by Selena
With that, Dad takes his leave. I slump back to the couch, laying my head back and taking a deep breath. Despite the day’s events, I’m not a drunk. I wish I were. Then I could just numb out the whole thing. Swim through the soup of life in a disoriented fog.
Even I know I wouldn’t be happy with that, though. Yes, I like to party and get stupid on occasion, and lately I’ve been doing it more than I should. But alcohol is a rebellion, an assertion of my independence. It’s not something I use to cope with life’s traumas. I can deal with those just fine on my own. I don’t need help. I’ve fought too hard for my little freedoms to walk into a cage of my own making.
seven
King
“How’s things?” I ask, watching my brother carefully as we stand in front of the mirrors, a tailor at our feet. Guilt twists inside me, like it does every time I look into his haunted eyes. He’s going to have to learn to hide that look if he’s going to survive in this world. The mafia’s not the only place that will destroy a man if he doesn’t put on a coat of armor too thick for pain to penetrate.
“Fine,” Royal says, holding out his arms and adjusting the sleeves of his coat, shrugging to make sure it settles onto his shoulders right.
Beyond him, the twins are getting their trousers pinned, too.
“Don’t give me that shit,” I say to Royal, lowering my voice. “I’m your brother. I know you’re not fucking fine.”
It’s been eight months since the kidnapping that was supposed to be staged but turned way too fucking real. Six since his twin disappeared into a dark river and never returned. I stopped expecting him to go back to normal a long time ago. But I don’t want him to hate me for this, to think I walked away and washed my hands clean of them. If I could have traded places with him in that basement, I would have. If I could have traded places with Crystal in that water, I would have. I should have saved him. I should have saved her.
I’ve failed them all so many times, in such catastrophic, irreparable ways.
“I can’t believe our big bro is getting married,” Duke says, throwing an arm around his twin’s shoulder and grinning at me. “It’s like you’re a grown up or something.”
I manage a half smile. “Or something sounds about right.”
“Yeah,” Royal says. “We should be asking you how things are.”
They’ve been here a few days, and I’ve already told them how things are. But it’s hard to talk with our parents around, Dad always lurking, trying to figure us out.
“I don’t even know the girl,” I say with a shrug, holding my arms for the tailor to pin my sleeves. “She didn’t want to get to know me before the wedding. It’s weird, right? Even if she didn’t choose this, you’d think she’d want to get to know the person she’s spending the rest of her life with.”
“Guess she has the rest of her life to get to know you,” Royal says.
“Hey, you’re lucky, alright?” Baron says. “You’d never get a girl that hot to marry you if she did know you.”
He and Duke crack up, and I slug his shoulder because that’s what I’m supposed to do, but it already feels different, like when I walked into Mom’s the night before I became a made guy. Like this is a memory, a life I’m no longer a part of. It’s only been a couple months since I left, and over the past few days we’ve caught up on anything we’ve missed with the others. They’ll always be my brothers, my first family. But they’ve also always been closer with each other. I was the protector, almost their dad. I looked out for them and tried to keep them safe. And now I don’t.
“Yeah,” Duke adds. “Think about it. You get the goods, and you don’t have to work for it. You don’t have to get her to like you or worry if she’s going to say yes. You don’t have to do anything, and you get one of the hottest girls in New York.”
“Yeah,” I say, remembering the bratty girl I met at her father’s house. Pretty sure I’ll be doing plenty of work in our marriage, even if love’s not part of the equation.
“Don’t even worry about us,” Royal says, throwing an arm around the twin’s shoulders. The three of them look like a wedding photo, all the happy groomsmen getting their tuxes altered for the big day. Looking at them, you’d never know how toxic our family is. From the outside, we look like the perfect Italian family, living the fucking American dream.
“Yeah, man,” Duke says. “It’s your wedding. You’re supposed to be the happiest man alive, right?”
“I think Dad’s the happiest man alive,” Royal says bitterly. “He thought you’d be a grunt in Uncle Al’s army, and here you are marrying the daughter of a don.”
“Too true,” Baron says. “He’s going to piss himself when he meets Pomponio tomorrow.”
“Get ready to see our father groveling like a teenage girl trying to get backstage at a Just 5 Guys concert,” Royal says in disgust.
“Speaking of teenage girls groveling… I found a pair of identical twin strippers for your bachelor party tonight,” Duke announces. “Blondes. Same age as you. It’s going to be epic.”
“Strippers?” I ask, cocking a brow.
“Blonde, identical twin strippers,” Baron says, like he’s correcting me. “But hey, if you’re not up for the task, me and Duke can entertain them after the show.”
“Thanks,” I say, distracted by Royal’s quiet, tense posture. I watch him in the mirror as the tailor perfects the cuffs of his steel grey suit, the same color we’re all wearing. I know he doesn’t want to talk about what happened, and I don’t blame him. I just need to know he’s okay. Leaving my brothers was about the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and even though I didn’t really have a choice, part of me wonders if they’re ready to handle life on their own. I don’t want them to think I’m turning my back on them the way Crystal did before she died. Even in death, she chose someone else. Love. Our enemy. And maybe herself.
Royal will never forgive that.
But I can’t take care of him forever, just like I couldn’t take care of her. I can’t take care of our little brothers, either. This job forces me to take care of myself and my new family, whether I like it or not.
While Duke and Baron get hyped for the party, I turn to Royal. “They okay?”
From the way they act, you’d never know they lost a sister six months ago. They’re the same old kids, falling over themselves with excitement about a fucking party. I couldn’t care less about a party, but it’s tradition, and it makes them happy. And if I can make them happy for a night, or even a moment, it’s worth it.
“Shit, man, you sound like a mom,” Royal says. “Chill the fuck out.”
He didn’t say our mom. He said a mom. Ma isn’t the type to worry about anyone but herself, so it always fell to me. It’s hard to let that habit go.
“You’re right,” I say. “I have a wedding to worry about, and after that, making sure the bride’s father doesn’t send you my head in a box.”
The corner of Royal’s mouth lifts, and he throws an arm around my neck and rubs my head with his knuckles like we’re kids again. “This ugly old thing?” he asks. “I’d take one look at it and send it back.”
The twins jump on us, and we wrestle around a minute before breaking apart and making sure we haven’t ripped our tuxes. We’ve always been affectionate with each other, physical. It makes me happy that Royal can still have moments of normalcy.
We finish up at the tailor’s and leave, the twins bounding ahead like puppies, frolicking in the sweltering New York heat. I get that sensation of being out of place again, like I’m just playing a part. The mafia hasn’t changed me that much in six weeks, has it? I’m still a Dolce, even if I’m a Valenti, too. Maybe I never quite fit into their carefree lives, though. I was always standing a step off to the side, watching for snakes in the grass while they raced around like they were fucking invincible. Now that I know how just how fragile life is, how easily lost, how precious, it’s even harder to understand that freedom.
I turn to Royal again. “I know I’m not t
here to help out anymore,” I say. “But don’t cut me out. It’s my family, too.”
“Is it, though?” he asks, cocking his head and squinting against the late afternoon sun. “You’re getting married. You have a new family. You and your wife.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. The Valentis are my family. The Dolces. But he’s right. Eliza and I will have our own little family, just the two of us.
Somehow, I don’t think it’ll be as cozy as it sounds.
“I’ll still always have your back,” I say to Royal. “If you need me, shoot me a text. I may not be anything special here, but I’ve got connections. If anyone fucks with you…”
“I’ll take care of it,” he says. “I got this, okay? You don’t have to be the hero all the time, King.”
“You know I’m no hero,” I say bitterly.
We don’t speak of Crystal. Not directly. No one in our family does. She’s the ghost that haunts each of us, but we pretend she’s not there, as if acknowledging it might make what happened real.
“You can have our backs, but you gotta move on, man,” Royal says. “Stop worrying about us. You got enough to deal with here. You got a life here. You can’t be worrying about shit halfway across the country when you can’t do shit about it.”
“True,” I say, but it still sits funny inside me, knowing that I can’t look out for them anymore. They’re on their own, with each other to look out for. And I’ve got to watch my own back now.
“You’re getting married in two days,” Duke crows, pounding my back. “You ready for the last hurrah?”
“Yeah,” I say, opening the door and sliding in behind the wheel of the Evija. I should probably get a bigger car, something safer, but I’ve held onto this for so long it’s like a part of me now. The one thing that never changed when I went from Manhattan to small-town Arkansas and back.
Royal slides into the passenger seat while the twins jump in the back, jostling for space.
“Strippers, here we come!”
“Show me the pussy,” Duke yells, like he’s repeating the “show me the money” line from Jerry Maguire.
I turn to Royal and squeeze his shoulder. “Take care of them, okay?”
He nods. “Take care of yourself.”
“What’s the holdup?” Baron asks. “I got titties to see.”
I laugh and shake my head, shifting into gear. Royal’s right, as usual. I need to focus on my life here, on not getting myself killed. They don’t need to lose another sibling. And I love these idiots way too fucking much to live in the same state. If they were around here, I’d never stop worrying about them getting themselves killed. And that preoccupation could get me killed. I wouldn’t be sharp, and my life depends on staying sharp. They’ll always be my family, but it’s time to stop worrying about their future and look to my own.
eight
Eliza
“Girl, I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to your dress fitting,” Lizzie Salvatore says, swatting my arm to get my attention. I’m happy for the distraction as we linger on the beach behind my father’s Hamptons house, sipping champagne and chatting about my impending nuptials with our nearest and dearest. The rehearsal dinner was a giant snore, including my fiancé. I’ve never met a man more cold and indifferent. If only he’ll be indifferent to me, not give a fuck what I do. I hope he’s gay, and he has no interest in women whatsoever.
“Bianca came with me,” I tell my occasional partying companion. She’s dressed in a red satin number that would be better suited for a street corner, and with the newly bleached blonde hair and the accent that comes out even stronger when she drinks, she screams Jersey shore trash loud and clear. When I’m drunk, too, I don’t care. She’s always down to party. But at an event that’s supposed to be classy, she makes me cringe.
“Bianca?” she asks incredulously. “You know she told you to get the one that made you look like a tank, right? She can’t stand for anyone to look hotter than her.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I had a second opinion.”
Since I’m too classy to tell her what I really think, I hold back from saying that while it’s true that Bianca advised me to get the most unflattering choices available, Lizzie would have made me look like a prostitute.
These are my friends. The closest thing I have, anyway.
Not that I’m crying about it. I cultivated these friendships. If I’d tried, I might have been able to find more genuine ones. But I wanted to live big, not have quiet sob sessions on my bedroom floor every time I broke up with a boy. When things go wrong, you move on. Dwelling in the past is a recipe for disaster. I live in today. Not yesterday, and not tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Oh, god. I have to swallow past the throb of nerves in my throat. Tomorrow is the wedding day. The first day of the rest of my life or whatever.
Maybe I do wish I had a friend, at least one real friend, who I could share these fears with.
I think of my mother, somewhere just across town, in the same city. I wonder what she’d do if I showed up on her doorstep asking for advice, for opinions about my dress.
I push the thought away, shoving it down deep into a box and slamming the lid. My mother isn’t here. We had an announcement in the papers, and if she wanted to read it, she could have. She could have come. She could have called.
But she lives her own life now, free from the ties that bind the rest of us, society and tradition and all that shit.
Which means I have Bianca, who would do anything to make me look bad, and Lizzie, who has slipped away. I spot her standing in front of my future husband, her bear claw nails lightly raking his forearm as she smiles up at him. He’s taken off his jacket now that the rehearsal is over, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows against the heat. His arms are tan and strong looking in the shadows of the evening as we stand around the back patio under twinkling strings of lights. Everyone is mingling and chatting while the workers remove the tables we had set up for an elegant dinner behind the house.
Lizzie lays a hand on King’s chest, pushing him backwards a step, into the shadows of the porch. Anger roils inside me. Not because I’m jealous. I don’t know him well enough to care about him or who he sticks his dick in.
I’m pissed because this is the kind of friend I have, one who tries to shove my fiancé behind my house and probably hike up her skirt and let him fuck her against the wall while I’m not a dozen steps away.
This is who I have to turn to, to confide my deepest fears, ones that go well beyond cold feet. I want to pretend I don’t care, but my throat tightens. I look around for someone to rage to, at least, but all I see are acquaintances, no one who would care what Lizzie is doing.
I spot King’s mother, giggling and flirting with his dad like they’re still a couple in love.
Of course his mother is here. Everyone’s mother is here.
There’s Bianca’s pretty, perfect mafia mother, the one who carries a Glock in her purse right next to her red lipstick. There’s Lizzie’s stepmother, the one she grew up with since she was little. Her mother was killed around the same time that mine left. Maybe in some other world, that could have made us close. But not this one. Lizzie was the poor tragic girl with a dead mom. I was the one whose mom scandalously ran off to have her own life, the one who’s father should have hunted her down; he must be weak to let a woman walk away and leave him like that, tut-tut.
At last, my eyes find Bianca and Sylvia standing together, their heads tilted toward each other, their eyes sparkling and their wine-stained lips hiding dreamy smiles as Al Valenti throws them a bone and says a word or two to them in passing. If I didn’t know the man was evil, that he was responsible for Jonathan’s death along with hundreds of others, I might think he was hot. But I know the cold hard truth about mafia men, and I want none of it.
“You seen King around?”
I turn to find one of his brothers. Now there are some guys I can’t deny are attractive, all muscle and dark chocolate eyes with la
shes that would make any girl weak in the knees.
“He’s over there with my lovely bridesmaid,” I say, tipping my champagne glass toward where they disappeared. “If I was a betting woman, I’d say she’s asking for help with an undergarment situation.”
He frowns, glancing from the shadows and back to me. “You don’t care?”
“Why would I care?” I ask. “I don’t know the guy from any of you.” It’s true. I can’t remember which one this is. They all have ridiculous names that belong to a family desperate for recognition.
“King’s a good guy,” he says, as if I have some reason to believe him.
“Okay,” I say, sipping my champagne.
“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the edge of the porch. He takes off, and I want to turn away, to prove how little I care, but I find my feet following him. Maybe I just want to prove to myself that I can have a real friend. That Lizzie’s just telling him that if he hurts me, she’ll kick his ass, which is even more ridiculous than when regular girls say it, since my father can do that for me. Still, it would mean something to me, even if it was an empty threat.
When we step around the corner of the house, King is standing with his back to the wall, a glass of champagne in one hand, his other hand in his pocket, his pose all casual disinterest like it has been all night. At least he’s no more excited about her than anything else.
Lizzie, meanwhile, is standing way too close to another woman’s fiancé, not pressed up against him, but just letting her tits brush him when she throws her head back and laughs like she’s not doing it intentionally, trying to drive him crazy with her body. I always marvel at the way she does that, how she controls her whole world with her body, like it’s a magic wand.
“King,” his brother says. “What are you doing?”
King shrugs, not even having the decency to look chagrinned. “Talking to Eliza’s friend.”
He meets my eyes over her head, and I see that look from our first meeting—a challenge. Is he trying to make me jealous?