by CD Reiss
“Cugino!” she squeals.
“Gia, my darling.” He embraces her tightly and joyously. Happily. He’s so affectionate it almost makes me sick. And by ‘so affectionate,’ I mean he displayed some fractional semblance of affection. Up until this point, I thought it impossible. “Grazie for meeting us here.”
“Are you kidding?” She’s upbeat and perky, as always. “I love the shopping!”
She wiggles out of his grasp and loops her arm in mine, pulling me to the elevator.
“I’m going to officially undo the disaster I made of your closet!”
Great. Now if this kid could only undo the disaster her cousin’s made of my life.
“Bathroom first.”
She knows the way. It has no windows. I do my business and let her guide me back out to my husband, who’s waiting by the elevator.
“This time,” he says, hitting the button. “My wife picks and I choose.”
He winks at her just as the bell dings. Winks. As though he’s not a maniacal and catastrophic kidnapper.
The doors close and we go up one floor, opening onto the very best of the best within a day’s drive. My friends and I don’t even bother with Flora. It’s a few hundred dollars to take a deep breath on the outdoor street that’s closed to cars and open to fat wallets.
“Let’s shop!” Gia grabs my hand, dragging me onto a curved, cobblestone walkway. I’m suddenly wedged between Prada and Gucci.
“Nothing opens until eleven.”
The buildings are sleek but encased in brick. It’s so old world but so new, as if it understands my absurd life in this country.
“Everything’s open if you know Cugino Santino.” Gia wraps her arms around one of mine and escorts me to a tiny boutique. We don’t even have to knock. As soon as we approach, a middle-aged woman in impeccable clothes—who looks far better than I could ever hope on my best day—throws open the door with a bright smile.
“I’m Stella. Welcome to Infidella.” Her smile is warm and inviting. Gia squirms like a giddy toddler next to me, still gripping my arm as she pulls me inside. I close my eyes and pretend, this could be my life with Rosetta and my own zia. We could be shopping together at some fancy boutique, laughing and drinking overpriced iced coffees and window shopping until Zio’s wallet begs for mercy.
I open my eyes to find a hoodie thrust in my face, Gia beaming behind it. “You like?”
The tag says eight hundred dollars.
That can’t possibly be right.
There aren’t many racks in the super-clean, overly curated collection, so I have to reach far to pick another shirt at random. $875. Where in the rabbit hole am I?
“This is good for you?” Santino’s at my elbow. I forgot all about him. I wish I could close my eyes and repeat the whole process until he was eliminated from my memory completely.
“You care?”
“Of course I care. You are my wife, no?”
I fucking loathe that word. “I’m your prisoner.”
Santino sucks in his cheeks and clamps his stoic jaw. He looks like a bomb at the end of a fuse. We stare each other down until Gia reappears with an armful of clothing.
“What size are you?”
“We run small,” Stella calls out. “Come here, darling. Let me look at you so I can see your size.”
Gia goes to the back with the armful of clothes and struggles to hook it all on the clothing rack at once.
“That’s too much,” I say, raising my arms so Stella can get a look at me.
“Just get whatever you want,” Santino says darkly and walks to the back and disappears. He must be sitting somewhere. Stewing. Likely plotting more insults to hurl my way or find more creative ways to threaten my family.
Fuck him.
I flick through hangers, letting Stella talk me into the most expensive things in the store.
“Cugina Violetta!” Hearing Gia call me Cugina stirs up feelings I’m not ready for. Like how my only family was here, and how my children and my sister’s were supposed to be cousins, and now her kids don’t exist and mine will be fathered by a man who forced me to marry him. “Do you think he’ll let you wear red?” she whispers.
Santino appears in the mirror before me, sitting with his long legs crossed in a purple velvet armchair, staring at me with an intensity I don’t like.
I don’t like it because when he gets all broody, he gets deeply beautiful. Watching him be so gentle with Gia and knowing it’s a choice between that and raw, hair-pulling power is captivating in a way that’s uncomfortable. I hate him so much, which makes all of this more confusing and frustrating. Why did he have to be beautiful and evil? Why not hideous and evil? Beautiful and good?
“I don’t care what he thinks about red. I like it.”
“Lovely find.” Stella appears behind me, taking the sweater I forgot I had over my arm. “How about this skirt? It would go so well with the shirts you’ve got. Why don’t I take those and set up a fitting room for you?”
Gia hands over a dozen hangers’ worth of clothing I don’t remember ever seeing.
That’s how the entire morning goes. Not a single soul enters the store, but Gia and Stella shove thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing at me. Silks and cashmeres and tiny little things I never in a million years ever dreamed I’d be able to touch, much less wear.
It all starts to blend in together after a while. The entire time, Santino’s eyes follow me. Past every single mirror. He never relents. Never checks his phone. Just watches me.
I stare back, doing my damnedest to exude as much attitude as him. I’m not a kitten he can smother. I’m a Moretti. I am from a good family with high moral standards. I don’t have to be afraid when I have God on my side.
Gia eventually hauls me into the dressing room. I have no idea what’s on these hangers, but a few glimpses at the tags tell me there’s at least twenty-thousand dollars’ worth of statement clothing here. At least. I don’t think I should breathe on anything, never mind try it all on.
Before the door shuts Gia and me in with the merchandise haul, Santino pushes his way forward and hangs a piece of scarlet lingerie on the hook.
So, he must like red.
My stomach churns and Gia nearly falls to pieces giggling. She waggles her eyebrows at me. Looks knowingly.
The only way to stave the vomit threatening to explode all over this very expensive store is to remind myself that I have power here, and even without my rings, I can escape. All I have to do is not puke.
Gia starts assembling outfits before my clothes are off. She hands me piece after piece, playing dress up like I’m her doll. Another piece of tangible furniture for Re Santino. But I really like Gia, so I let her.
“So, you’re Santino’s cousin.”
“His mother’s sister is my mom. I think you need that skirt in a smaller size.” She knocks on the door. “Stella!”
“Are they close? Your parents and Santino?” Armando may avoid me, but Gia seems all too eager to talk.
“I don’t know. My parents are still in Napoli. I haven’t seen Santino in years...since he moved here. Then boom.” She takes the skirt I just shimmied out of and hangs it on top of the door. “He’s just the same. Tough guy but super sweet.”
Super sweet?
Santino DiLustro?
Sweet?
Like fucking hell.
“This skirt?” Stella hoists one over the top. “Size or color? It comes in a lovely pink.”
“Una 42, per favore,” Gia calls back. “I stay with my father’s family over in Everlee Square. I was so mad when they said there was a wedding with no party. Everyone was mad. But once they all meet you, you will be one of us.”
While she’s chatting, I slip on the next item on the hanger. I barely looked at it, just tugged it on, and imagined being surrounded by a dozen new family members who look and act exactly like a hybrid of Gia and Santino.
“Wow.” Gia stops talking and gasps. “You have to get that.”
&n
bsp; The dress is a floor-length red number with an open back. It hugs every curve and makes me feel like Marilyn fucking Monroe. Gia’s right. I have to get it. My heart almost stops when I see the price tag. Four thousand dollars. Where the hell am I?
“You sure it’s nothing a whore would wear?” I ask Gia, who’s staring at me like I am Marilyn fucking Monroe.
“Only one way to find out.” She waggles her brows at me again and opens the door.
Santino is sitting there on a blue velvet couch in front of the bank of mirrors, massive legs crossed in bored anticipation. His foot bounces against his calf.
I purposefully avoid looking at him and instead stand before the mirrors. This moment is something I want to treasure. I don’t want it sullied by him. I can’t believe I’m in this dress...or that I look like that. I turn to the side to check out the low back and catch a glimpse of Santino in the mirror.
Gia and Stella are gushing in the corner. I turn a little more to join in the conversation about the dress, but I can’t focus on anything other than Santino.
No man has ever looked at me like that. I feel his stare on the bare skin of my back, touching places under the fabric with a bone-melting heat. He averts his gaze, finding my eyes in a different mirror, and there our eyes lock together. His intention is clear and his intention speaks clearly without making a sound.
It says, I am going to fuck you.
For a moment, I’m totally disarmed. My body cries out, begs for, what he promises. Yes. He is going to fuck me. He’s going to wait until I offer myself and then he’s going to take everything.
Will I be ready? Am I already in over my head, thinking I’ll be the one in control of a man like him? Every time I think I’ve gained some footing, this happens and I go sliding back.
A man like my husband is known for destroying girls like me.
Escaping him is half the reason I have to run. I need to escape my own desire.
“What do you think?” I find myself asking him as if I’m standing outside myself.
“I think you’re beautiful.” He says it as if stating a flat fact.
“Of the dress.” I ignore my pounding heart and the heat radiating from between my legs. It’s a lie, but I try.
“Ti sta a pennello,” he says, telling me it fits like it’s been painted on. “You’ll take it, but you’ll only wear it for me.”
Spell broken. Just like always. Thank God just like always, otherwise I’d be in so much trouble.
I frown at him and spin away from the mirrors, stomp into the dressing room without Gia. I put on the tacky lavender floral dress—the one that made him laugh instead of lust—and separate out the ten most expensive items, regardless of whether I like them or not.
I will absolutely spend his fucking money before I escape.
All the clothes I decide against stack in front of the fucking lingerie he had the audacity to think I’d ever wear for him. I wish I could get rid of the way he made me feel when he called me beautiful, hang it on the rack with everything else I didn’t want. But when Gia loads up everything in her arms, she snaps up the lingerie that made her giggle, assuming I want it. Stella bustles to get it all packed up, almost exploding in excitement. How many people come in for private shopping and drop a week’s worth of sales in a day?
Gia gets me a purse before I can walk out unaccessorized. I take it because it’s red, even though I have nothing to put inside it.
By the time we get back onto the cobblestone street with half a dozen fancy bags, the stores are all open and people are window shopping. Armando waits across the way. He must have been in a separate car.
How often does Santino travel with a security detail?
I try not to think about it. Asking that question opens up a dozen other doors I don’t want to see behind.
Armando nods at Santino, presumably giving him the all clear, and Santino transfers all our bags into his massive arms. A blue Corvette pulls up to the end of the street, just before it closes off for pedestrians. The windows are down and something with a heavy bass dumps into the clean morning air. The driver sticks his arm out and waves. Santino waves back.
“Ciao, Gia.” He kisses the top of her head. “Thank you for everything.”
Gia hugs him tight and turns to do the same to me. I don’t expect it and nearly get knocked over with her peppy bounce. She presses her lips near my ear. “I know you’re going to be the happiest. Give it some time, okay?”
Gia immediately dashes off to the waiting car with a friendly wave. I don’t even get to say goodbye. Suddenly, Santino and I are alone, in the middle of Flora Boulevard. To my left run countless expensive shops hugging the curves of the narrow cobblestone street. To my right, a quaint little square with a massive water fountain, flowers, and several benches.
No Armando in sight. No Gia. Just Santino, me, and plenty of people who could see me running away from a man. Surely, someone would stop and help me.
I look left at the shops. Right at the square. My heart is in my throat and I can barely feel my legs. This is—
Santino takes my hand and pulls me deep into the crowds. “You didn’t eat breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry,” I manage, watching my window for escape shrink as he tightens his grip around my hand. It looks sweet but it feels menacing. I try to catch eyes with people around me, beg them with a glance for safety, but no one returns the look.
Deeper into Flora we go. The street narrows, the buildings loom. They get taller as we walk deeper, until the sky above is nothing more than a slit of blue lined with brick and stone.
A prison still.
“Do you remember the sky in Napoli?” Santino stops and looks overhead. “The color?”
“Blue?” Because what the fuck else am I supposed to say? It’s not like Naples is on an alien planet with green skies and mustard-yellow grass.
“A different blue. So blue it’s as red as the wine-eyed sea.”
I stare at him, trying to break down the barriers that hide Santino DiLustro from me, from the rest of the world. “That’s from The Iliad. I thought it was the wine-dark sea?”
“You go to school for nursing or ancient Greek verse?”
“Are you a mobster or a poet?”
Santino laughs. Belly laughs. The man laughs so hard he has to stop walking. His face is turned against the slit of blue sky and he’s never been more beautiful in the weeks that I’ve been forced to stare at his cruel face. He looks open, free, kind, happy.
He looks back down at me, and it’s as if his eyes have stolen a bit of the sun’s fire. He leans down and the heated intensity radiating out of him melts me into submission. His lips touch mine, and they’re softer than a kind thought; more demanding than the law of gravity. My mouth yields to the gentle caress of his lips and the probe of his tongue. He tastes like espresso and power.
I’m helpless. Joyfully, eagerly, wantonly vulnerable. Because I never want to stop kissing this man or feeling the pressure of his mouth on mine. How he claims me. How he commands me. How I’m all too eager to give it. How my body longs to press against his for more.
He pulls away with his thumb stroking my cheek.
The instant our lips part is the instant reality hits me. I’m nearly lost to him. Gia, the shopping, his laughter, his kiss. I don’t have the strength to fight him because very nearly everything in me wants to give in. To kiss him again. To beg him to take more, all of me.
This may be my last chance to escape—not because I won’t have the opportunity again, but because I won’t want to.
There’s still nowhere to go. No money. No phone.
To the left. Shops.
To the right. The Square. Past that, a bustling street.
I know this without breaking his gaze.
Left. The possibility of a kind stranger.
Right. Fast-moving cars. A kind driver or an ER doctor.
Maybe death.
Rolling this over in my head takes the tiniest moment, barely a breath.
But that’s all I need to make my ears thrum with adrenaline and my skin tingle with the promise of freedom.
“Don’t even think about it, little violet,” Santino warns. Because he can see through me. I’ve revealed too much of myself to him.
But he’s too late. My body’s given the idea a thorough analysis.
I throw my bag at Santino. He reflexively catches it.
But I’m already running to the left.
Running for my life.
14
VIOLETTA
Crowds part the wine-dark sea—to coin a phrase. Shoppers with expensive bags and cell phones and fancy coffee cups step out of the way as I hurry through the thickest of it, trying frantically to disappear. The street is bustling busy, but that’s to my advantage. The shoppers offer cover—he won’t touch me in front of them, and I can scream. I have one chance at an exit from this nightmare.
Freedom is ahead, I just have to grab it.
And then I stop dead.
“No sign of her yet.” Fat Lip’s back is to me. He’s talking on the phone, craning his neck to look in the wrong direction. Scouring. Hunting.
He’s going to turn to me in a split second, and that’s all the time I have to decide what to do.
I can cross the street or hide in another store until he’s gone, but what if he starts doing sweeps? Maybe one of these stores has a bathroom in it I can hide in for an hour. Not ideal, at all, but if I’m a ghost, maybe he’ll chase me somewhere I’m not while I slip out.
No time to plan, I duck into the store nearest me and hurry through the racks until I’m away from the windows and come face-to-face with a wall of lacy lingerie. In sexy, smoldering font, AGENT PROVOCATEUR is written across a mirror.
Oh, lovely. The fancy sex shop Scarlett always talked about visiting. Instead of browsing it and giggling and inspecting with my best friend, I’m hiding from the devil in his own hell.
“Hi there!” A perky girl with pushed-up breasts pops up in front of me. “Welcome to Agent Provocateur!”
My breath still constricts tight in my chest from the running and desperate fear. “Hi. There’s a man who is—” Speak of the devil and his minions shall appear. I’ve summoned him to the front of the store, where he stands outside, drenched in sunlight, framed by the window, looking in casually as if neither the tinting nor the glass itself is between us.
