Page 131 of Married With Malice

Yes, I know how he is. And I’m no longer a child who is trapped under his thumb.

Albie Barone walks into the room and takes stock of his wife and daughter standing in the middle of the room. He casually unwraps a roll of antacid tablets and pops two into his mouth. I suppose hoping that he chokes to death on them is asking for too much.

“Why am I here? Where is Luca? Are Daisy and Sabrina really safe?”

He crunches the chalky tablets and takes his time about answering. “Of course your sisters are safe.”

“What am I doing here, Daddy? Why can’t I call my husband?” The crack in my voice is unfortunate. My father treats all female emotion with a high level of contempt.

“Giulia,” he says to my mother, “you’ll need to leave now so I can speak to Annalisa alone.”

“Fuck that,” I mutter and charge right into him, grabbing fistfuls of his blazer and successfully barreling him backwards into the wall. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”

A brief flash of surprise registers in his face. He’s so used to bullying everyone around him that he’s stunned to be pushed back.

The surprise fades with seconds. Despite the fact that he’s old and he’s slow, I’m no physical match for him and he knows it.

His hands clamp around my upper arms and he gives me a brutal shove. Stumbling backwards, I collide with the corner of my old desk. The sharp pain in my hip is enough to drop me to my knees.

My father straightens his suit jacket, scans me with a look of scorn, and takes a harsher tone with my mother. “Giulia, do as I say. I need to speak to our daughter alone.”

“No,” my mother says. She stands in front of me and crosses her arms.

With that single syllable, the room falls ominously silent. I’d just climbed to my feet while trying to assess the damage to my throbbing hip. Now I grip the back of the desk chair and stare at my mother in astonishment.

“She is not safe with you,” my mother says. “I’m going nowhere.”

Her mutiny, though admirable, is short lived. My father stares at his wife with a dangerously inscrutable expression. Then he takes a few casual steps in her direction and backhands her across the mouth.

My gasp of horror is born of true shock.

It’s true that my father is not a good husband. Emotionally abusive and neglectful, he doesn’t treat my mother with the love and respect she deserves.

Yet I’ve never seen him raise a hand to her before.

She straightens up. Blood trickles from her split lower lip. Her eyes fill with hatred. But there’s no surprise, only weariness.

He’s done this to her before.

I’m shocked, but she isn’t.

“Bastardo.” She spits her blood at him.

With renewed alarm, I watch his eyes go flat with rage. His fist curls up.

“NO!” I dart in between them. If this coward needs to hit another woman then let him dare to hit me. “Don’t hurt her! Mama, it’s okay. Please go.”

She puts a hand to her mouth and looks at the fingers that come away covered with blood. Her eyes focus on me and well up with tears. She wears her emotions as plainly as if she has spoken them; her shame and her sorrow and her regret.

And her love.

Yes, a deep, enduring love for the strange and willful daughter she couldn’t protect and never understood. But the love is there just the same.

“For me, Mama.” I take her hands in mine and kiss her knuckles gently. “Please.”

She breaks down and runs from the room. The sound of her sobs carries from the hallway.

“Brainless bitch,” my father mutters with a shake of his head.

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