by Laura Rossi
“I stopped by the church, near Alejandro’s school,” I admit candidly, slowly removing the black leather gloves I am wearing.
I turn my back on him as I take off my scarf, my designer jacket, and stare at my face reflected in the prestigious painting hanging on the wall beside me: a slate of marble, no emotion on my smooth skin. My glassy eyes stare back at me. I have to look down, look away from the embarrassment my life has become.
Nothing glamorous about it: just elegant, expensive things.
No love: just power, control.
I turn to Alonso, staring at him sitting on the chair in front of his espresso.
How did we come to this?
“Why?” He sounds calm, but I know better than to believe the lie in his voice.
Why? So I could tell a complete stranger how you are making my life miserable, how you disappoint me, how you are destroying everything we’ve built together.
“I asked the priest and the nuns there if I can bring Alejandro’s old clothes, his pram and help families that can’t buy new ones.” I hold his stare and lie through my teeth, with my eyes, my soul.
“Don’t you want another child from me?” Alonso asks, rubbing his hand on the table.
My eyes dart to his hand, to his fingers brushing against the wooden surface, and I picture them on my face, running through my hair, the slaps…
“I didn’t say that,” I pant. I hadn’t even notice my breathing has changed, my heart beating fast.
“What are we going to do?” Alonso murmurs, his eyes losing focus for a moment before they dart back on me. “Why do you fight me, Filomena?”
“Fight you?” I shake my head a little. “I’ve never fought you.”
“Your disapproving looks, your coldness… you push me away—”
I shake my head. “You hurt me.”
Alonso stands and I take a step back. It’s so fast and sudden, an instinct.
A survival instinct.
My gesture catches him by surprise—I read it in his eyes, in the way he stares back at me, stunned.
I want to keep that distance. I don’t want him anywhere near me.
“I said I was sorry; I asked you to forgive me,” he says, standing still, his eyes searching mine.
You did, too many times to sound real.
“I’m trying.” I take my time, trying to take in a deep breath.
Panic.
“I miss my wife,” Alonso says. “I miss having you on my side.”
He takes a step forward and stretches out a hand, his fingers brushing gently against my cheek. My body goes cold, rigid. I eye his fingers as they move in circles over my skin.
What face is he wearing now? Is it a trick? When will he slap me? When will he tell me he knows exactly what I’ve been up to? The priest talked to someone or maybe he knows my husband, who I am…
Panic.
“I’ve never left your side,” I tell him, trying not to shake—to not to show him what I’m feeling.
How I am scared, terrified, of what is to come.
“I bought you red roses—long stem, your favourite—this morning.” One hand cups my cheek, and Alonso stretches out his other hand, taking the flowers from the small table to our side.
I haven’t even noticed the bouquet. I’ve become so used to receiving them every time he does me wrong.
It had been his way of showing that he cared, that he was sorry. Alonso had hidden his sins behind those dozen red roses, hid his lies, his unfaithfulness. I knew he was still sleeping with his whores; I knew he spent most nights in his clubs, his brothels. But I was his wife, I was his family, the mother of his son. I was his.
“Grazie,” I whisper, taking them in my hands.
“Forgive me, mia bella Filomena. I wasn’t myself last night.” He runs a hand through my hair and my lips tremble. “I’ll give you everything you want. Ask and it’s yours, but I need you. Here with me. It won’t happen again, I promise you. I need you to forgive me.”
I want you to leave me. I want you to go away. I want you to die.
For a moment I close my eyes, suppressing my thoughts, and tell him what he wants to hear, what a good wife would say… what will save the day.
“I’m here, Alonso.” I look up, straight into his eyes, my face stern, unreadable. “I forgive you.”
Forgive your cruelty, forgive your sickness, your addictions.
“Tu sei una Santa,” You’re a Saint. He smiles and bends down to kiss me, roughly, dominantly, lacing his fingers around my hair, pulling me towards him slightly.
My whole body shakes as my lips part and give in to the kiss.
Like a ‘good’ wife should.
I shiver, hating myself for letting him touch me.
A good wife never refuses her husband; a good wife is obedient, submissive. That’s what we’d been told back then, but what about faithfulness? What about to care, love and protect? Had he ever loved me? Had he ever cared about me? Or had I just been a prize, a means to get him where he’d always wanted to?
To become the King of Rome.
“I promise you it won’t happen again,” he murmurs inches from my lips.
More lies. Nothing but lies come out of his mouth. I know better than to believe him by now.
I forgive your disgusting attempt to be a husband, but I will never forget what you’ve done to me.
I knew it would just be a matter of time until he’d do it again—until he’d hit me, disrespect me again—but there and then I’d pretended I believed him. I’d lied because lies had been my only chance, the only weapon that would help me fight the battle.
Stay alive, stay in control. Protect Alejandro.
Chapter 10
Worry had made me sleepless; insomnia had become my most trusted friend.
I hadn’t been able to close my eyes that night, too scared to dream, too scared I’d made the biggest mistake of my life by confessing to a complete stranger, a priest, my deepest thoughts.
What if he goes to the police? I told him my name. I’m so stupid.
The following day, I’d got Alejandro ready for school and walked fast, heart in my throat, all the way back to the church, holding a bag full of my son’s clothes and toys.
Remember your lie and support it with facts.
The soldiers had been right behind me—not so discretely this time—no doubt they’d informed Alonso of my whereabouts before I even got home. I’d asked him why they’d followed me.
“It’s for your own safety; I don’t want anything to happen to you and Alejandro.”
Bullshit. Another lie.
I knew he had enemies, but the truth was he didn’t trust me. A filthy mind like his trusted no one. He hadn’t even been able to trust himself most of the times.
“I’m sorry.”
They were the first words I’d said to the priest as I’d closed the church door behind me, leaving the soldiers outside.
“Sorry?” the priest asks, giving me a warm smile of relief.
I look down, my eyes watery, as he holds my hand between his, enjoying the warmth of his touch. Slowly, I find the strength to look him in the eyes again.
“For leaving you in such a horrible manner the other day. For leaving you with a burden, my burden. It was unfair of me. Please forgive me, father.” I take my hand back embarrassed.
I’d told the man I wanted to kill my husband. I’d told him to look after my son in case something happened to me, in case my husband found out I’d revealed his secret: that he was a violent, possessive poor excuse of a man.
“Roberto. My name is Roberto,” he says, letting out a deep breath. “I’m so glad you came back.” His stare lowers to the bag I am holding.
“I brought you something. It’s a donation to the church: my son’s clothes and toys.” I hand him the bag and he takes it, another warm smile lighting his face.
“That’s very generous of you. Thank you.”
I nod, mesmerized by his smile. I haven’t seen a real one in so
long. “I was afraid you’d gone to the police,” I say biting my lip.
“I thought about going. I thought about it all night. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said yesterday, how distressed you were when you walked out…”
“I’m so sorry.” I shake my head, giving him a sad look.
I shouldn’t have come here in the first place.
“Don’t be. I want to help you,” he is quick to say, but I shake my head.
“You have to forget everything I said. Everything. My husband is a very, very dangerous and powerful man, Father Roberto. He knows I’ve been here. I had to tell him I was here to donate clothes for charity.”
“Hence the bag.” He nods in understanding.
“Yes.” I bite my lip again. “There’s nothing that can be done. I just needed someone to talk to, because I was about to explode. I was standing on the edge, ready to jump.” I suck in a breath, unable to take in the air I needed.
Panic.
“Please, come take a seat.” He reads my mind and gently guides me to the first wooden bench at the far back of the navel. “Mrs De la Crux.”
He calls me by my name and I look into his eyes. “Please, don’t call me that,” I pant out. “Filomena.”
Father Roberto nods, giving me an understanding look. “Filomena, you are always welcome in the house of the Lord and I meant what I said the other day: I’m always here for you when you need to talk, when you feel all choked up, ready to give up. I’m here for you, okay?”
I nod, trying to control my breathing.
“Please, tell me what I can do to help. I want to help you.”
“No one can help me, Father. My life is nothing but a lie and to stay alive, I need to keep lying. I just need a place to be true to myself, where I don’t need to smile when I want to cry, where I can cry and not speak if I don’t feel like it. A place where nobody will judge me.” My lip trembles. “A place where I can say horrible things, without being condemned.”
“I won’t condemn or judge you,” he reassures me. “Anything you say won’t leave this place. And I’m here to listen to your words and respect your silences.”
“Grazie,” I say, managing to finally catch that breath I’ve been struggling for.
With a hand over my heart, over the cross pendant, I’d told him everything.
About the night I’d found Alonso in the brothel when I was pregnant, how our son came into the world. I talked about my father’s death, how I’d always suspected it was Alonso’s doing, how vile and evil my husband had turned out to be, and how power and success had changed him.
I’d told Father Roberto everything and when I was done, I’d felt a strange sense of calmness, gratitude and relief. Someone had listened to my story, someone had stood beside me while I admitted everything, my own mistakes, the frivolous ambitious of my youth…
I’d married a powerful Mafioso to become a queen: rich and strong, envied by the high society. I’d embraced the darkness, followed in my father’s footsteps, thinking I could fool the world and have everything my heart desired—easy money, jewellery, prestige—believing the devil wouldn’t want anything in return, not thinking for one second that he would burn me.
But he did.
And God had been looking down at me, at my guilty dark soul, watching me burn dramatically, burn to ashes as I’d sat in the house of the Lord looking for forgiveness, for strength.
“Ti assolvo dai tuoi peccati.” I forgive your sins, Father Roberto murmurs, as mascara bleeds down my cheeks.
Forgive. If only it were that easy.
Chapter 11
I’d gone back again and again. That little church between The Market and The Ruins had soon become my safe place, my shield from the world, from my husband.
As time went by, Father Roberto and I had become less formal. We’d started talking face to face, sitting on the wooden benches when the church was empty. Some days, when living with Alonso was too much for me to even speak, I’d sit there in silence, staring ahead, trying to stop the screaming in my head.
You are a lousy wife.
You are a lousy mother.
A whore, a good at nothing bitch.
I’d relived the nightmare in my head, begging Christ to wipe it away—to make me forget.
Father Roberto had sat there beside me in silence, compassionately holding my hand.
He isn’t much older than me—he’d maybe been in his thirties at the time—but he’d always seemed to have the right words for me to ease my pain.
I’d envied his confidence, wanted his strength, which wasn’t about being physical, violent, above the law or dominant. No. I’d learned from him that strength is something deeper: it is emotional and spiritual.
It is faith.
He’d listen to the hell of a life I’d been living and gave me hope. Where I’d seen darkness, he’d seen light. And his arguments had been so convincing, I’d held on to every word.
My visits soon become regular, weekly, then more than once a week. I’d always find an excuse: first it was donations, then I’d started bringing in goods for the nuns. I’d helped them with anything I could, even just for an hour a day.
“Why do you bother going there? It’s not even our church,” Alonso asks a couple of times, his eyes narrowed, trying to dig deeper inside my head.
That’s exactly why I go there: because it’s not our church; because it has nothing to do with you!
“I think it’s good for our business for me to show up in The Market. Help the community, show them they can rely on Alonso De la Crux. It strengthens their faith in us,” I tell him.
Exactly what he wants to hear.
Alonso’s eyes light up.
What a good idea: the wife of a Mafioso helping the poor people on the streets, living in the abandoned, degraded areas of The Market, where he makes most of his money, where he holds the power.
“Feed the poor, make them see you are on their side and they’ll be loyal to you, even sacrifice their own lives for you.” I’ve heard him tell his soldiers time and time again.
He’d used me for this too. He’d used me any way he could, but that time I hadn’t cared.
“Donna Filomena.”
“Donna Filomena.”
Donna Filomena was born on those streets. Whenever I’d walked through The Market, people had bowed their heads, murmuring my name. They’d respected me, the lady of a Mafioso: elegant, sophisticated and solemn, but also kind and giving.
I’d helped Father Roberto and his team of volunteers and attended Sunday mass with Alejandro. Sometimes, Alonso joined us, and those had been some of the hardest moments of my life.
Everything Father Roberto had said or implied, I imagined it was directed at me, to Alonso.
Don’t look at me, don’t mind me.
I’d looked away from him and pretended to pray.
I’d seemed cold and strong on the outside, but inside I’d been screaming, shaking.
He’s here to control me. He’s here to uncover the truth and call me out on my lies.
He’ll figure out Father Roberto knows me, knows us, our story.
But nothing had ever happened.
Alonso would only come to church for business. It had all been politics, all part of his grand plan to rule the city undisturbed and get the people on the streets to fight for him in the battle against the other gangs.
I’d felt violated—like he’d invaded my territory, my safe harbour—and I’d prayed on that bench to make time tick faster so we’d leave.
But most days, that church had been my breath of fresh air.
“Hurry inside,” Father Roberto shouts, opening the small side door of the church one day.
We’ve been out, taking goods to the people living in the grey, council flats in The Market, when it starts raining, hard.
Alejandro is still in school for another hour, so I decide to stay a little longer and help Father Roberto organize the boxes in his office.
“You really
don’t need to, I’ve got this,” he says, trying to take them from my hands with a smile.
My stomach flutters like every other time he’s smiled.
It’s more than just kindness, just teeth showing. Father Roberto smiles with his heart, making me feel wanted, appreciated, nothing like the verbal abuse I am accustomed to.
“I want to,” I smile back, enjoying the warm feeling growing in my chest. I take the box again and put it in a pile, wiping my wet hands on the long grey skirt I’m wearing.
We are still soaked, wet through, and I push a strand of damp hair to the side, bending down to take another box. It’s heavier than the last; I stumble, a sound of fatigue escaping my lips, and Father Robert looks up. He rushes over, and together we take the box to the corner of the room, smiling at each other.
“Easy there,” he says, as we put it down slowly, the box almost slipping out of my hand. With a swift move, Father Roberto bends forward and grabs it, easing it onto the pile, straightening up at the same time as me.
Our noses brush.
I suck in a breath, looking up, meeting his hazel green eyes, and I smile again, ignoring the heat on my skin, the flush of my cheeks.
Father Roberto stares back, raindrops rolling down his temples, his wavy damp hair pulled back, the collar around his neck unbuttoned.
We’d been alone in his office, the place quiet, the only sound in the room being the rain tickling the glass windows… and our hearts, our heavy breathing, his warm breath on my lips.
Our bodies had been so close, and for a moment I’d thought I could hear his heartbeat, loud and steady like mine.
I’d search his eyes again, looking for a reason to take a step back, one, just one reason.
He’s a man of God.
He was yes, but in that moment all I’d been able to see was a man—the only person I could trust, the one that knew my deepest, darkest secrets and hadn’t betrayed me. A man who had stood by my side, ready to listen, support me.