the bastard still hasn’t called me back. I could call him again, but that might give the impression I’m desperate for a response.
I am desperate for a response.
This needs to be over.
I need Alessandra out of the house.
12
Alessandra
I’ve concluded that Massimo Accardi is suffering from a serious case of Jekyll and Hyde syndrome. He can switch from cold and aloof to almost caring at the drop of a hat.
I’ve “been in his care” for a few weeks, now, and every night, he makes sure Alfred prepares something I love for dinner and insists we eat together. He even allows me to pick whatever movie I want. Sometimes, when we’re distracted by the film, caught up discussing the plot, it almost feels like we’re friends or maybe something more.
Then he flips out, like he did earlier. He had unexpectedly returned home at lunchtime, demanding to know why my father hadn't returned his call yet.
Honestly, I’m as in the dark as he is, but Massimo hadn’t believed that.
“You’re hiding something,” he’d snarled, his face just inches from mine as he pressed me up against the wall.
“I’m not, I swear,” I’d said.
“Then why hasn’t he called?”
Massimo raked his hands through his shoulder-length dark hair and took a step back, breathing heavily.
“I wish I knew,” I’d replied, body shaking as I dropped on the couch. It’s a question I’ve been asking myself constantly since I called my father.
It’s been weeks since I gave my father Massimo’s demands, and all that’s followed is silence. He hasn’t called back, and he hasn’t sent people looking for me. Surely he has the means to track the location the call came from, right?
Maybe he doesn’t love you enough to rescue you, a voice in the back of my mind says. The same voice that’s been much more vocal since Massimo told me the truth about my father.
Growing up, I never doubted my father’s love. Sure, sometimes it was suffocating, but I always knew he’d do anything for me. So, why hasn’t he agreed to Massimo’s demands? I know he has the money, so the only other reason I can come up with is that there’s more to this situation than I know.
Trying to piece things together, I think about what Massimo told me about his family’s murder. In some ways, I can understand why my father took out a hit on Primo. Having an informant playing both sides is a risk, and my father did what he thought was best for business. But what wrong did Massimo’s mother and his younger sister do?
I almost threw up my dinner when Massimo had told me how he’d returned home and found his sister, Bianca, laying on her bedroom floor, her brains blown out and splattered on the carpet and walls.
That night, in bed, I’d pictured Bianca Accardi, who, in my mind, looked like a younger, female version of Massimo, begging for her life as my father’s hired hitman mercilessly killed her. She was only fourteen. I remember being fourteen — the most dramatic thing in life was which boy I had a crush on or what outfit to wear to the upcoming dance. A life so young, so innocent, should never be snuffed out so gruesomely. My heart aches for Massimo when I realize he was only nineteen when he lost his family. I can’t imagine my life without my mother. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to her...
If someone killed my mother for no reason, I’d want revenge, too. I understand what motivates Massimo, and because I understand his motivation, I also understand his frustration at my father’s silence because I feel the same frustration, too.
I know about my father’s mob work, but I’ve never been involved in it. I don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes. Is my father currently liquidating assets to get fifty-million dollars? Does he have people tracking my location, trying to come up with a way to rescue me from Massimo?
My heart breaks thinking about what my mother must be going through, and I wonder what father has told her about my disappearance. Is she currently trying to work out how to save her daughter’s life without it costing her her husband?
I startle when I hear the door downstairs open. Massimo is home. I hope he’s calmed down from earlier. But, not wanting to risk he’ll take his anger at my father out on me again, I stay in my room. Massimo usually showers when he gets in from work. I’ll wait until I hear him in his bedroom and go down and ask Alfred to make me something to eat.
A few moments later, I hear a gentle footfall on the stairs and let out a breath of relief. I assume, due to the lack of pounding, Massimo is in a better mood now. When he knocks on the door, which hasn’t been locked since I called my father, I almost jump out of my skin.
“Come in,” I say cautiously.
Massimo steps into the room, looking uncomfortable. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and finally says, “I stopped off at a bakery on my way home and bought a box of fresh cannoli for dessert... if you want to join me for dinner, later?”
What’s this — a peace offering? An apology? Knowing it’s the best I will get from Massimo, I accept. “Sure. Okay. Do you want to choose the movie for a change?”
Massimo blinks, as though he misheard me. “I… erm… sure.”
Then, without another word, he leaves the room. I hear him lock the door to his own room and assume he’s showering. I try not to let my mind linger on that mental image. It’s impossible not to notice Massimo’s muscled body and powerfully built shoulders. But my favorite thing has to be the dimples in his cheeks when he smiles and the way his piercing turquoise eyes sparkle when he’s amused by something. I go out of my way to say something funny, or find a comedy show for us to watch, just to see Massimo smile.
I shake the thought from my head. You’re insane. You’re his prisoner.
Instead, I pull myself out of bed and pad downstairs. In the kitchen, I find Alfred and ask that he makes gnocchi with fresh tomato sauce and Taleggio cheese. The dish is one of my favorites, an
d Massimo has mentioned he loves it, too.
Ten minutes later, he joins me in the living room, freshly showered. He’s wearing lounge pants and a sleeveless, white tank top, which makes me feel less self-conscious about the fact that I’m in my pajamas. But his outfit is also distracting, too, as it shows off his ripped muscles and the array of tattoos that decorates his arms. I can’t help but stare, admiring the artwork and wondering what each piece symbolizes.
He catches me looking at him and smirks, but doesn’t comment, and instead asks, “What smells good?”
“I asked Alfred to make gnocchi for dinner.”
Massimo smiles. “My favorite. I thought we could watch Suspiria tonight?”
I return his smile and ask, “The 1977 version or the modern remake?” referring to the supernatural tale of dancers and demons, maggots and murder.
“The modern version is a bastardization,” Massimo insists, and I have to agree — it doesn’t hold a candle to the original.
“Good choice,” I tell him with a grin. “I quite agree. The original is a cornerstone of Italian cinema.”
“How was your day?” Massimo asks as Alfred hands us plates of gnocchi. The gray-haired cook gives me a small, soft smile that tells me he understands what I’m going through. We're both prisoners here.
I almost roll my eyes. How does he think my day was? I’m confined to the house with nowhere to go and no one to speak to. But honestly, it’s not so bad. I have the run of the house, and I’m free to watch movies, play on the games consoles, and use the hot tub as much as I want. There’s no one to tell me what to do, and staff here to cook and clean for me. It’s like a vacation, apart from the fact, at the back of my mind, I’m still acutely aware I’m a prisoner here. Sure, in some ways I have more freedom than I did at home — at home, my mother would be nagging me about my college work or making sure I’m eating properly or most annoyingly, asking when I’m going to find a nice man, settle down, and start having babies! But I know I’ll only be able to leave when my father calls Massimo. It’s been days, and my father still hasn’t called.
