Page 21 of Prideful Union
He’s at the head of the table with four men situated near him as they discuss … stuff. Honestly, I’m not paying any attention. I just want their attention on me rather than Santino.
I waltz into the room, looking cute in my sundress. I make a show of kissing Santino on the cheek. “How’s my new husband doing?”
He smiles tightly at me. “I’m fine. I’m in the middle of work, Lucia.”
I turn to his men. “I’m Lucia, Santino’s wife.”
They all gaze at me in a way that’s too intense for someone who isn’t their wife. But I don’t scold them. In fact, I enjoy it because I can tell it annoys Santino.
They introduce themselves; though I forget their names right after hearing them. But I have an idea. A way to make this place my own and piss off Santino even more.
“Are you all married?” I ask them.
Each man nods.
“Would you be so kind then to ask your wives to meet me later this week? I’d love to get to know them. Wife to wife, that kind of thing.”
“What are you doing, Lucia?” Santino asks through gritted teeth.
“Trying to make this my new home. I need friends, after all.” I wave at his men. “Let your wives know I’d love to meet them. Let’s do Friday?”
They each confirm Friday works.
“Thanks, boys.” I leave the room, purposefully sashaying my hips as I go.
Santino burstsinto the bedroom I chose as mine after his men leave. “What are you doing?”
“I already told you,” I say, not glancing up as I turn the TV off. “Trying to make friends.”
He eyes me carefully. “And that’s it?”
“What else would it be?”
After a moment, he grumbles and leaves the room. A win for me, a loss for Santino.
When Friday rolls around, I await the wives.
Four women show up together, looking utterly classy in their long dresses, sunglasses, and wide-brimmed hats. They look like something out of a catalog.
“Welcome in,” I say, holding the door open for them.
They waltz inside, all four handing me their hats. I struggle to hold all of them in my arms.
“Where’s Santino’s new wife?” one of the women asks me. She has bleached blonde hair and clearly has had work done, judging by the tight skin of her face.
“Uh, I’m his wife,” I say.
She looks at the other women, and they all chitter. “No. His wife.” She speaks to me like I’m an idiot. When I just stare at her in confusion, she starts speaking in Italian to the other women.
I can’t understand a word she says.
My family may be Italian in terms of our history, but I was born and raised in New York. I’m fully American. Which means I know English. And no one ever bothered to teach me anything else. I never bothered to learn either.
I set their hats down on the nearest table. “I’m Lucia, Santino’s wife.”
All the women turn to me, their expressions blank like they can’t comprehend what I just said.
“What are your names?” I ask.
