Page 22 of Prideful Union
“You’re really Santino’s wife?” a woman with dark brown hair asks. She has a strong tan, like she spends her days resting in the sun.
“I am. I’m not the maid,” I say pointedly to the blonde woman. She has the decency to look a little embarrassed.
“I’m Isabella,” the brunette says. “That’s Arianna.” She points at a petite woman who looks more like bone than anything else. “That’s Emma.” The woman in question is extremely tall and looks like a supermodel. “And that’s Alexandria.” She nods at the blonde who insulted me.
“Nice to meet you all.”
“I didn’t realize you were Santino’s wife,” Alexandria says. “You look so … pedestrian.”
Pedestrian? That’s honestly the most hurtful thing anyone has ever said to me.
“Why don’t we go sit down?” My plan to get under Santino’s skin isn’t even working because these women are already getting under my skin.
They’re all clearly older and more cultured than I am. I feel like a silly eighteen-year-old girl.
Once we’re in the living room, they all take the couch, leaving me to sit opposite them like it’s some kind of interrogation.
“Tell us about you,” Alexandria says.
“I’m from New York?—”
“Ah,” Emma says. “New York. I love it there. I’ve modeled there.” Of course, she’s a real model.
Alexandria sniffs. “I don’t like New York. Too cold. Too … American.” She eyes me over disdainfully.
“Are the rumors true?” Arianna, the petite one, asks.
“What rumors?” I cross my arms, feeling like I need to defend myself against these women. I really thought inviting them over would be a good idea, but so far, it’s backfired.
“About your father,” Isabella clarifies.
“My father?”
“How he’s not your real father,” Alexandria says. “How your uncle is. How your mother slept with another man.” She says something in Italian. I catch the wordputtana. It sounds familiar. All the women laugh, leaving me out of the loop.
“Did I miss something?” I ask.
Alexandria puts on an innocent expression. “It’s nothing.”
“No, what did you say?”
Isabella clears her throat. “She called your mother a slut.”
I almost from the sheer shock of what I just heard. “What? Why would you say that?”
Alexandria shrugs. “Because it’s true, is it not? If a woman sleeps around, she’s a slut.”
“My mother hasn’t slept around. Riccardo Moretti is my father. Not Franco. Those rumors are unjust.”
“Ok,” she says, like she doesn’t believe me.
“No, not ok. You’re wrong about my mom. You should apologize.”
The women titter.
“My mom is not a slut,” I repeat.
“Whatever you say.” Alexandria gives me a vicious smile.
