Page 14 of Giovanna

“Um thanks, but I’m okay,” I mumble. I’m not foolish enough to trust the man with my true feelings. In the few moments we have been talking I have felt like I’m being circled by a shark.

Wracking my brain for something to say that doesn’t involve my wedding, I ask, “So how come you’re back in Sydney?”

The false smile is back, but this time I can see his jaw clenching behind it. “Oh you know, we wanted to give the boys a chance to get to know the other side of their family. Repair things with Dad. Now you’re back they’ll get an auntie too! If you’re willing to meet them?”

“Of course,” something tells me this isn’t a good idea, but his sons are little boys and I like the thought of being an auntie. “I would love to meet them.”

“That’s great news. Let’s swap numbers and we can tee something up. They’ll be so excited when I tell them.”

Stefan takes my phone and types in his phone number before calling it so he has my number too.

“There we go,” he hands back my phone and clinks his beer bottle to my glass. “To family and blood being thicker than water.”

“To family,” I repeat and take a sip, leaving off the strange second part of his toast. I don’t know what to make of this older version of my brother, but it will be nice to widen my social circle beyond my parents and the Marino siblings.

Planting a kiss on each of my cheeks, Stefan bids me goodbye and promises to be in touch to set up a catch-up.

I follow his retreating back as he makes a beeline directly for the exit. It is as if, having spoken with me, he has completed what he set out to do and there is no further need for him to stay at the party.

My gut tells me something is off, but I reassure myself that I will proceed with caution and that my nephews are still too young to be complicit in mafia bullshit.

I do find his overly familiar and affectionate behaviour a bit odd. He has never been more than as polite as he was expected to be towards me. He has never taken an interest in my life or well-being. He has always been a surly younger version of Paul Rossi and I tried to stay out of his way.

As a kid, I was sure he hated me. Like I was somehow to blame for how our father treated his mother by virtue of my very existence.

Across the room, Giovanna and Matteo stand, heads close together as they talk furtively, their eyes trained, like mine were, on Stefan as he hurries out of the door.

Their expressions display suspicion and a hearty dose of hostility and I am trying to figure out why that may be when they both suddenly turn their gazes to me.

Caught staring, I smile weakly and lift my glass to them. They do the same back, but their frowns remain firmly plastered to their faces. I may not be able to read their lips, but I am left with no doubt that Stefan Rossi was not welcome at this party.

I have little time to ponder the dynamics between Stefan and the Marinos before Massi materialises to steal me away to dance.

There is no dance floor and no one else is dancing, but we turn the music up and commandeer part of the lounge. It doesn’t take long for others to join us.

This is when I am happiest. When what has happened to me in the past and what will be done to me in the future don’t matter. It is just me and my favourite person lost in our fun.

When he first arrived in London just over two years ago, he realised quickly how isolated I was and that I hadn’t had anyone to talk to about what happened to me. My boyfriend Gareth was a typically emotionally repressed upper-class Englishman whose parents had silly titles and even sillier expectations of their children. I was expected to look pretty and maintain a stiff upper lip.

Massimo tried to get me to talk and I clammed up. I hadn’t expressed myself in so long and managing my anxiety had become a toxic internal war.

So, Massi being the clever guy that he is, resurrected a kind of game Giovanna played with us once when we were little. I was struggling to communicate how I was feeling and she asked me to name a song that reflected my emotions and the situation. She said “Gimme a song” and by the time I had thought of one I was thoroughly distracted from what was upsetting me.

Massi and I do it all the time now and not just when we are sad or stressed. It has become our thing. Finding songs for every emotion and situation. I don’t know if Giovanna even remembers she started it.

Observing me as we begin to dance, Massi asks me for a song now, his forehead wrinkled in concern and eyes earnestly trying to see into my state of mind.

“Ummmmm,” I think. It is often hard to decide on the perfect song on the spot. It is part of the game, I guess. “Okay, okay.Supalonelyby Benee.

“The one about a lonely bitch?” Massi laughs with a slight question in his tone.

“Yeah, that’s the one.” I sing a few of the lyrics about being dramatic and sad in a big world. It’s all very melodramatic.

He smiles softly and sadly, and boops me on the nose. “Well sad girl, let’s dance. Can’t feel lonely when you’re bumpin’ and grindin’.”

Massimo puts on an old-school R&B playlist and we dance like a pair of horny singles in a nightclub hoping not to go home alone.

Soon I’m popping my bum out and circling my hips with Massi behind me running his hands down my sides. We are getting scandalised looks from partygoers who don’t realise that Massimo is gay, but we don’t care.

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