Stella wraps her arm around Ari’s neck, clamping her hand over her mouth. “We already know that. Papá wasted no time in telling everyone how Kal seduced you. Not that you needed sympathy in the public’s eye, being kidnapped and all.”
Annoyance flickers in my gut, but I ignore it, setting my fork down. “Okay, well. The people who recorded us were blackmailing Papá and Kal, and they wanted me to marry Kal... I guess.”
Blinking, I glance down at the gold tablecloth covering the table, realizing my own details on the optics are blurry.
Shaking off the eerie feeling, I continue. “Whatever, I don’t know the exact details, but the point is, someone forced both of us into the marriage. Maybe Kal didn’t approach everything in the best way, but we’re both victims.”
“Are you?” Ari asks, shoving Stella’s hand away. “I mean, that’s why you got married, but... what’s making you stay married?” She reaches for a strawberry off her plate, plopping it in her mouth. “You certainly don’t look like a victim.”
My mouth parts immediately, a reflexive response poised on the tip of my tongue before her words fully process. Snapping my lips shut, I sit back in my seat, my stomach dropping to my knees.
Stella quickly changes the subject, moving on before I’ve answered Ariana to talk about the physics course she’s taking at Harvard over the summer, her fifteen-year-old brain apparently growing bored of the marriage talk. But Ariana watches me throughout the rest of brunch, silent and steady, and I wonder if she sees what I’m trying so desperately to hide.
The truth.
Supper with my family is a big deal.
I’m not sure if it’s the Italian heritage, or the fact that it was the only meal Papá could ever manage to make it to, but Mamá would always break out the good dishes after spending the day using paper plates, and she’d make a spread fit for an army.
The next time we go to my parents’ house, the night of Ariana’s recital, supper seems more like an intimate affair than the massive feast it once was.
Kal and I walk to the courtyard through the kitchen, noting the twinkling lights strung up, dwarfed in comparison to the city skyline just beyond. The table is set with Mamá’s wedding china, as if her company bears great importance, and there are only enough table settings for the seven of us.
I can’t remember a single time in family history where we ate with less than eight people. If not a group of girls from school—whose parents hadn’t yet realized whose house they were going to—then any number of the other family members. On occasion, we’d even host certain diplomats, each Ricci daughter putting on her best dress and fakest smile so Papá could pretend everything was fine where business was concerned.
The lack of abundance here makes me uneasy, and I pause just inside the threshold, unsure if I want to continue, or if we should just pack up and head home. Keep living in our little bubble.
Since my realization on the jet, my feelings for Kal have shifted to the forefront of my thoughts, blotting out everything else until I’m living and breathing and bleeding for this man.
I’m not even sure if it makes sense, so I keep the sentiment to myself, afraid that this secretly broken being before me doesn’t really want this marriage to go on.
Afraid of what it means if he does.
Kal pauses just ahead of me, seeming to sense that I’m no longer at his side. He turns, furrowing his brows, and moves to stand in front of me.
“Elena?”
Shaking my head, I try to dispel the sudden fog blanketing my brain, like vaporized anxiety finding a home in my body. “I… I don’t feel very well.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just blinks down at me, until my unease is due in part to his study. Finally, he smooths a hand down the front of his black tailored suit, glancing over his shoulder at where my sisters lean into each other, whispering conspiratorially.
“Do you want to leave?”
Chewing on the corner of my lip, I consider it, guilt slamming down on my shoulders. How is it possible that a place, people I once longed for, now feels like the singular bane of my existence?
“Say the word, little one, and I’ll have you back in Aplana before you can take your next breath.” He inches forward, a husky look falling over his handsome face. “Imagine all the fun we could be having.”
I almost fold. It’d be so easy to feign illness and let Kal take me back to where the rest of the world ceases to exist.
To fall into each other and pretend like none of this is doomed.
Too easy, though. After the way she acted when I left the first time, there’s no way Mamá would let me leave quietly. She’d probably burn Boston to the ground, just to keep me under her wing, a nice little doll she can dress up and manipulate forever.
So instead of accepting Kal’s offer, I shake my head again, straightening my spine until it cracks.
“I made you come here. It’s only fair I see it through, right?”
His mouth curves down, the muscle below his eye pulsing. “You didn’t make me do anything. I did it because I—”
“Supper is served!”
One of my parents’ private chefs pushes a cart through the French doors, wheeling a covered baking dish over to the table. Nonna and Papá file in after, Papá taking his usual spot at the head of the table. Normally, Mamá would sit at the opposite end, and everyone else would find a seat between, but Kal walks over to the table and plops down in Mamá’s chair.
Stella and Ariana freeze, lifting their heads as he sits. I feel the heat of their gazes on me, but I can’t tear mine from my husband, stomach tightening until it’s forcing bile up, burning the expanse of my chest with the onslaught.
God, this is going to be a long night.
Quietly, Nonna sits on the other side of Stella, patting her elbow and saying the bucatini all’Amatriciana smells amazing. Papá and Kal are locked in a staring contest, although it’s beginning to feel like something more.
Something they aren’t telling me.
Normally, we wait to eat until all the guests are seated at the table, and since Mamá hasn’t yet arrived, the Riccis all sit back in their seats, sipping drinks or buttering rolls.
Kal, though, reaches to the center of the table, removes the cloche from the pasta dish, and makes himself a plate.
Taking the seat to Kal’s left, I unfold my napkin and settle it over my lap. My voice is hushed when I speak, barely audible, but Kal leans in and listens as he shoves a forkful of bucatini into his mouth. “Why are you locked in some sort of dick measuring contest with Papá right now?”
“Mine’s bigger. Contest over.” He tucks his napkin into the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat without dropping my father’s stare.
I make a face. “Ew. What’s going on with you two? Aren’t you worried about how this might look to the Elders?”
“How what might look?”
I shrug, moving my hands in a circular gesture. “This. You, undermining his contract with Bollente Media, marrying the daughter he promised to them, and now the obvious power struggle?”
“There’s no power struggle to be had here, little one. Your father has none.” Finally, Kal looks over at me, his eyes smoldering, causing heat to pool between my thighs. “The only one here with any sort of power, especially over you, is me. Your husband.”
His words make my throat constrict, even though they sound vaguely threatening in nature; his tone, though, oozes sex, and even though my brain is struggling to keep up with every single emotion rolling around in my body, it’s that one it latches onto.
Like a familiar friend, arousal shows up and overpowers everything else, making me forget what I was even just complaining about.
Clenching my thighs together, I shift in my seat, reaching for the glass of water in front of me. I take a sip, keeping my eyes locked with Kal, until Papá clears his throat, drawing my attention.
“Bambina,” Papá says around his scotch. “How’s school?”
M
y hand freezes in midair and I choke up, almost dropping my glass. I take another sip, buying a few seconds while I scrape together an answer. “I... dropped out.”
Okay, not a good save, but whatever.
His eyes widen, and he sets his tumbler back on the table. “Perché?”
I can feel Kal watching me, but I look right at Papá. “I didn’t want to do it anymore. Teaching literature doesn’t interest me.”
“I see.” Papá’s nostrils flare, and he taps his thumb ring against his glass. “I suppose you didn’t think to inform the person on the hook for your student loans that he’d be having to pay for them sooner than he thought?”
Shame scores my face, fiery as it lashes against my skin. Ariana and Stella glare down at the table, while Nonna downs the rest of her wine.
“Never mind the fact that I said from the beginning that school wasn’t your destiny. But you didn’t want to believe me. Had to learn the hard way, and screw me over in the process.”
Kal stiffens beside me, fingers tightening around his fork until his knuckles bloom white. My foot kicks out, pressing against his in a silent plea not to send the utensil through my father’s throat.
“I’m sorry, Papá,” I say softly, the anger in his gaze revitalizing the nausea from before; it blows up, like a vapor expanding to fill the shape of its container, and I grip the edge of the table, trying to stave off the vomit rising in my esophagus. “I hadn’t even thought about that.”
“Of course, you didn’t, because you’re still an immature, selfish little girl.”
Mamá’s voice interrupts the quiet din of the patio atmosphere, and for once, I hear the malice threaded in her words. It’s not disguised at all in her tone, and when she rounds the table in a floor-length, bright red evening gown, I see it written on her face.
The woman who helped me get ready for my wedding and the woman standing here now are not the same person.
Not even a little bit.
Kal shoves back from the table, making the dishes clatter with the force. Murder rims his dark eyes, setting them aflame. “Carmen.”
She grins, lifting a brow, bringing her wineglass to her lips. “Oh, come on, Kal. I know my daughter. She’s quite the chip off the old block, wouldn’t you say?”
Sighing, Papá rubs his temple. “Carmen, what are you doing?”
Sitting in the chair at his side, her grin grows, stretching so wide across her face that it looks painful. She swirls the wine in her glass, gesturing toward my sisters. “Girls, why don’t you take Nonna to her room for a nap? We don’t want her falling asleep at the recital.”
Ariana snorts. “I don’t want to miss whatever this is.”
But Stella elbows her, yanking her up from the table; they flank Nonna on both sides, catching her when she droops forward in her drunken stupor.
“I was going to tell you,” I say, putting my water down. “It just kind of slipped my mind with everything else.”
“Yes,” Mamá says, leaning back in her chair, “hard to remember important things like who your family really is, when you’re too busy spreading your legs for the first man to ever pretend he cared about you.”
My face heats up, bile scratching and clawing at the base of my throat, dragging irritation up along with it. “What’s wrong with that? He’s my husband, after all.”
“Because your father wanted him away from me.”
Chapter 33
My mother’s accusation hurdles through the air like a slow-motion car crash, slowing time as the world simultaneously implodes around us.
On impact, my ribs are crushed, splintering into a million little pieces and swept away in my bloodstream. My heart feels like an overinflated balloon, popping when stretched to its limits, and I try to swallow down the ache in my throat as my eyes find Kal’s, hoping for some kind of hint that she’s lying.
That she’s just trying to get under my skin and make me feel bad for abandoning her.
Jaw clenched, Kal meets my gaze, eyes guarded but transparent. His shoulders slump just the slightest fraction, and his Adam’s apple jumps, and I quickly drop my stare to the table, feeling tears burning behind my lids at his silence.
It’s a sign. An admission.
Just not the one I’d been hoping for.
“Manache,” Papá grumbles, drawing an imaginary cross over his chest. “My decision had nothing to do with you fucking him years ago, Carmen. Cristo.”
Mamá tsks, taking a long swig of her wine. Her hand wobbles on its descent, and I can’t help wondering if she’s mixing, the way the other mob wives seem to, relying on a nice chemical cocktail to get through their miserable lives.
“Oh, dear, did I expose some of Kallum’s dirty laundry? You two just looked so... cozy together, I couldn’t fathom that he hadn’t told you about our affair yet.”
Our affair.
The phrase tastes bitter on my tongue, like biting into a fruit that hasn’t quite ripened yet, all because you couldn’t stand to be patient. Just another day, a little extra self-control, and you might have bitten into something juicy and delectable.
Instead, you’re left with the dull flavor of your mistakes, wondering why the man you’ve fallen in love with shares anything with another.
Much less your mother.
My hands itch to wrap around her neck and squeeze for using his full name so flippantly. Like she’s at all deserving of it.
Even without knowing the details, I know she isn’t.
“Except I told you the other night she didn’t know.” Kal’s voice is a hot blade to my skin, laced with rust as it slices through me.
“Did you?” She shrugs one shoulder, humming. “Must’ve slipped my mind. We talked about so many things.”
Looking at the hollow of Kal’s throat, the divot I’ve run my tongue over more times than I can even count at this point, I lick my lips, afraid to go any higher. “When did you speak to my mother?”
He flattens his palms on the table, his wedding band catching in the light. “The other night, right after you went outside.”
“Ah, yes, when you so kindly tossed him into my waiting arms.”
“Carmen,” Papá snaps, rubbing his hand over his face. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“The only way I would be tossed into your arms is if they were torn from your body and set on fire,” Kal says, curling his fingers. “And even then, it would be so I could join you in the afterlife, and personally drop you on Satan’s doorstep.”
There’s hatred in his voice, venom spewing from the tip of his tongue, but I grew up on the principle of thought that love and hate were just two sides of the same coin. The only difference was circumstance, and as my eyes volley between Kal and my mother, one a rabid beast ready to destroy its prey, the other a hungry predator looking to feast, I realize I can’t quite tell where the two lie in regards to that coin.
“You slept with my mother?” I ask, my brain still struggling to process.
“Well, there never was much sleeping involved, if you know what I mean,” Mamá mutters, laughing at her own joke, even though everyone else on the patio remains eerily still, one comment away from complete annihilation. “I certainly hope you two are better with contraception than we were, because I’ll tell you. That man is potent, if you know what I mean.” She hiccups, confirming to me that she’s at least a little high, although that certainly doesn’t lessen the sting. “Oops, did I say that twice?”
The implication hangs heavy in the air between the four of us, souring my stomach, threatening to expel the contents. My throat tightens, the weight of this revelation wrapping its claws around me until I’m gasping for my next breath and praying it never comes in the same thought.
“Jesus Christ, you really are a bitch.” Kal rips his napkin from his throat, throwing it on the table as he pushes to his feet, turning to look at me. “Elena. Can I please have a moment alone with you?”
“I don’t think she’ll be going anywhere with you again, Kallum.” Mam
á sloshes her wine in his direction, glaring. “You stay away from my little girl.”
I stare at the centerpiece in the middle of the table, letting my eyes lose focus in the brightness of the dahlias and lilies. Flowers I would’ve had at my wedding or funeral, their presence now ironic, since I’ve never been more convinced that I’m dying.
And yet, that’s what heartbreak feels like; it’s having someone reach into your chest and tear the organ from your body, except they don’t use any tools or care to make it a clean extraction. They yank and twist until it pops free, leaving all the broken muscle and tissue behind, veins spilling with nowhere else to pump into.
It’s visceral, blinding pain that sparks in the wound and creeps outward, testing the waters to see how much you can take.
Betrayal slithers like lava down my spine, obliterating everything in its path. Looking up at Kal, I’m struck by how immediately your entire view of a person can change, when presented with new information about them.
When I felt the scars on his body, proving a lifetime of evil deeds, I saw a man trapped in a monster’s body.
When I saw the pictures of his mom and sister, my heart ached for a boy with no one, who grew up and filled the cracks in his soul with whatever scraps of attention and affection he could get.
Now, all I see is a liar.
A man I don’t even recognize; his shape shifts into a sinister being as I stare at him silently, still hoping beyond hope that he’ll refute what my mother’s saying. That I wasn’t his sloppy seconds, his only option.
His revenge piece.
‘You’re of no use to me dead, little one.’
I suppose this solves that mystery.
Pushing my chair slowly back from the table, I keep my eyes trained on my glass of water, refusing to look at anyone in fear of an instant breakdown.
“I don’t want to be late for Ari’s recital.”
I feel three pairs of eyes on me, feel the surprise from all of them. “Elena,” Papá says, and I hear his chair scrape across the concrete, creaking as he stands. “We should probably talk about this—”
Promises and Pomegranates: A Dark Contemporary Romance (Monsters & Muses Book 1) Page 23
