by Laura Rossi
Chapter 5
I’d woken up to a nightmare.
The police had knocked on our door in the early hours of the morning.
One look at the officer and I am already shaking, hand over my mouth.
Alonso is home; he is still in bed. It can only mean one thing.
Oh my god.
I feel my knees go soft as the police officer walks into the house, guiding me to a chair.
“What’s going on?” Alonso rushes down the stairs, reaching for my hand.
I squeeze it tight.
“Signora Filomena,” the man looks me in the eyes, as I breath in and out slowly.
No, no, no.
“Your father…”
I let out a deep breath, letting go of my husband’s hand, covering my face as I fall apart.
My father had been found dead in his car, in a countryside road out of Rome. Two men had been in the car with him, all shot in the head. The coroner had told us later on that the time of death had been four a.m.
“Any idea who could have done this?”
I am asked this same question over and over again. But no, no I don’t. I… or maybe I do, but I don’t want to face the truth.
Maybe I’d always known, but I refused the idea back then.
I’d wrapped my arms around my womb, around the baby I’d been carrying inside me, and told myself no, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t true.
My husband could have never killed my father. Could he?
As days went by, after the funeral, after the first moments of confusion, I’d eyed Alonso as he’d spoken to the people coming to pay their respects and thought of the possibilities.
He could have done this. But how? He was with me, in bed with me.
He could have asked someone to do it—could have ordered an execution—but why? Over their disagreements?
I’d cried in the corner, going back and forth from one thought to another.
The baby had brought us closer, the baby had set things right.
No, no it couldn’t have been Alonso.
But I’d never really been sure.
His dark misty eyes drift to me then and he smiles. I know he’s always been keeping secrets from me; I know he’s lied to me often. I know who my husband is but it is so much easier for me to believe the lies—to believe in the perfect life we are living.
***
Doubt had become a part of me. It was like a little voice inside my head, a smile, a word, an unspoken word, a sly glance… I’d doubted everything.
A few months later, almost at the end of my pregnancy, I’d been feeling heavier, restless.
My father’s sudden death had created a stir.
“Business is crazy. It’s the consequence of Antonio not being with us anymore,” Alonso tells me almost every day as he explains to me why he is late.
I’d started sleeping alone at night.
He’d come back when I was already having breakfast most of the time.
Soldiers were around me all day. I’d felt like I was choking: no space, no more freedom... I’d been a prisoner in my own house.
“We need to be careful; we still don’t know what happened to your father.” Alonso asks me to be patient. He is going to find out what happened—he is going to get the rest of the gangsters in the trade to talk.
“We will punish the traitors,” he reassures me.
I nod and smile.
I believed his words. I’d so wanted to.
But one night, I’d pretended to go to bed like the good wife that I was and waited for the right moment to sneak out of the house. I’d known how: I’d done it before when I was younger.
We’d been living near the city centre back then, and I’d known those streets like the back of my hand. So I’d walked and walked and walked, one hand over my bump, holding back the tears.
It was one of those moments—I knew it was: a moment of realization.
For better or for worse.
I’d walked to one of the places I knew my husband controlled his trade from: a night club, dark windows, dark doors, red and blue lights… The man at the door had looked at me surprised.
No, he’d been shocked.
“You can’t go in, ma’am.” he touches my shoulder gently, seeing the state I am in.
Pregnant, tears running down my cheeks, eyes dark and hurt...
“I’m Filomena De la Crux.” I glare, my voice angry. “Open the damn door.”
The man doesn’t move an inch: he just stares at me, then searches the street, looking for a soldier maybe to take me away.
“Open the damn door!” I roar, hitting him on the chest, reaching for the handle and shaking his hand off my shoulder. “Take your hands off me!” I bark, pushing through and into the building.
The sweet scent fills my lungs, the dim lights making me squint.
It is loud: music sounds in every room.
I walk in fast, through a set of red velvet curtains and into the main room.
Naked women dance around tables—tables full of men.
I scan the place quickly, frantically, for my husband then my eyes catch sight of something: a set of stairs. That little voice, that doubt inside my head, calls out to me, tells me to walk up the stairs.
And I do, fast, feeling the baby kick the air out of my lungs.
I reach the top, panting, but I can’t stop. I just cannot stop now.
Doors to my left and to my right… I open every single one of them.
Some rooms are empty; some reek of lust and sin. It is always the same scene: a prostitute and a man, sometimes two men.
I open and close fast, darting from one room to another. Until I find what I am looking for: my husband, Alonso, fucking a whore.
I’d stared at him, my man, my king, thrusting hard inside another woman. She’d been so young, so much younger than me. Her brown, curly hair had covered her eyes, but I’d been able to see her lips part as he’d fucked her on the bed from behind, growling her name.
“Si, si, Samantha…” He keeps fucking her, doesn’t hear me over the music.
I watch my husband pound inside a whore. I watch the truth unfold in front of me and let all the lies I have been told wash me over.
My husband was a cheater, a liar, a man capable of anything. Anything. And I’d let him fool me. I’d closed my eyes and believed his words. I’d let his promises of a rich, powerful life lure me into believing and loving a liar.
“Figlio di puttana.” Son of a bitch. I murmur the words and then cover my mouth to muffle the cry, but Alonso hears me or sees me move.
He jumps off the bed, and I have to look away as he pulls up his pants to rush over to me.
“Filomena,” he starts but I run. I don’t let him touch me.
I run away from him, from his hands, his dirty, unfaithful hands, his lousy words...
I run all the way to the end of the corridor, until he grabs my wrist.
“Filomena!” he shouts, pulling me towards him and holding me in his arms, so tightly I can hardly breathe.
“Let go of me,” I scream in his face, but it serves nothing. He only holds me tighter against him.
I’m going to be sick.
“Che cazzo ci fai qui?” What the fuck are you doing here? He roars, his eyes wide in shock.
I stare at him, speechless for a moment. I can’t believe his words.
What the fuck am I doing here?
“What the fuck are YOU doing here?” I shout, and he shakes me, his face pressed against mine.
I smell liquor, something strong, and his breath nearly makes me puke.
Don’t fucking touch me, don’t fucking kiss me.
His mouth moves so dangerously close.
“You are not supposed to be here,” he spats out, holding my stare.
“No, you are not supposed to be here,” I cry out. “How could you? How could you?” I sob, one hand protectively over my womb. “I’m pregnant with your child. How could you do this to me?”
How
? How?
“This has nothing to do with us,” he growls, his pupils dilated, like the eyes of a ferocious animal. “Look at me,” Alonso says as I turn away, my eyes back on the long corridor—back on that door that I’ve just opened.
The door to the truth.
We weren’t a team; we weren’t companions. Lies, lies. Nothing but lies. I was led to believe it had always been about us: he was the king and I was his queen.
Wrong. Alonso had been hiding his disgusting little habit, screwing young prostitutes behind my back, almost every night.
How long has it been going on? How many times has he come home to me after fucking in a brothel? How many times has he made love to me after fucking a whore?
I feel vomit rise in my throat.
He’s lied to me about us and about God knows what else.
About my father’s death.
My doubts, all my suspicions, my nightmares are coming true.
“Io ti amo, Filomena,” he says searching my eyes. “Ti amo.” I love you.
I shake my head, trying to get out of his hold, but Alonso won’t hear of it. No isn’t an option for him. No isn’t a word. It is an insult.
“You don’t love me,” I cry out, pushing him back.
“Look at me,” he growls, his voice so loud and menacing. I turn his way, lips trembling. “This is business? This is what I do. This means nothing, nothing to me.”
“It means something to me!” I shout in his face. “Get your hands off me!” I push so hard, I finally get away.
Without stopping to think twice, I turn and run down the stairs, hearing his footsteps right behind me.
“Come back here!”
“Where do you think you are going?”
“You are my wife!”
“You don’t get to turn your back on me!”
I don’t stop. I run fast down the stairs, away from him and my nightmare.
How could he? How could he do this to me?
I’d been a perfect wife. I’d done nothing but satisfy him in every possible way. We’d been thick as thieves, on top of the world; we’d had everything we could possibly ask for: power, money, a whole city at our feet… And a baby coming.
How could he?
I suck in a breath and let out a cry as my foot touches one of the last steps.
My whole body tenses, a sharp pain spreads across my womb.
I let go of the railing and bend forward to hold my belly with both hands.
Another sharp pain, lower this time…
I crouch and scream as I fall down the stairs, Alonso’s hand brushing against my arm.
He nearly catches me—he nearly stops the fall—but he is too late. I hit the floor on my back, then roll on my stomach before everything goes blank.
It is too late. For me, for us.
Chapter 6
“Signora De la Crux,” I open my eyes to a bright light.
My vision is blurry. I blink until I can make out the face of a woman in a white overcoat, asking me questions, a small light pointed straight into my eyes.
They’ve taken me to a hospital, and I am surrounded by nurses and doctors.
“The baby.” It’s all I keep saying.
How’s the baby? Where’s the baby?
My hands move to my stomach instantly and feel… nothing.
“The baby!” I wail, lifting my head up, shifting on the bed. I want to see—I want to see the bump, the baby. I ache everywhere, but deep down in my heart is where I am bleeding.
“Please, please calm down.” A nurse pushes me gently back on the pillow, exchanging glances with one of the doctors, who comes forward and rests a hand over my shoulder.
“The baby is doing well.” Five words that mean the world to me…
It’s all I want to hear—all I care about. It’s all I need to keep breathing.
I’d gotten to the hospital in a critical state. The baby had suffered from the fall; they’d had to run an emergency c-section to take it out fast.
“Grazie a Dio, grazie a Dio.” Thank God. I keep repeating the words, covering my face, crying out for the relief.
My baby is okay.
Nothing else had mattered. In that moment I hadn’t cared for Alonso, me or what would happen between us. All I’d wanted was to see that baby with my own eyes, hold it in my arms.
“The baby is almost one month premature. We need to keep him in an incubator for a few weeks, but he’s doing fine. He’s strong,” the doctor says, smiling down at me reassuringly.
It’s a boy.
My eyes grow wide as I cry again, smiling, knowing the life inside me has survived the fall overwhelming me.
He’s strong, so strong.
I hadn’t known how fragile my son would become one day. The weakest one of all. I hadn’t known back then that he’d never really survived the fall —that his life would be anything but easy or straightforward.
Alejandro was brought into a world I’d thought I dominated, controlled and ruled with Alonso. A world I’d then realized wasn’t real, was built with lies, where loyalty and honour were just empty, meaningless words, used to suppress and manipulate.
I’d carried him in my womb, loving his father unconditionally, loyally, giving him body and soul, waiting for him patiently at home every night, while all that time he’d been sleeping with whores behind my back.
After the doctors had assessed I was in good conditions, I’d been helped by a nurse to a glass wall. I’d seen Alejandro for the first time: the smallest baby in the nursery; the only baby that wasn’t crying.
“He’s drinking a lot of milk; he’s healthy.” The nurse smiles at me.
He’s a strong boy, he’s going to make it.
Tears sting my eyes.
He’s going to grow up a strong man like…
I gasp, leaning on the glass window with both hands.
“Signora…” I feel the nurses’ arms around me instantly.
“I’m okay.” I am quick to smile and straighten up.
“Are you sure?” She gives a puzzled look and I nod.
Smile. Smile. Pretend.
And that’s when it had started, when my act had begun. That was the day I’d started showing to the world what I wasn’t. What I had to.
I’d been a happy, young mother, and we were a perfect happy couple.
“She’s okay,” Alonso says, walking towards us. He looks at me with kind eyes, and I stand still, unable to breathe, speak, move...
“I’ll take it from here.” He smiles and the nurse slowly backs away, telling me she’ll be just a couple of doors down if we need her.
Alonso.
I look at him, so many emotions surging through me.
I look at him and see the same scene, over and over again: his whore moaning, him pounding hard inside her.
I blink and see the smile on his lips disappear.
I’ve married a stranger, a different man. This can’t be the same man I married—the man who said he’d make me his queen, that we’d rule the world together… the man who promised to be faithful in front of God.
Had those words meant nothing to him? They’d meant everything to me.
What have I done? What was I thinking?
I glance towards our baby boy.
He’s going to grow up like his father, like Alonso, and the thought makes me shudder.
Alonso moves closer then, gets down on his knees and looks up to me. “Perdonami,” Forgive me.
More tears stream down my cheeks, as I suck in a breath and close my eyes.
“Forgive me, Filomena. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry for what I did, for everything that’s happened,” Alonso’s pleading eyes stare back at me. “Forgive me. Forgive me.”
You can’t trust him. He’s hurt you once, he’s going to hurt you again.
Every word out of his mouth for the last few months has been a lie, nothing but lies.
Ask him about your father. Ask him if he killed him—if he was behind it.<
br />
I hadn’t been brave enough. I didn’t ask then and didn’t for a long time after that.
I remember hearing our son cry for the first time, my head had turned to him and Alonso stood. We’d stayed there for I don’t know how long, hands and noses pressed against the glass window, mesmerized by Alejandro’s wailing, his tiny little hands shaking.
That cry had moved everything inside me: he was my priority; I was a mother.
A mother.
“He’s so beautiful,” Alonso says, and I eye him just in time to see one single tear roll down his cheek.
I’d never seen him cry and never saw it again after that, but that tear, his begging for forgiveness, Alejandro crying in the background for our attention, and my emotional state of mind, had made the decision for me: I forgave him; I let him hold me.
We took the baby home a few weeks after that and I lived everyday convincing myself it had just been a bump in the road, that we could survive this, that the baby would set things straight.
It had just been a bump.
Just a bump in the road.
I didn’t known we were walking straight into a storm.
Chapter 7
Had my eyes always been closed?
Had I let things happen under my nose, or had I really been so naïve not to notice?
Alonso sleeping around, coming home high and disruptive...
Or maybe what had pleased me before—before Alejandro was born—now scared me, and I’d seen it as a threat?
I’d lived for that moment when he’d come home at night, ready to get in bed with me and make me his: hyper, high on money and power, ready to make me moan all night…
Things had changed. I saw him differently, always wondered if he’d been fucking a whore before me.
Who? The same one? Why?
Despite his promises of never hurting me again, despite giving me everything I could possibly desire—maids, nannies, expensive jewellery—I’d never really trusted him again after that night in the brothel.