Page 64 of Nanny to the Mafia

“Ahh, tesoro mio, what you don’t understand is my mother will never like you. She only loves herself,” he hissed, his voice broken when he had broken me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ANTONIO

The pen snapped in my hands, ink flooding out, messing up my shirt sleeves and dripping onto my desk. Frustration flowed out of me faster than the red ink. I chucked it into the bin without getting up from my chair. It missed and landed on the floor.

Nothing was going according to plan.

My mother was grating on my nerves. My ex-wife was notching it up, and now it seemed as though my wife had joined the club.

Women.

Leaning over, I grabbed some tissue, roughly wiping my desk and my sleeves. The red of the ink made it look like blood, only I was familiar enough with spilling it to know this wasn’t the real deal.

Sometimes, though, I wished I could spill my own. I am not sure how far my morality rocked when I imagined a bullet through my mother’s head.

As far as I could remember, I had never seen her happy. Disdain and cruelty were something she rolled into every room. One of my earliest memories was of coming home from school to find my papà pinning her against the wall with her neck between his hands. Only later did I understand what would have driven him to do such an act. Even my usually patient papà, too gentle for his kind, was constantly driven out of his mind by her. Never happy, judging, blaming, conniving. Papà didn’t kill himself, but when he became ill, he gave up. Maria Capizzi might not have strangled her husband, but she did orchestrate his death.

At least now, after my crude reaction a few nights ago, there was silence. I knew better, though. When my mother was silent, she was always busy cooking up a plan.

Angelo’s face popped in the doorway.

“Ever learnt to knock?” I snapped.

Angelo sauntered inside, closing the door behind him. “Why bother? I’m always welcome, anyway.”

“I’ve had it with people dropping in and out of my house.”

Angelo slouched into the chair opposite me. His legs stretched out, and his arms hung loose. He never outgrew his teenage awkwardness with his body. “I heard about that.”

“What did she say?”

“Who? Mother or your wife?”

My brow furrowed. “Divya spoke to you?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Angelo looked at me shrewdly. “Oh… she’s not speaking to you.”

There was definitely a dent in the honeymoon phase of our marriage. Not even a month and we were already on opposite sides of the bed. Still, it pissed me off that she spoke to him.

Angelo let a loud, robust laugh overtake him.

What an idiot. I didn’t have a single sensible Capizzi anymore.

“So, this is why Marco was complaining about your shitty mood. You aren’t getting any.”

Fuck!

That’s what I wanted. To fuck my wife, but instead, it was silent war again. If she moved an inch further along in the bed, she would be sleeping on the floor. I should probably count on small blessings and be happy she hadn’t moved onto the bloody sofa again. Except I wasn’t.

“Get to the point. What did she tell you?” I growled.

“She didn’t tell me much… well, except for you being a … what did she call you now….” He pretended to think. “Ah, yes. A fucking bastard who disrespected her.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes. Divya’s too nice to say anything else. But don’t worry, I got all the glory details out of Mother. Really, brother, how was fucking your wife in front of her a good idea?”

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