by CD Reiss
Paola makes a short tsk before drinking. I’m not sure what she’s trying to say, but that particular sound from one of us means something more than nothing. It’s a warning, or a reminder to shut up. It’s disappointment and sometimes irritation. It’s all context, and I feel like I don’t have enough of that to interpret the intention.
“It’s really unique,” Siena says. “The first time I saw it, I thought only a really beautiful woman could pull it off.”
“Siena’s thinking of moving to the States,” Paola changes the subject. “What do you think?”
“Um,” I’m still trying to figure out where Siena would have seen the brooch before, then decide it doesn’t matter. “Yeah. It’s a great idea. I can show you around.”
“My English is terrible.”
“Everyone speaks Italian in Secondo Vasto.” I’m falling right back into the generous hostess role I’d given myself ten minutes ago, and I’m pretty happy here.
“Oh,” I cry, bolting up. “The espresso!”
I can smell the scorched coffee before I even get into the kitchen, where the moka pot’s shaking against the burner.
Liking the role of Queen of the Casa doesn’t make me good at it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Siena says, coming inside. “The soda’s fine.”
“No, no.” I dump the grounds. “I have to do it right.”
She leans on the counter by the open doors and slips a slim pewter case from her pocket.
“You seem happy,” she says, snapping open the case to reveal a row of cigarettes. “One for you?” she asks, holding it out.
“No, thanks.”
“You’re handling the change well.” She hinges one cigarette out and closes the case.
I’m flattered she even notices, but even more than that, she’s open to hearing about what I’d consider my success.
“Thanks,” I say. “It was hard at first.”
“Oh, I’d imagine.” With the scratch and pop of a plastic lighter, she lights her cigarette. “Situation being what it is.”
“Yeah.” I should say something about being raised American, but I take a moment to figure out how to couch it while I refill the espresso pot.
“I was with Rosetta when she died,” Siena says as if this isn’t shocking at all, and she’s about to say more, but I need to backtrack about four words.
“What?”
She exhales, looking at me as if trying to discern what I want to know about.
“I know.” She waves her hand as if the cigarette smoke is anger I’ve directed at her. “I was also pissed he wasn’t with her when she passed.”
“He—?”
“He’s so traditional.”
The way she cocks her chin in a random, upward direction, but somewhere within the house, coupled with the intonation of the word he that implies both disdain for this one thing, and a respect she’s supposed to exhibit in front of me, implies a specificity that I can’t ignore. I’m trying to unravel what, exactly, I’m misunderstanding, but she continues.
“Of course, he’d never be in the room when—”
“Wait a second,” I interrupt because anything she says will clear up my bewilderment, and right now, I don’t want clarity. “I think you’re confused.”
“A lot of us were, you know. I mean, I guess I understand why he’d bring her here to marry her since she wasn’t quite 18. But why not wait? Then, of course, we found—”
“Violetta,” Santino’s voice cuts Siena off. He’s in the doorway, phone in hand as if he just cut the call, Zia Paola behind him, out of breath as if she’d run like hell to get him.
“Santino,” I barely make a whisper.
“Wife. We have to go.”
“Santino.” I say it again as if his name can sweep away everything I’m afraid to know about him.
“We were just talking about Rosetta.” Siena flicks her ashes outside and crosses her arms in a faux-casual power stance. “Remember what you called her?” She directs her words to Santino. “La. Mia. Bella.” She draws out the last three words—my beautiful one—articulating each piece of the possessive with a little venom and a lot of sugar, as if mocking his name for her.
“Siena,” Paola scolds. “Basta.”
Siena stamps her cigarette out in a potted plant. I don’t know why that’s the moment I woke up to how clear it was, and how much that confused me. Maybe it was the definitiveness of the gesture. Maybe I felt like the cigarette, or the dirt, or maybe it was the way it indicated that not only was the smoke over; and not only the conversation, but the blindness that allowed me to be happy.
“We should go,” Paola says to Siena.
“No,” I bark. I want her to stay. Explain how I’d misunderstood, elongating the difference between what she said and what she meant so I can twist it into knots. She’ll laugh at how stupid I am to think this thing…this ridiculous thing I should be blushing over, because Santino’s my husband, and I’m his wife.
For better or for worse.
For richer or poorer.
In sisters and in health.
“Tell me, were they married?”
She shrugs, maybe realizing the danger of her situation, then turns away, maybe deciding she doesn’t care.
“She has to go,” Santino says more to Paola than to me, and I know I’m right. I’m crazy and I’m making things up in my head but also…I’m right.
“Not quite,” Siena confirms. “But that ring?”
“Siena Orolio, I will kill you,” Santino growls, ready to spring, but the woman I just met has decided to ruin my life, and nothing my husband says will change it.
“She wore it?” I ask. My hands shake. I’m cold. Not just a chill, but extremity-numb with a heartbeat as shallow and fast as a bird’s, because I know the answer.
“Yes.” The affirmation is gentle, as if she’s sorry she started down this path, but not because of Santino’s threats. She pities me.
“Don’t you listen to her!”
My husband’s demands are shouted down a tunnel that runs the length of the Atlantic Ocean, to home. I want to run down it, alone into the quiet dark, but I can’t. My brain’s occupied with what Rosetta was doing in Italy when she died, and how, when Santino had come to Zio’s house that first time I saw him in the hallway, he’d come for Rosetta.
I’d wondered why the king accepted the lesser sister who wasn’t as beautiful. I’d wondered why my father hadn’t sold the oldest daughter first, but I’d wondered the wrong thing.
I should have wondered how I could fall in love with a liar who took what he got when he lost what he wanted.
My feelings for him stink of pathetic gratitude.
“Forzetta,” he says with his deep fucking voice as he touches my arm with his perfect fucking hand, and tries to show me how there’s an explanation for all of this with his gorgeous fucking face but he can just get the fuck off me.
I know now what I refused to know then.
I’m second.
I love him and he can never love me.
I’m a consolation prize.
He loved Rosetta first.
The DiLustro Arrangement continues with Mafia King.
Santino is my king. My lover. My husband.
* * *
He’s the head of the Cavallo crime family and the moment he choked my vows from me, my life was bound to his.
* * *
I’m done fighting my fate, until I hear two rumors, and I’m shaken to the core.
One rumor about the past—that I wasn’t the first bride Santino took.
Another about the future—a new bride is about to be taken.
Changing the old ways is like dousing the flames of hell with tears.
But I married the devil himself, and when I vowed to obey, I lied.
Get Mafia King
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About the Author
CD Reiss is a Brooklyn native and has the accent to prove it. She earned a master’s degree in cinematic writing from USC. She ultimately failed to have one line of dialog put on film, but stayed in Los Angeles out of spite.
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Since screenwriting was going nowhere, she switched to novels and has released over two dozen titles, including two NY Times Bestsellers and a handful of USA Today bestsellers. Her audiobooks have won APA Audie Awards and Earphones Awards.
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She resides in Hollywood in a house that’s just big enough for her two children, two cats, her long-suffering husband and her massive ego.
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