Page 66 of Bitter Poetry
“You don’t have to lie for me, Jessica.” I feel like crying. “And I can’t use my dead mother as an alibi and not die a little inside.”
“It’s not a lie,” she says. Ahead is the grand ballroom where guests drink and dance… where my husband waits for me. “Maybe it wasn’t directly connected to your absence, but that’s not important, is it?” She stops and takes both my hands. “She wouldn’t have let you marry Ettore. I love Papa, but I hate him for agreeing to this. Promise me you will come and see me as soon as you can. Promise me, Carmela.”
“I will.”
I hug her fiercely.
She walks away to join my father.
A new and different sense of abandonment slams into me.
Somehow, I get through the evening, but that only delivers me into Ettore’s bed. I excuse myself to shower, washing away the last lingering evidence of what was done… of what was lost. Then I slip on my silk nightgown, one that Helena picked, and join him.
He smiles at me, takes my hand, and leads me to the bed, and all the while, my heart is beating like a hummingbird in my chest.
His weight above me is alien and unwelcome. His breathing close to my ear makes my skin crawl. I try coaching myself to be calm and let it happen, but the penetration still makes my stomach churn and brings panic to the surface.
He’s inside me.
In a place that belongs to Dante.
I’m trapped in a nightmare, one where I can’t breathe and certainly wish I didn’t feel.
Like last time, I panic, then I shut down. Only this time, I’m not wholly divorced from proceedings. Somewhere during the horror, as he pushes a part of him into me, I close my eyes and pretend it’s Dante.
CHAPTER 22
CHRISTIAN
The wedding is in the past, and a routine begins. I turn eighteen and pass my driving test. I’m still with Jero most of the time, but a few times a week, I’m allocated to Carmela-watching duties: her mother’s grave, her father and sister at their brownstone, her favorite café… Drinking coffee on your own while staring out a window is boring as fuck, but whatever. I get a coffee out of it, and they do fucking amazing pastries with caramel and icing on the top, so it has some perks. I usually sit next to the counter and chat with Tony while keeping her in my line of sight.
A random shopping trip is thrown into the mix now and then.
She has school friends, but Ettore questions her afterward in a way that’s more like an interrogation and clearly doesn’t fucking like it, and even that has tapered off.
Then there is a night or two when Ettore goes to his former strip club, now handed over to his brother Bosco, where he drinks, smokes, and gets blown by one of the girls.
Me?
I’m trusted.
Which means I get to watch over his little stolen mafia princess while she’s sleeping. I realize he meant it in the nonliteral sense, but I’ve always been a bit liberal in my interpretation of instructions, as that former teacher will attest. He probably presumed I would check in with the soldiers on duty at the gate, walk the perimeter, and sweep the home every hour or so to make sure no intruders have miraculously gotten past the soldiers in the grounds… help myself to a coffee to stay awake… that kind of thing.
I do all of that—got to keep up appearances—but I also indulge myself with a good snoop around. His office is locked and alarmed, so although he has no surveillance, it’s a no-go. But the rest of the home is available, including Carmela’s bedroom…. While she’s sleeping.
I’m obsessed with her.
It gets worse with every passing day.
I have a job here—well, two, both of which involve watching her on behalf of other men. One is my brother, and one is her husband.
Fucking idiots, both of them, if they thought I wouldn’t fall into the Carmela trap. She’s fucking stunning and I can admit that objectively. Fine, so I’m in her room watching her sleep like a stalker while I admit it, but, you know, I take my job seriously.
Ettore is in Bosco’s club tonight, probably getting blown. The house is quiet. He’ll be back somewhere between two and four in the morning. I’ll be dismissed and go home to sleep, turning back up for duty around noon.
I’m trusted.
It’s not like anyone would know what I’m up to. I always get a message from one of the boys when Ettore’s on his way home—looking out for me, making sure I’ve not fallen asleep somewhere and will get a roasting for it.
